Basil fumbled in his breast pocket, found the envelope Pauline had given him. “We’ve just been backstage. Can you take the stubs and check my hat and coat for me?”
“I shouldn’t, but I will. This way, please.”
He led them down the center aisle to seats in the fourth row and thrust souvenir programs into their hands—sumptuous affairs of cream-colored parchment bound with crimson cord and a sketch of Wanda on the cover. The star did not believe in hiding her light under a bushel. . . .
Basil glanced toward the critics’ row. “Wonder what they’ll say?”
“Formula X31B2,” answered Pauline.
“And the audience?”
“They’ll eat it up. Look at them now—watering at the mouth.”
Every seat in the house was filled, and filled magnificently. A Wanda Morley opening was one of the few events that could make a New York theater look as festive as the opera. Every silver fox farm in the West must have contributed its quota of pelts to the scene, while Siberia must have been entirely denuded of mink and ermine. There was a vast display of bald heads and boiled shirts among the men; of shaved armpits and shoulders coated with liquid powder among the women. In spite of the elaborate artifice of jewels, silks, and coiffures, the feminine faces looked strained and haggard in the cold twilight as their eyes settled hungrily on the curtain.
Basil’s glance came back to Pauline and dwelt approvingly on her simple, long-sleeved, long-skirted dress of clear azure. “You’re the only one who doesn’t look like a
“Well, a costume designer ought to know something about clothes!” She lifted one hand in a self-deprecating gesture. The palm of her white glove was streaked with black dust.
“How did that happen?”
Silk rustled, and a woman behind them leaned forward to hiss: “S-s-sh! Will you please be quiet?”
The curtain was rising.
IV
ACT I,
Sam Milhau’s stage designer had interpreted Sardou’s directions luxuriantly. There was a low, domed ceiling formed by interlacing ogive arches. Synthetic firelight drew monstrous shadows on walls enameled in barbaric blues and reds, yellows and greens. The painted figures seemed to dance a stealthy measure whenever you didn’t watch them closely. Candle-flames made white highlights in a silver samovar. A tea service of blue and gold Sèvres and a few brittle Louis XVI chairs gave the Parisian touch Sardou had insisted upon.
In the left wall Basil recognized the single door he had seen from the other side. From here, the plywood looked like stout oak carved intricately. In the right wall, he looked through the window to snow-covered roofs. Could that chill moonshine really be coming from the blue lamp he had seen backstage? At first he was puzzled by the double doors that stood closed in the rear wall of the set. Why hadn’t he noticed them on the other side? Then he remembered the three-sided projection of lathe and canvas he had passed at the rear of the set. As he had surmised, it was an alcove. It must be reached from the stage by these double doors, now closed; and apparently they were its only opening.
The rising curtain disclosed the domino players Basil had seen on stage from the wings. They were supposed to be servants gossiping informatively as stage servants did in Sardou’ day. There was a general coughing and shuffling and rustling of programs as the modern audience grew restive. First-night nerves seemed to have congealed the actors playing these minor parts. They spoke and moved as stickily as flies on fly-paper.
Then everything changed.
A bell rang.
Stage servants scattered in guilty haste, hiding dominoes and tea cups. One ran to open the single door at left. An outburst of hand clapping rippled through the audience.
