Free Wild Lavender by Belinda Alexandra Page A

riot.
    Whether the comedian had finished his act or not I didn’t know, but a few moments later a harp began a lilting melody. A flute joined in and weaved around the notes like a serpent. Golden light spread over the stage. The audience gasped and so did I. The scene was ancient Egypt with a backdrop of sand, pyramids and palm trees. The chorus girls stood or knelt before a staircase that disappeared into the rafters. They were dressed in white robes fastened at the shoulder with a silver clasp and all looked alike in ebony wigs and with eyes elongated with black liner. Eunuchs stood on either side of the stage, waving fans of peacock feathers. The chorus girls chanted and their voices were answered by a warbling one from up in the flies.
    Feet bejewelled in silver anklets appeared at the top of the staircase and began to descend. They were followed by slim legs and a torso. When the woman came fully into sight a breathless hush fell over the audience. Draped over her hips was a swirl of muslin fastened at the waist with a clasp in the form of a cobra. She shimmered with jewels. They glistened at her ears and wrists and on each upper arm she wore a gold band. Over her chest dangled strings of beads which scarcely hid her pert breasts. One foot in front of the other she glided down the stairs. It was only because of her elegant walk that I recognised her. Camille. She had transformed from a pretty woman into an exotic temptress. Suddenly I understood Monsieur Gosling’s fever.
    Camille reached the bottom of the stairs and moved towards the footlights where she began snaking her arms and gyrating her hips in time to the music. A man in the front row clamped his hand over his mouth but couldn’t take his eyes off her. The rest of the audience didn’t move at all. They sat clutching their seats. Camille rolled her shoulders and hips and turned in a circle. I caught the flashof her eyes, her haughty expression. Everyone else on stage faded into insignificance. Her voice was thin but her stage presence was formidable. A boat with a purple sail slid out from the wings and stopped at the foot of the staircase. Flanked by the chorus girls, Camille stepped into it. She turned and gave the audience a last cheeky swing of her hips before being spirited away. The lights went out. The dance was over. The audience stood up and roared, their applause louder than a thunderstorm. I clutched Bonbon to me, both of us quivering.
    After several encores, for none of which Camille appeared, I realised that it must be getting late and I would have to miss the second act. I stood up to go home.
    Albert was smoking on the landing and I thanked him for letting me see the show, but I barely heard my own words, so fresh was the memory of music and applause in my ears. I wandered down the Canebière in a dream, Bonbon’s paws pattering on the cobblestones beside me. Camille’s act played before my eyes again; it had impressed me more than anything I had ever seen. It wasn’t lewd or vulgar, as Aunt Augustine had described. It was spellbinding. And in comparison to it, my life seemed even more dreary.
    I reached the front door as the sun was setting and lifted the latch. But the girl who had left the house that evening was not the same girl who returned to it. I knew then that my life would have to be the stage, or it would be nothing at all.

F OUR
    L e Chat Espiègle was not a high-class music hall with a large production budget and an audience that included dukes and princes. But it was a place of magic to me. I thought that the lights and music, the bright costumes and the chorus girls, were the height of glamour and excitement. I had nothing to compare it with. I was blind to the tattered curtains, the shabby seats, the near starved faces of the performers. I lived for those evenings when Bonbon and I walked to the theatre and Albert sneaked us into our secret place in the wings.
    Sometimes acts were changed from the second to the first half of