Dazzle The Complete Unabridged Trilogy (24 page)

A murmur swept the theatre, and all eyes focused on the
left box, just above her, from which the Prince had applauded
and addressed her during rehearsals only yesterday. The Dan
ilovs and a party of four, who Senda was certain constituted the most important guests, were making a late but grand
entrance.

Intrigued, Senda studied the woman who must be Princess
Irina, for she led the way into the box with exquisite natural
grace. She was slightly older than the Prince, pale-skinned and fragile, and there was something watery and translucent about
her. She wore a pearl-beaded gown of silver and pale blue brocade, and the faded yellow hair piled atop her head was
completely encircled by what appeared to be a tiara—if tiaras
could be made of polished ice. Around her thin, patrician
throat she wore a lacelike choker of more ice; a larger baroque
pearl necklace hung down into her décolletage, as did an even
longer simple string of enormous pearls. Most other women
among the audience were similarly bejewelled, though these
particular chunks of glittering ice were by far the largest, and
thereby probably the most valuable. At first Senda didn't
know what to make of the jewels—she had never seen any like them. But she knew instinctively what they had to be, although
she had only heard tell of them: diamonds.

'My God, I've never seen so many jewels,' she marvelled
silently to herself, her free hand self-consciously touching her
bare throat. The fact was, she had hardly ever seen
any
jewels, except in the towns and cities where they had played, and then
they had been mostly modest and inexpensive—a thin band of
gold on a finger or, more likely, gold on silver, and no stones more valuable than amethysts or topaz. She felt positively
naked now, and how would she feel at the ball? She could
only hope the silk camellias Madame Lamothe had sewn so strategically to her gown were adornment enough, though
everyone, it seemed, wore masses of cut gems with total aban
don. Why, the Princess actually wore
three
necklaces.

Despite the size of the Princess's stones, there was some
thing else about her which set her apart from the other women.
Perhaps it was her poise, or her fragile beauty, or the way the
audience, which was already seated, eyed her covetously.

Then, with a mixture of bewilderment and shock, Senda realized that all the money in Russia could not cure Irina
Danilov's hands. It was these which set her apart. They were
hideously crippled claws, demonically obscene, although she
didn't look old enough to suffer arthritis.

Only after the Princess was seated between the archbishop and the Prince did the other people in their party take their
seats behind them.

Senda could hear the overture reaching its end. In fifteen
or twenty seconds the curtain would rise, and she was about to let it fall back into place and hurry into the wings when
instead of completing the overture, the orchestra prolonged
it. There was a ripple of whispers and a rustling of clothing
as the entire audience faced the still-empty box to the right, opposite that of the Danilovs. Senda eyed it curiously, won
dering what was happening, but all she could see were four
splendidly uniformed officers entering to inspect it, as though
they were searching for something. Obviously satisfied, they
stepped out again. Ever so smoothly, the orchestra switched
from the overture of
La Traviata
to a regal anthem of pomp
and grandeur.

The entire audience rose as one and faced the box.

Senda's mouth opened in astonishment.

Chin held high, diamonds ablaze, a regal woman swept into
the box. She was dressed in white, and her creamy shoulders
were bare. A magnificent jewel-encrusted tiara rose from her
curls and a cascade of fine lace draped from it flowed down
her back. She had about her an air of indefinable breeding and
assurance, of a woman born to power.

Her escort followed behind. He stood five-feet-seven and
was slim, with a handlebar moustache and clipped brown
beard. His beautifully tailored dark blue uniform glittered with ribbons, medals, and gold: gold braid, gold epaulettes,
gold belt, and gold collar. A red satin sash slashed importantly
across his chest, but his expression was rather gentle and shy.
As his gaze swept the curtained stage, Senda almost felt as if
he had found the chink in the curtain and was looking straight
at her.

In the recesses of her mind a flash of blinding intuition flared
brilliantly, leaving her weak and reeling. She swiftly let the
curtain fall back in place. In that one paralysing moment her heart had stopped beating, and she took a giant breath of air.
She turned and beckoned to Schmarya. Quickly he drew up
behind her, and she could feel his warm, comforting body
pressing against hers. He peered out from behind the curtain.

Her hand poised on her fluttering breast, Senda looked questioningly at him. 'It isn't . . .?' She didn't dare complete
the sentence.

Schmarya's bright blue eyes were dancing with a wild,
dangerous fire. 'You will give the performance of your life
tonight, Sendale,' he said dryly. 'It seems you are not only
going to entertain the cream of Russian society, but our
revered Czar and Czarina as well.'

If she noticed the sarcasm in his tone, she gave no indi
cation. 'Oh, God,' she moaned, feeling herself shrinking
inside her gown as she stared at him in dumbfounded bewilder
ment, the greasepaint making her stricken expression all the
more grotesque. She was drenched in a sudden ice-cold sweat.
Her legs felt as though they would buckle under her. She
wanted to die on the spot.

The orchestra switched back to the last few notes of the
overture. With a swift movement, Schmarya pulled her into
the wings. The actors playing the Baron de Varville and
Nanine hurried silently past them to their places onstage.
Senda watched with growing dread as Nanine slipped into a chair, quickly placed some sewing in her lap, and busied her
self. The baron took a seat in a bergère by the fireplace. The
curtain rose slowly to expose the Paris boudoir of Marguerite
Gautier. It was a set which looked very much like a real boud
oir, even close up from the wings. The very real, very fine
furnishings and carpets had come from rooms within the palace, and even the marble fireplace mantle was genuine. It had
come from one of the storage rooms.

The play began with the ringing of a doorbell.

'I'm scared!' Senda whispered, turning to Schmarya. She clenched her teeth to keep them from chattering. 'Schmarya,
I can't go on. I
can't
.'

His voice was soft and sure, but the lines coursing from his
nose to the sides of his mouth were tense. 'Of course you
can. You know your lines backwards and forwards. You'll sail
through them.'

'Someone is ringing,' the actor playing the Baron said loudly
in his rich stage voice.

'I'm going to make an ass out of all of us.' Senda gave
Schmarya a searching look and clung to him as if for dear life.

His face nuzzled into her hair. 'You'll be magnificent,' he
assured her.

'No, I won't.' Her whisper was a squeak. 'Oh, God, why
did I have to get myself into this mess?'

'So you have a little stage fright. Hey. What are you worried
about? You'll knock 'em dead.' His strong fingers sought to
soothe her.

'Schmarya . . .' Her fingers dug into his arms.

Onstage, de Varville was saying, 'God forbid.'

She grasped his arms even more fiercely, her body trem
bling.

'That's your cue!'

'I forgot my lines!' she hissed in a panic.

'Nanine, Nanine,' he said.

She gulped, nodded, and took a series of deep breaths.
Her heart felt as though it would burst. 'Nanine! Nanine!'
she called out from offstage, her voice sounding surprisingly
strong even to her ears. In amazement, she looked at
Schmarya.

He blew her a kiss. Then she felt him turning her around.
His fingertips applied pressure to the small of her spine.

'Off you go, Marguerite,' he whispered softly.

She found herself propelled gracefully forward by his little
push, for a moment blinded by the white glare of the foot
lights.

Off you go, Marguerite!

Schmarya had called her Marguerite!

I
am
Marguerite, she thought, and the stage floor suddenly
seemed to tilt at a slight angle. The footlights receded into a
blur, and the audience was forgotten. Almost without her knowing it, she wafted toward Nanine. 'Go, order supper,
Nanine,' she sang out clearly. 'Olympe and Saint-Gaudens are
coming! I met them at the opera!'

From the wings, Schmarya watched the beautiful, coquettish
young woman. He stared entranced, then came to with a start.
He swore to himself in disbelief. 'Well, I'll be damned!' he
whispered aloud to himself. 'That isn't Senda. Hell, that's
Marguerite Gautier!'

Reality became illusion.

And illusion reality.

The audience in the small baroque theatre sat shrouded in
dark, spellbound silence, not daring to move and break the
magical spell. From the moment Senda walked onstage, every
one from the Czar and Czarina down to the other players awaiting their cues could feel the electricity like invisible currents in the air. As the heart-wrenching story of Marguerite
Gautier unfolded, each one of them felt transported from the
theatre to a picture-window view of someone else's life, an
eavesdropper privy to the most private moments of the tragic
heroine.

Before the intermission the unanimous response was
simply: a performance nothing short of miraculous.

Except for Senda, the other actors were seasoned troupers
all—some had toured the provinces for more than a decade—
but it was her bravura performance in the lead role which
caused the sensation. She shed her own skin and enveloped
herself in the persona of the consumptive heroine, eliciting
the finest performances ever from her usually jaded fellow players at the same time. She was titillating. Teasing. Fresh.
Young. Doomed. She had the audience wrapped around her
little finger, playing on their deepest, innermost, heartfelt
emotions.