When my eyes were not on my plate, they were chiefly on the Emperor. Half the time he was lost in dreams, dead to the physical world around him, infinities away. When the Countess or another addressed him, for a moment the leaden eyes lit up, and a gentle, almost womanly smile played on the slow lips; he spoke a few pointed yet diffident words, then relapsed abruptly into his dreams. Not that the Countess noticed this abruptness, which resembled her own. She had her own absorbing reflections as hostess of this triumphant evening—this expensive evening. Every new dish filled her with an exquisite conflict of emotions. The guests were dominated by the laughing Empress; her majestic beauty and her sparkling talk. I remember no single word of her conversation, I only remember that it glittered. Nothing in her really attracted me. I admired the beauty and the brilliance, but they seemed to be separate entities, having nothing to do with her as a woman, as a soul. Had she a soul?
One odd thing I noticed: the Emperor's coldness towards de Fouquier. Knowing the imperial gratitude towards all who had helped him I marvelled accordingly, and fell to seeking a reason. Perhaps in reality de Fouquier never had helped Napoleon's cause, perhaps his game during the Coup d'Etat had been a double one, running with the Bonapartist hare and hunting with the Burgrave or Republican hounds? At a later date I discovered that my surmise was exact. And Napoleon knew. Fouquier, noting his manner, knew that he knew, and hated him accordingly. I fancied I saw plans of revenge forming in the smooth obsequious face. Once again Reason, who mocked at Fancy, was in the wrong.
Next morning, while the gentlemen went shooting, the four of us accompanied Eugenie and the ladies of her suite on a drive to neighbouring scenes.
Elise had said, "Jumièges looks best in the very early morning."
"Good!" cried the Empress, "we will go before the dew has vanished. You are sure it will not inconvenience you, my dear Countess?"
A rhetorical question, and a selfish one. The whole household rose perforce at an unearthly hour of the night. I partly forgave her for the reward our early visit earned. In the brightening mist that follows dawn, in the fragrant expectant silence, the majestic ruin loomed in a mystery that noontide could never have lent.
All day I kept as near the Empress as I could, learning that the queenly principle is to do exactly what you like: to be haughty and indifferent to your ladies one moment, gushing and over-familiar the next: to demand servile trembling and unseemly giggling turn by turn: to allow all whims to yourself and none to others. Was not her whole career compounded of similar contrasts? Her dream of becoming an Empress was wild romantic folly: the steps she took to make it come true were calculating, of the earth earthy. "Such another as you," propounded Conscience.
Loyal smiles and humble gratitude gave godspeed to the illustrious pair. Among the servants the gratitude varied: where Napoleon had passed—the Countess quizzed them all—tips were imperial. The one or two Eugenie had given were almost as small as I (not yet an Empress) would have bestowed.
"Five francs for Antoinette," repeated the Countess unwearyingly: "it overcomes me. Five francs from an Empress! If it had been but ten—"