Free The Curse of the Grand Guignol by Anna Lord Page A

cannot hide from me! I will
sniff you out!” He lifted his face to the blackened rafters, cupped
his mouth and bellowed, “Raoooul!”
    “You sound like a
castrati.”
    A gently chiding voice forced
the trio to wheel round, but it was not the voice of a man, not the
hapless, elusive Raoul who spoke. It was a lady of un certain
age .
    “What is the matter Serge? You
bellow like a castrated bull. The play was a huge success and still
you are not satisfied.”
    “Ah, la marquise,” said
Monsieur Davidov, bowing reverently, “my most devoted critic, my
most ardent patroness. I am a perfectionist, as you know. That
opening scene was rubbish. Stilted. Awkward. Flat. Dead. It needs a
subtle change of direction here and there.”
    “Nonsense. It worked just fine.
But do as you will. You always do. Introduce me.”
    Smiling indulgently, the lady
shifted her soft sea-green gaze to the Countess.
    “La marquise,” said the Russian
proudly, intuiting perhaps a new patroness, younger and wealthier
whose name he had memorized already, “let me introduce la comtesse
Volodymyrovna. La comtesse may I present the Marquise de
Merimont.”
    Recognition lit up the limpid
sea-green eyes. “The step-child of Countess Zoya, non?”
    “Oui,” replied the
Countess.
    “Your aunt was a remarkable
woman. Remarkable,” the voice repeated softly, a curious intonation
winnowing the first from the last.
    “Allow me to introduce my
travelling companion, Dr Watson,” said the Countess, circumventing
the conversation veering toward the usual sympathetic platitudes.
The term ‘travelling companion’ was incredibly handy, one of those
all-encompassing terms that covered just about every eventuality,
as well as every unreality.
    The Marquise de Merimont was a
lady of advanced years with a pearlescent complexion that seemed to
sparkle, as if it had been dusted with finely ground diamonds. Her
fine silver hair was elegantly fashioned into flattering ringlets
not unlike the style favoured by that doyenne of French fashion
ages past, Empress Josephine. The silver ringlets were kept in
place by an abundance of silver combs and diamond hair pins that
glittered like tiny stars.
    The noble name was not known to
the Countess. The two aristocrats had never crossed paths.
Unsurprising, really, as a child the Countess had come often to
Paris, but she had stayed only once at her aunt’s pied-a-terre on
rue Bonaparte, and, naturally, due to her youth, she had not
attended the musical soirees and grand bals of the
day. Later, when she might have joined in such social occasions,
after completing a year at a Swiss finishing school, she had
immediately been whisked off to England, America, South America and
Australia…
    Dr Watson bowed slightly,
sensing he was in the company not only of a lady of noble rank, but
a mature woman of immense courtesy and wisdom. The way she had
soothed the savage Russian bear was a feat to behold. She had
compromised without appearing condescending, placated without
weakening, and steered a diplomatic course without making it seem
obvious. He took his hat off to her. Literally.
    “I am holding an impromptu
salonniere tonight to celebrate the success of le Cirque du
Grand Guignol ,” said la marquise, addressing the Countess and
her travelling companion. “Consider yourselves invited. Hotel de
Merimont. Clos de Millefleurs. Come as you are. It is nothing
grand. Shall we say one hour from now?” She turned to Monsieur
Davidov. “Make sure Kiki and Maxine look their best. Tell Raoul to
steer clear of la fee verte before he arrives. Monsignor
Delgardo will be present,” she warned, “and you know what happened
last time. The Monsignor can throw his weight around when Raoul
let’s fly with impertinence; he has the ear of the Director General
and the censorship issue can become tiresome, as you know.”
    Scowling, Monsieur Davidov
nodded knowingly before spinning on his heel and bellowing,
“Raoooul!”
    On a strained smile la