Dazzle The Complete Unabridged Trilogy (12 page)

The theatre troupe was in the servants' wing, located above
the stables and garages. They were facing Count Kokovtsov,
the Prince's second cousin, chief adviser, and right-hand man. The Count was everything the Prince was not. Overbearingly
imperious, sallow, and effetely elegant, he was a tall, crisply
unemotional machine of efficiency and no-nonsense who
looked more like a spidery-fingered undertaker than a mem
ber of the aristocracy. Beside him stood a plump, rubicund
woman in her fifties wearing the uniform of chief housekeeper.
Her cream-puff hands were laced in front of her, and her
usually merry features were dour and compressed. Minutes
earlier, Mrs. Kashkin had welcomed them warmly in the spar
sely furnished, but pleasant servants' parlour. Upon seeing
the obviously hungry and frostbitten condition of the actors, she had sent a girl scurrying for a samovar and sweet cakes, and another to run hot baths. Then Count Kokovtsov had
arrived, and a pall had descended upon them all. Since travel
ling with the troupe, Senda had met her share of unpleasant
characters, and something inside told her that Kokovtsov was
not a man one crossed lightly, if one dared cross him at all.

'Despite its size and splendour, this palace is a private home
and is to be regarded as such. It is filled with treasures from
around the world, and because of that, the rules I have out
lined must be followed to the letter, as much for your protec
tion as for that of Their Highnesses. This way, should anything
be damaged or missing, none of you will be held accountable.
I assume I am making myself perfectly clear?'

All too clear, Senda thought bitterly as she levelly returned the Count's pompous gaze. Obviously he was trying to instill
fear in all of them, thereby causing each of them to spy upon
the other. Well, she could voice her opinion about
that.

Clearing her throat, she stepped forward and conveyed her
opinion that so many strictures might stifle the creative
impulses so important to acting.

The Count cocked an eyebrow and regarded her coldly. 'Be
that as it may, I assume that you are seasoned professionals?
As such, you have surely played a variety of places, each of
which has had certain rules of etiquette. So it is here. Obeying
our household rules should be second nature. As long as you
do not abuse the privileges provided you here, there is nothing
to worry about. You need only concern yourselves with giving
a good performance.'

Later that evening, after eating, bathing, and putting her
tiny daughter to bed, Senda considered the restraints the
Count had put upon the troupe. Much as she despised any rules,
whose bases were deeply rooted distrust, she felt curiously
relieved. Surely under such stringent observation Schmarya
would find himself unable to do anything which might
further his vengeful goals, thereby sabotaging the troupe's chances for success. He was occupied now with several other
men of the troupe examining the theatre.

Breathing a sigh of relief, she concentrated on familiarizing
herself with the script of
The Lady of the Camellias.
She gave
silent thanks that, during their countless afternoon trysts in
the forest, Schmarya had taught her to read—and that she'd
continued learning on her own over the past three years. But
she didn't study long. Soon she turned off the solitary lamp in the room she shared with Schmarya and Tamara and fell into
the most sound and peaceful sleep she had enjoyed in weeks.

Four o'clock in the afternoon the next day, Senda was alone, pacing the stage of the private theatre in the Danilov Palace. The servant whose duty it was to keep an eye on her had left
her in peace and was waiting outside in the hallway. Senda's
face was screwed up in concentration, deepening her dimple
as she recited her lines, summoning them from memory. Her
voice rose and fell with thick emotion. '. . . and my impulses
unquestioningly. I had found such a man in the Duke, but old
age neither protects nor consoles, and one has other needs.
Then I met you. Young! Ardent! Happy! The tears I saw you
shed for me, your anxiety over my health, your mysterious
visits during my illness . . . your honesty. Your enthusi
asm . . . your enthusiasm . . . your enthusiasm . . .' She had
to consult the script again. 'Oh, damn!' she blurted out, then
bit down on her pink underlip and scowled. Tears of frustration welled up in her eyes. Hers was the central character, and as such, she had the most lines. Many, many more than
she had anticipated. She realized now her unmitigated gall. Acting the part of Marguerite Gautier was not the simple
matter she had convinced herself it would be. And to think
she had believed that she knew the entire play by heart! By
rote!

She sighed heavily, her bosom rising slowly, than falling. It was a fine time to discover that she had deluded herself. Not
that the lines weren't on the tip of her tongue at all times. But
getting them out at will, adding the necessary emotions, and
following the stage directions—well, it was simply too much
to have to concentrate on all at the same time.

Frowning, she tapped the open script against her right thigh.
Her heart-shaped face was creased with anger and disillusion
ment. Could it be that she was trying to force things too much?
After all, the rehearsal earlier that afternoon hadn't gone so
badly. She'd only needed to be prompted . . .

. . . only about two dozen times or so.
Only!

Far too often.

But still . . .

Wearily she tossed down the script and sank onto a silken
red Empire settee which was to be used as a prop. She silently gazed out at the empty theatre. She nodded to herself, already
feeling herself relax a bit. Now she could at last take the time
to study the little theatre. And what a jewel box it was!

She marvelled at the unabashed luxury surrounding her. Never in her wildest dreams had she imagined such fairy-tale
trappings to exist in real life. It was a feast for the eyes. Each
seat was Louis XVI in style, handsomely hand-carved and
heavily gilded, with plush powder-blue velvet upholstery—a
hundred and sixty seats altogether. Added to that was the
balustraded, magnificently curved little balcony at the back, a
rococo symphony of design which could seat another thirty spectators, as well as the two individual wedding-cake boxes,
swagged with rich draperies, which overlooked each side of
the stage. Those seated six apiece.

She shook her head incredulously as the numbers sank in.
It seemed unbelievable that this theatre—a private theatre in
a private home—could have a capacity for an audience of two
hundred and two. Most theatres in the provincial towns they
had played were much smaller than this. And nowhere near
as lovely.

Her visual inspection over, she tightened her lips determin
edly and pushed herself to her feet. Enough lounging. It was
time to get back to work.

She scooped up the script and once again took her position
at centre stage. She stood there for a long moment in the
silence, then drew a deep breath.

'. . .The tears I saw you shed for me, your anxiety over
my health, your mysterious visits during my illness . . . your
honesty. Your enthusiasm. Everything about you led me to
see in you the one I had been calling to from the depths of my
loud solitude—'

From the box above her right came the abrupt claps of lone
applause. Startled, she stopped in mid-sentence, took a few
steps backward, and looked up. The Prince, dressed in a beautifully tailored charcoal Edwardian suit, was stepping from behind one of the swag curtains. The top half of him
seemed suspended in midair; his face was in deep shadow. But
his eyes, brilliant and concentrated, conveyed his emotional
keenness. Otherwise, his face was carefully composed in an
unemotional mask.

'That was quite an extraordinary soliloquy,' he said softly in the well-modulated speech of the upper class. 'As a rule, I
am not taken with theatrical performances. Most of them bore
me, put me to sleep, and if they don't, I nevertheless find
it difficult to suspend my sense of reality sufficiently to be
transported into a world of make-believe. However, you have
entranced me. You are quite the consummate actress.'

Senda bowed her head slightly. 'Your Highness is too kind.
It is not I who should take credit for having entranced you,
but Monsieur Dumas. Surely it was his writing which appealed
to you, not I.'

'On the contrary, madam. You do yourself a great injustice.
You are a very gifted young actress.' The Prince paused, pois
ing his fingertips on the gilded railing of the box. 'For a
moment you actually made me believe that you were the ill-
fated Marguerite Gautier. My heart went out to you.' He
stared at her steadily. 'And if you will forgive me for speaking
the truth, you are extraordinarily beautiful as well.'

She locked eyes with him. Despite the shadows, his luminous gaze was so powerful, so penetrating, that she found
herself blushing. 'That is the magic of theatre, your Highness.
It is all an illusion. Greasepaint. Costumes. Sets.' She gestured
elegantly around the stage.

'Ah, but my eyes do not deceive me.' He smiled and wagged
an admonishing finger at her. 'Your beauty is no illusion.'

She was silent. His intense gaze seemed peculiarly hypnotic,
and burned with a fierce fire. She forced herself to look slightly
to his left to avoid the focus of those unsettling, glittering eyes.

'Beauty,' she murmured, 'is only in the eye of the beholder.'

He half-smiled. 'If you say so, so be it.' For a long,
uncomfortable moment he was silent, staring down at her so
intently that she could feel the heat of his gaze. For some
reason, she felt the beginnings of a deeply rooted fear knotting
her insides.

Finally he broke the lengthy silence. 'In any case, you
are
the lady of the camellias. I can feel it in my heart. That was not
playacting I was watching.' He shook his head. 'The emotions
were very real. Far too real to have merely been an illusion.'