Part 38 (1/2)
Someone tapped him sharply on the shoulder. A bewigged little man stood glaring at him. ”You're blocking the pa.s.sageway. Deliver those flowers and get out!” Jagu looked at him blankly. ”New to the job?” He let out an exasperated sigh and opened the door opposite. ”In there.” The room that lay beyond was already filled with flowers, and their scent was overpoweringly rich and sickly sweet.
”Who was that singing?”
The little man was already steering him back toward the stage door. ”You like music, yes? You want to find out? Then buy a ticket and come to see the opera!” He gave him a firm push out into the snowy street and slammed the door shut.
”My dear Jagu, you can't possibly go to the opera dressed like that,” observed Amba.s.sador d'Abrissard.
”These are the only civilian clothes I've brought with me.” Jagu looked down at the plain cut of his jacket. ”What's wrong with them?”
”In Mirom, just as in Lutece, people dress up in all their finery to attend the opera.”
”My funds won't cover the cost of a new suit, let alone a ticket.”
”Don't buy a ticket, for heaven's sake! I have my own box, which is at your disposal. As for suitable attire...” Abrissard rang the brocade bellpull and Claude, his butler, appeared. ”Claude, would you say that the lieutenant and I were roughly of the same height and girth?”
Claude gave Jagu an appraising look. ”Quite close, I believe, Amba.s.sador.”
”Then would you be so good as to fit him out from my wardrobe; the lieutenant is going to the opera tonight in my stead.”
Claude bowed, saying nothing, but not before Jagu had seen the look of shocked disapproval that replaced his habitually detached expression.
Jagu looked at his reflection in the cheval mirror while Claude fastidiously brushed a speck of dust from his outfit. He had never worn such fine clothes; the ivory silk s.h.i.+rt was so soft against his skin that it felt almost sinful. From the sheen of the velvet jacket and breeches of midnight blue down to the metal buckles on the black leather shoes, his reflection gleamed.
”You would be advised to put this on, Lieutenant,” Claude brought over a long, fur-trimmed coat and draped it over his shoulders, ”as the frost tonight is particularly sharp.” He finished his work by placing a three-cornered hat of black felt on Jagu's head, tipping it at a fas.h.i.+onable angle.
Jagu did not recognize himself. He was staring at a lean-faced n.o.bleman, the man he might have become if he had been the firstborn of the Lord of Rustephan. The disguise might work to his advantage, enabling him to continue his investigation without arousing any suspicions.
As the troika bore him away to the theater, the runners b.u.mping over the frozen ruts, the bells on the horses' collars jangling in the frosty night, he sat back and tried to prepare himself for the confrontation to come.
When had he begun to sense he was losing her? She had become more wayward, more willful, taking risks to get her own way, listening less to him and more, he was certain, to her guardian spirit. He could not forget the way his heart had burned with jealousy as he had watched her flirting with Andrei Orlov, despising himself more and more for not being honest with himself-or her-about his feelings.
And then it was all too late and she was gone.
As the troika slowed, the driver joining the crush of other sleighs in the broad square, Jagu saw the dazzle of bright flares illuminating the front of the Imperial Theater.
Nearly there. Why was it that the idea of running away with Celestine was suddenly so appealing? Why was it that the idea of running away with Celestine was suddenly so appealing?
Celestine... do I love you so much that I'd break my vow for a chance of happiness with you?
The amba.s.sador's box afforded a good view of the stage and as Jagu settled down on one of the elegant little chairs, he gazed around in amazement at the lavish interior. Carved cherubs and nymphs supported every box and tier; gilded fauns and satyrs blew pipes and strummed lyres at the corner of each tier, and the central crystal chandelier was filled with hundreds of white wax candles. The buzz of conversation was so loud that he could hardly hear the musicians as they started to tune their instruments.
He scanned the program in vain for a clue; it was only natural that, as a fugitive, she would adopt another name.
Then the candles were extinguished in the auditorium and the orchestra began to play the overture. To Jagu's disgust, the members of the audience paid no attention, continuing to chatter more loudly than before to make themselves heard above the instruments. Jagu frowned at them, trying to listen to the orchestra. He was unfamiliar with A Spring Elopement, A Spring Elopement, although the instant he caught an infectiously lighthearted melody bubbling up through the flutes and clarinets in the overture, he suddenly remembered Henri de Joyeuse's playing it. although the instant he caught an infectiously lighthearted melody bubbling up through the flutes and clarinets in the overture, he suddenly remembered Henri de Joyeuse's playing it.
He was so lost in the memory that when the heavy curtains parted, revealing a stage set of painted cottages and cherry trees, and a chorus of young women in pink-striped gowns began to sing about the spring blossom, his frown deepened.
What am I, a Commanderie Guerrier, doing watching this absurd, frivolous entertainment?
A sudden stir rippled through the audience and he noticed many leaning forward, raising opera gla.s.ses as-to a burst of rapturous cheering-a young woman ran onto the stage and began to sing. From her warm, rich tone, he knew her instantly. It was Gauzia, playing the part of Lise, the pert servant girl, whose mischief-making provided the flimsy plot of A Spring Elopement. A Spring Elopement. And, as Jagu watched Gauzia flirting with the men while effortlessly singing Lise's virtuoso runs and trills, he had to admit that she was in her element in the theater. Her reputation was well merited, and from the thunderous applause at the end of her first aria, it was obvious that she had already enchanted the audience. Only when the applause had died down did the opera continue, with the appearance of Lise's young mistress, Mariella. And, as Jagu watched Gauzia flirting with the men while effortlessly singing Lise's virtuoso runs and trills, he had to admit that she was in her element in the theater. Her reputation was well merited, and from the thunderous applause at the end of her first aria, it was obvious that she had already enchanted the audience. Only when the applause had died down did the opera continue, with the appearance of Lise's young mistress, Mariella.
Mariella, in contrast to her servant, had a sad, wistful aria in which she sang of her despair at being forced to marry a rich elderly count, rather than her sweetheart, a handsome but impoverished poet. Her first phrase, exquisitely rendered, sent a s.h.i.+ver of recognition through Jagu's body.
Celestine.
He leaned far forward over the rim of the box, wis.h.i.+ng that he had brought some opera gla.s.ses as he tried to make out her features. The voice, the sensitive artistry in shaping the phrases, the timbre of voice, sweet yet searingly pure, were all Celestine's. But the young woman on the stage looked nothing like her. Her hair was a rich brown and her complexion was far darker than Celestine's. But this was the theater, and all manner of magical deceptions could be achieved with lighting and greasepaint.
As the curtain fell, announcing the interval between the acts, Jagu hurried out of the box.
”Is there anything I can get you, sir?” A flunkey appeared, dressed in the same livery as the one who had dismissed him so peremptorily earlier. ”A gla.s.s of white wine? Some caviar?”
”What is the name of the singer playing Mariella?”
”I believe she's called Ca.s.sard, sir. Maela Ca.s.sard.”
The name meant nothing to Jagu. Was he deluding himself? Had he been so eager to find Celestine that he had imagined this Maela Ca.s.sard to be his lost love? He took one of the fluted gla.s.ses from the flunkey's tray and swallowed the chilled wine down in one gulp. There was only one way to be sure-and that was to go backstage after the performance.
”Flowers,” he said on impulse. ”I want a bouquet of flowers.”
CHAPTER 18.
”An admirer to see you, Demoiselle Ca.s.sard,” called Grebin from the pa.s.sageway.
”I said no visitors tonight-” Celestine broke off as the dressing-room door opened.
Jagu stood in the doorway, carrying a bouquet of spring flowers. Awkwardly, he held them out toward her. They stood, unmoving, staring at each other, she with her peignoir half-slipping off one shoulder, he still proffering the bouquet. The green, piquant scent of narcissi filled the little room.
”I wanted to congratulate you on your performance,” he said. ”I had no idea that you were such a talented actress... Celestine. Celestine.”
He had tracked her down. He had recognized her, in spite of her disguise.
”You'd better come in, Jagu,” she said. ”And shut the door.” She placed the flowers in a vase, turning her back on him so that he should not see the confusion in her eyes. For just to know that he was there, standing so close to her, had stirred up a host of buried emotions. Why did she want to feel his arms around her, holding her so tightly that the breath was crushed out of her? No, this could be no pa.s.sionate reconciliation.
He had been sent to arrest her.
I've fended for myself all these months without you, Jagu. I've become strong. Independent. Now what am I going to do?
”So what gave me away?” she asked, forcing herself to turn around to face him.
”Your voice. I'd know your voice anywhere.” His face was expressionless, but she detected the faintest husky tremor as he spoke. Skilled as he was at hiding how he felt, she knew that there was too much history between them for him to stay unmoved.
She nodded. ”Those clothes suit you,” she said, unable to resist reaching out to run her fingertips down the lapel of his ink-blue jacket. ”It's nice to see you in a color other than Commanderie black.”