Free The Mercury Visions of Louis Daguerre by Dominic Smith Page B

rain, a perfume distilled from clouds. He knew she loved him.
    After an hour of hand-holding and shimmering displays of light, the dramatic climax of the piece emerged. Isobel took her hand back and Louis lost himself to the drama. He had not been expecting such a dramatic ending. Although he read novels and knew something of how a tale unfolded, he had half expected the spectacle to simply wither and die without a crescendo. So, as a pale moon turned to oxblood, as a mountain stream was transformed by light and trumpets into a raging torrent, and as stage trees opened to reveal dryads and demons, Louis reflexively stood up from his seat. The man next to him tapped him with the butt of a rolled newspaper, and Isobel grabbed his hand and pulled him back down. A gale—the timpani unleashed—caused the trees to fall down, and a fiery red glow erupted across the stage. The demons and the dryads wheeled. As night fell, the dance-combat slowed between the guardians of the underworld and the wood nymphs, and the keepers of the safe ferny places had won out. The stage darkened and the final note of the cello floated up from the orchestra pit. Louis was unable to move. He closed his eyes for fear of seeing something as ordinary as a man dusting dandruff from his shoulder. He was sixteen, in love with a woman he could not have, moved by a desire to trap loveliness. Isobel took his elbow—she knew his moods and passions—and they remained in their seats until the theater had cleared. Finally, Louis opened his eyes, stood, and walked towards the front of the theater. Isobel watched him as he climbed the stairs to the stage. He leaned into the gold-tasseled curtain, trying to find the opening. Then, in an instant, he disappeared, swallowed by the proscenium arch. He was gone for several minutes and Isobel fought the desire to go after him; surely the ushers would come through the house any minute. When he came out, he was holding a green paper leaf. He looked at Isobel, his eyes on the verge of something. He opened and closed his mouth several times in consideration of speech. At last he said, “Nothing else matters.”
    She guided him out of the theater, through the lobby, and out into the alley where Gustav was waiting. They rode home, Louis with his head against Isobel’s shoulder. He was entranced; there was no other word for it. As they neared the estate, Louis noticed the smell of wood smoke in the air. A caravan of peasants was spilling out of the estate’s main gates—old farm nags hauling box carriages loaded with armoires and high-backed chairs, sides of meat, carpets; the village blacksmith, hunched, was carrying a Venetian mirror on his back; a rag-and-bone merchant looked up from his wagon of spoils and pointed to their carriage, to what he thought was the approaching aristocracy. Some cries came from the front of the caravan. Several people scrambled on the side of the road for rocks to hurl. Gustav turned the gig and galloped towards the graveled pathway leading behind the mansion. They could hear the sound of breaking glass and the crack and hiss of a fire as they rounded the fields and came upon the château. Gustav pulled the horses to a standstill and they watched the furious black smoke pour from the windows and doorways. The flames were more blue than orange, as if the trunks of jewelry, the lacquered walnut desks, the pelted chairs, the ivory trinkets hauled across the deep from Africa burned hot and pure on account of their value. Gustav ran to find the rest of the servants, to hear the story of peasant looting. Isobel and Louis watched the mansion burn to the ground, unable to speak. The revolution had found them.

Seven
    T he night after Louis Daguerre lost his tooth at the observatory, he dreamed of his own death. He was a boy again, running along a beach. It was nighttime and the salt air pressed into his lungs as he ran. The sand was coarse against his bare feet. Something moved swiftly behind him,