CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Philidor

SNORTS FROM AN impatient horse, a jingle of reins, the crunch of gravel and carriage doors shutting signalled the audience’s arrival at the tunnel mouth. They spilled out to commence the walk in small knots of family and friends. Their footsteps combined with nervous laughter and murmurs into a cacophony of noise that ricocheted off the walls and returned distorted into devilish glee. The light from the lamps cast shadows upon the walls, providing ample cover for the costumed village men Philidor had paid to hide around corners and jump out at each group as it passed. He’d also had the attendants hang, with invisible thread from the ceiling, silhouettes of skulls and spectres so that it appeared the audience members were being welcomed into hell. By the time the paying public washed up in the ballroom, their senses were stimulated enough to make them receptive. Then, the show could begin.

He waited backstage behind the black curtain, running his forefinger over the bridge of his nose as his attendants ushered people to their seats. He gave the signal for the glass armonica to begin, which created the sounds of wind and thunder, throbbing through the room so that the talking ceased, and the audience sat, enchanted, under the spell of Philidor and his Phantasmagoria.

A single candle was lit upon a small table centre stage, and with a sweep of his cape Philidor appeared before them. It was his voice that pulled them so terribly deep under his spell: his rich, melodic voice that spoke of death, the afterlife, the mystery of the unknown. And as the gas jets were turned down, so his voice rose; all the while, the glass armonica softly echoed the thunder and wind as if even the elements fell under his enchantment.

The audience was in a stupor, all lights now extinguished. He stood alone on the stage. The attendants lined up along each wall, the smoke from the braziers attached to their chests began to fill the room. The Phantasmagoria box on wheels, operated by Marie, went to work using the Argand lamp to shine through her glass slides, upon which were paintings more hideous than any he’d previously seen. Philidor had perfected the recipe for the smoke: sulphuric acid, nitric acid and two cups of blood (preferably of a cow) that made the texture thicker and whiter, and the images upon them more realistic than ever before. The glass armonica swelled in volume, its crashing and rumbling turned into high whining as the audience shrieked and gasped in turns, the apparitions writhing above their heads while the dull glow from the braziers swept over their faces and illuminated their horrified delight.

The final slide was that of the girl who looked remarkably like Elanor. Yes, he thought, the similarity was uncanny.

‘It’s her,’ a woman cried, as he had hoped someone would. ‘It’s Elanor. It’s her!’ And the voice abruptly ceased.

There was a rustle of movement along one side of the ballroom.

A gentleman called, ‘She’s fainted. Get her out, quickly.’

Damn it. Another hysterical woman who wanted attention; this would slow the show down. But he smiled benignly and watched his attendants carry the girl away. She didn’t look like a guest – in fact, she was surely the housemaid. He would deal with her later.

The apparitions vanished and the lights were snuffed, plunging the audience into blackness that hopefully made their eyes smart.

Philidor heard Marie talking to Antoinette under her breath from the side of the stage. The automaton had been rebuilt to perfection, and apparently the new wax would endure considerably more friction and higher temperatures than the previous form – well, Marie had better be right about that.

The lights flared again, and Philidor faced the crowd, still smiling. ‘You have seen before your eyes, this very night, phantoms that have curled your toes with fright. But that is all they were, phantoms and wisps, shadows and night wraiths that hover between this world and the next. Now I will show you something new – a creature that exists in this world but is not from it. Who can walk, move and interact with us all, yet does not have blood in her veins to make her human. Yet I dare you to define “human” after you have met her and loved her as I do. Ladies and gentleman, may I introduce Queen Marie Antoinette.’

Antoinette stepped out onto the stage and was gathered into Philidor’s welcoming hand, before she curtsied and sat upon her golden throne. Philidor, as he had done in their only show at the Lyceum, called for volunteers. He held her hand while with the other pointed out various audience members who were permitted to voice their questions.

‘Is my son happy in heaven?’ one woman called out.

Antoinette smiled and nodded.

‘Will he return safely from his voyage?’ cried another.

Again, she smiled and nodded.

‘Does he love me?’ said a softer, lower voice, from the back of the room.

Antoinette dipped her head and shook it once.

The woman sank down into her chair with shame.

And so the questions went on, Antoinette answering each one while managing to look pleased to answer in the affirmative and pained if it was negative.

Towards the conclusion of the act, Philidor held up his hand, and Antoinette rose to stand beside him. ‘You have seen for yourself, ladies and gentlemen, images and phantoms tonight that have stimulated your senses. You have seen something of the afterlife and what happens when the dead cannot rest. But by far, it is Antoinette, with her own unearthly wisdom, who has provided you with the comfort, solace and answers you seek, and for that I ask you to applaud her.’

The audience stood as one to clap; Antoinette curtsied and left the stage. Philidor stood to receive the applause for a moment longer, then followed. He paused in the wings, waiting for silence to descend so he could move into the final stages of the show in which he would allow a selection of audience members to touch Antoinette.

But the curtain on the opposite side of the stage was flailing wildly. A man stumbled from its depths, brandishing a sword. He took a faltering step before fainting clean away.

There was a rumble that passed through the earth as real thunder erupted in the sky, and several ladies screamed.

Then Marie was beside Philidor, her scent of lavender in the air.

‘Who on earth is that?’ he cried.

‘Cavendish,’ he thought she whispered, as he strode onstage and called for calm.

The valet appeared with another attendant and lifted the prostrate body behind the curtain. It appeared the show was finished.