in motion. As their carriage moved through the grounds kerosene torches lit up a grotto in which a bearded sage stiffly bent his painted head as his mechanical hand turned over the pages of a bible. At sight of this their driver started in fear and gripped the reins, bringing the carriage to a near halt. When they reached the main entrance the gardener and a maid came forward to help Jules and the driver unload the luggage. As the last trunk was being lifted out of the carriage, the driver jumped back on to his seat, shook the reins and cracked his whip over the horse’s back. The carriage rumbled off towards the gates.
‘He didn’t wait for his money,’ Lambert said. ‘I hope I have as much success with the Arabs.’
‘What do you mean?’
He took her arm as they entered the hallway. ‘Fear,’ he said. ‘Fear mixed with awe and reverence for the unknown, for something we do not understand. That’s at the heart of all magic. That driver, like most country people, is ignorant and superstitious. Yet even he must have seen conjurers, escape artists and card tricksters in fairgrounds. But in Africa, Deniau tells me, the Arabs will never have seen illusions such as I can devise. Believe me, to them I will be the most holy of marabouts.’
In the semi-darkness of the hall, clocks in every room of the manor began to sound the hour of eleven, drowning out his final words. Lambert smiled as though their cacophony of chimes was, for him, a sweet, familiar music.
‘Home again, my darling. And it’s very late. Tomorrow I must get up at dawn to begin my preparations. I think I had better sleep in my workroom. Good night, my dear. Pleasant dreams.’
He bent and kissed her cheek, holding her by her shoulders. His eyes had that excited look she had seen so many times. He was home again in the only place he really loved: the laboratory of his illusions.
An hour later as the myriad clocks struck midnight Emmeline lay sleepless in her bed. She saw, again, the frightened face of their driver as he whipped up his horse and rushed his carriage towards the mechanical gate, fearing to be trapped in a wizard’s house. To the peasants and even the townspeople in nearby Tours her husband was not, as he thought, a person they regarded with fear and reverence. Fear, yes, but it was a fear of witchcraft, of persons in league with the Evil One. Emmeline knew this, as Lambert would never know it, for her mother was a country woman, born in the Bercy, not far from here. Her mother, while pretending to laugh at such superstitions, was, Emmeline knew, no different from her peasant forebears. In the unchanging world Parisians called La France profonde , night was host to hobgoblins, witches and will-o’-the-wisps. Even in the bright sunlight of a summer’s day you might touch a grassy mound or venture into a field sacred to the fairies, those malevolent others who could cast a spell on you, a spell which brought misfortune. And why should the peasants not believe in such things, passed down from generation to generation? For them the world did not exist outside their townlands. Most did not know how to read or write, few had ever been in a theatre and, even in cities like Tours or Rouen, many among her husband’s audiences believed his inventions and illusions were a gift, granted him by that world which lies hidden behind our visible world, a world ruled by mysterious powers stronger than the Church, capable of miracles no saint could match.
And now in the darkness she thought of the weeks to come. What if the Arabs were like the people of the Bercy? What if they saw Henri not as a holy man, but as an agent of the devil?
Chapter 5
‘The city is white and on a hill,’ Commandant Guizot said. ‘All of the Moorish houses are whitewashed and only a few of the newer buildings have windows which face on to the street. As we approach from the sea it looks like a gigantic marble quarry. An extraordinary sight, I assure you.’
‘And
‘He didn’t wait for his money,’ Lambert said. ‘I hope I have as much success with the Arabs.’
‘What do you mean?’
He took her arm as they entered the hallway. ‘Fear,’ he said. ‘Fear mixed with awe and reverence for the unknown, for something we do not understand. That’s at the heart of all magic. That driver, like most country people, is ignorant and superstitious. Yet even he must have seen conjurers, escape artists and card tricksters in fairgrounds. But in Africa, Deniau tells me, the Arabs will never have seen illusions such as I can devise. Believe me, to them I will be the most holy of marabouts.’
In the semi-darkness of the hall, clocks in every room of the manor began to sound the hour of eleven, drowning out his final words. Lambert smiled as though their cacophony of chimes was, for him, a sweet, familiar music.
‘Home again, my darling. And it’s very late. Tomorrow I must get up at dawn to begin my preparations. I think I had better sleep in my workroom. Good night, my dear. Pleasant dreams.’
He bent and kissed her cheek, holding her by her shoulders. His eyes had that excited look she had seen so many times. He was home again in the only place he really loved: the laboratory of his illusions.
An hour later as the myriad clocks struck midnight Emmeline lay sleepless in her bed. She saw, again, the frightened face of their driver as he whipped up his horse and rushed his carriage towards the mechanical gate, fearing to be trapped in a wizard’s house. To the peasants and even the townspeople in nearby Tours her husband was not, as he thought, a person they regarded with fear and reverence. Fear, yes, but it was a fear of witchcraft, of persons in league with the Evil One. Emmeline knew this, as Lambert would never know it, for her mother was a country woman, born in the Bercy, not far from here. Her mother, while pretending to laugh at such superstitions, was, Emmeline knew, no different from her peasant forebears. In the unchanging world Parisians called La France profonde , night was host to hobgoblins, witches and will-o’-the-wisps. Even in the bright sunlight of a summer’s day you might touch a grassy mound or venture into a field sacred to the fairies, those malevolent others who could cast a spell on you, a spell which brought misfortune. And why should the peasants not believe in such things, passed down from generation to generation? For them the world did not exist outside their townlands. Most did not know how to read or write, few had ever been in a theatre and, even in cities like Tours or Rouen, many among her husband’s audiences believed his inventions and illusions were a gift, granted him by that world which lies hidden behind our visible world, a world ruled by mysterious powers stronger than the Church, capable of miracles no saint could match.
And now in the darkness she thought of the weeks to come. What if the Arabs were like the people of the Bercy? What if they saw Henri not as a holy man, but as an agent of the devil?
Chapter 5
‘The city is white and on a hill,’ Commandant Guizot said. ‘All of the Moorish houses are whitewashed and only a few of the newer buildings have windows which face on to the street. As we approach from the sea it looks like a gigantic marble quarry. An extraordinary sight, I assure you.’
‘And
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