wager. And because of his will, because he’s a man who will always persevere in what he seeks to do, seven months later we were married.
The Emmeline in the mirror smiled at her, but the smile was false. She turned her back on her mirror face and taking up a novel by Victor Hugo slipped into bed beside her sleeping husband. After a few desultory pages, she put aside the book and snuffed the candle. Her father had told her that Hugo was the greatest of romantic novelists, but her father, like all men, did not understand romance as women did. Romance was when you fell in love with someone or something which was denied to you. Romance was not marriage. On their wedding night, when he took off his clothes, Lambert was older than she had imagined him to be, the hair on his chest was grey and when he reared up over her his breathing was harsh and laboured. She knew he wanted a son who would carry on his work, inheriting his secrets, his magic boxes, his mechanical inventions. But the son Emmeline gave him was a dead foetus the midwife took away to throw in a rubbish bin. Then last year, when again she came to term, a girl child, born dead, its tiny face flat and crushed like an abandoned plaster cast. She wept at sight of it and pushed it away. Lambert was in the room and saw her horror. In the next few weeks he spent unprecedented hours in her company, neglecting his work in an effort to ease her depression. And though they were told that a further pregnancy would not endanger her and could well result in a normal birth, he no longer sought to caress or kiss her except in moments of solicitude. She knew that he still desired her: she saw it in his eyes and in his habit of coming into her bedroom, pretending to make conversation so that he could sit, watching her dress and undress. But, in bed he feigned sleep or turned away. At first she was grateful for that, it showed that he was kind, that he wanted to give her time. But when, feeling she must try once again to have a healthy child, she came to bed naked and held him, feeling his penis stiff against her belly, he turned away to masturbate. Why? Was he afraid for her or did he no longer want the son he had so desired? In the nights that followed she would wake to feel his hands stroking her buttocks and breasts but when she turned to him he moved away. And when she asked what was wrong, he shook his head and said, ‘Nothing. Nothing. Go to sleep.’
Secretly, she felt relieved. Sex with him had been a duty. After a month he no longer fondled her but slept or feigned sleep, his face to the wall. Again, as in the days before her marriage, she dreamed of sex with strange men. So when he asked her to go with him to Compiègne how could she refuse? She had failed him as a wife.
Next morning after breakfast she went out into the streets of Paris to return the rented jewels. Later that day they took the train for Tours. They arrived at night. The driver of the carriage that met them at the station was a young local man whom they did not know. It was dark, the moon invisible behind heavy rain clouds. They drove in silence over the familiar rutted road, through a small wood, until at last their carriage jolted unevenly down the narrow avenue of oak trees which led to the Manoir des Chênes. Jules, who was sitting in the front beside the driver, climbed out in the darkness and inserted a key in the electric box to the left of the entrance gate. At once, a kerosene torch blazed alight. The carriage horse reared up in fright and as their driver pulled down on the reins, Jules climbed back into his seat. At that moment the life-size marionette gate-keeper trundled out of the gate lodge and, on reaching the iron bars of the gate, lifted the latch. At once the gate rolled open and their driver, now as frightened as his horse, whipped it past the marionette which raised its tin hand in salute.
As was usual when Lambert was expected certain mechanical devices had been set
The Emmeline in the mirror smiled at her, but the smile was false. She turned her back on her mirror face and taking up a novel by Victor Hugo slipped into bed beside her sleeping husband. After a few desultory pages, she put aside the book and snuffed the candle. Her father had told her that Hugo was the greatest of romantic novelists, but her father, like all men, did not understand romance as women did. Romance was when you fell in love with someone or something which was denied to you. Romance was not marriage. On their wedding night, when he took off his clothes, Lambert was older than she had imagined him to be, the hair on his chest was grey and when he reared up over her his breathing was harsh and laboured. She knew he wanted a son who would carry on his work, inheriting his secrets, his magic boxes, his mechanical inventions. But the son Emmeline gave him was a dead foetus the midwife took away to throw in a rubbish bin. Then last year, when again she came to term, a girl child, born dead, its tiny face flat and crushed like an abandoned plaster cast. She wept at sight of it and pushed it away. Lambert was in the room and saw her horror. In the next few weeks he spent unprecedented hours in her company, neglecting his work in an effort to ease her depression. And though they were told that a further pregnancy would not endanger her and could well result in a normal birth, he no longer sought to caress or kiss her except in moments of solicitude. She knew that he still desired her: she saw it in his eyes and in his habit of coming into her bedroom, pretending to make conversation so that he could sit, watching her dress and undress. But, in bed he feigned sleep or turned away. At first she was grateful for that, it showed that he was kind, that he wanted to give her time. But when, feeling she must try once again to have a healthy child, she came to bed naked and held him, feeling his penis stiff against her belly, he turned away to masturbate. Why? Was he afraid for her or did he no longer want the son he had so desired? In the nights that followed she would wake to feel his hands stroking her buttocks and breasts but when she turned to him he moved away. And when she asked what was wrong, he shook his head and said, ‘Nothing. Nothing. Go to sleep.’
Secretly, she felt relieved. Sex with him had been a duty. After a month he no longer fondled her but slept or feigned sleep, his face to the wall. Again, as in the days before her marriage, she dreamed of sex with strange men. So when he asked her to go with him to Compiègne how could she refuse? She had failed him as a wife.
Next morning after breakfast she went out into the streets of Paris to return the rented jewels. Later that day they took the train for Tours. They arrived at night. The driver of the carriage that met them at the station was a young local man whom they did not know. It was dark, the moon invisible behind heavy rain clouds. They drove in silence over the familiar rutted road, through a small wood, until at last their carriage jolted unevenly down the narrow avenue of oak trees which led to the Manoir des Chênes. Jules, who was sitting in the front beside the driver, climbed out in the darkness and inserted a key in the electric box to the left of the entrance gate. At once, a kerosene torch blazed alight. The carriage horse reared up in fright and as their driver pulled down on the reins, Jules climbed back into his seat. At that moment the life-size marionette gate-keeper trundled out of the gate lodge and, on reaching the iron bars of the gate, lifted the latch. At once the gate rolled open and their driver, now as frightened as his horse, whipped it past the marionette which raised its tin hand in salute.
As was usual when Lambert was expected certain mechanical devices had been set
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