She spluttered with laughter as she imagined the brash cornet’s amazement when he discovered the substitution. And there was probably no need to warn Zoya. It would turn out more interesting that way – a little scene from the commedia dell’arte. It was only one short step from the appalling to the comic in life.
Only was there a mirror in Zoya’s little kennel? She could ask to have the one here moved.
Eliza couldn’t live in a room without any mirrors. If she didn’t look at herself at least once every two or three minutes, she got the feeling that she didn’t really exist. This psychosis, rather common among actresses, goes by the name of ‘reflectiomania’.
ACROSS THE PYRENEES
Eliza herself observed the events that transpired in the ‘Louvre-Madrid’ the following night only in part, and so she had to reconstitute the overall picture from the accounts of eyewitnesses.
It should be mentioned that late that evening the electricity went off in the hotel and the lodging rooms. It was too late to call the electricians and the dramatic events took place either in complete darkness or by the uncertain light of kerosene and candles.
The best place to start is with Zoya Comedina’s account.
‘I always fall asleep like a cat. As soon as my head touches the pillow, I’m gone. And this was an imperial bed, you could say. A bed of swan’s down! Pillows of angels’ feathers! And before that I lounged in a hot bath to my heart’s content. Anyway, there I am, sleeping sweetly and dreaming that that I’m a frog, sitting in a swamp and it’s warm and damp there, but I’m lonely. I swallow unappetising mosquitoes and croak. What are you laughing at, Eliza? It’s true, honestly! Suddenly – thwack! – an arrow thrusts itself into the ground. And then I realise that I’m not just any amphibian, I’m a frog-princess, and now a handsome prince will appear to get his arrow back. If I grab hold of that arrow and hold on tight, it will bring me good fortune.
‘The prince immediately appears and puts me on the palm of his hand. “Oh,” he says, “how green you are and how pretty! And what wonderful little warts you have! Let me give you a kiss!” And he really does kiss me, hotly and passionately.
‘Then I suddenly wake up and what do you think? The prince isn’t a prince, but some fop or other with a little moustache and he’s panting into my face and slavering my lips with kisses. Oh, did I yell! He tried to put his hand over my mouth – and I sank my teeth into his finger.
‘I sat up and I was going to yell again, only when I looked, I saw I knew him. That cornet of hussars. The one who showers you with flowers. The window was wide open and there were tracks on the windowsill.
‘So he looks at me and waves his finger about, with his face all twisted.
‘“Who are you?” he hisses. “Where did you come from?”
‘With my short hair, he took me for a boy.
‘I say to him: “No, where did you come from?”
‘He puts his fist up against my nose. “Where is she?” he whispers. “Where’s my Eliza? Tell me, you little devil!” And then he goes and twists my ear, the rotten beast.
‘I got frightened. “She’s moved to the Madrid, to room number ten,” I said. I don’t know why I said that. I just blurted out the first thing that came into my head. Word of honour! What are you laughing at? Don’t you believe me? Well, you should. Why didn’t I kick up a rumpus when he left? Well, I was really frightened, I couldn’t even catch my breath. Honest to God.’
No witnesses were found to the bold cornet’s traversal of the dark Pyrenean corridors from the Louvre to Madrid, so the next episode of the drama was played out directly in room number ten.
‘I don’t know how the miscreant managed to open the door without waking me up. I’m a very light sleeper, I wake up at the slightest stirring of the air… Don’t lie, Lev Spiridonovich, I have never snored. And anyway, how would you know how I sleep now? Thank God, it’s a very long time since you kept me company. I want him to go out. I won’t tell the story with him here!
‘…And through my light doze I hear someone whispering: “Queen, Empress, ruler of heaven and earth! I am ablaze with passion at the aroma of your perfume”. I should mention that at night I always perfume myself with “Fleur de Lys”. And then someone starts kissing me on the neck and the cheek, and presses his lips against mine. Naturally, I decided that I was dreaming. And what point is there in being shy in a dream? And then, since there are no men around, I ask you, which of us wouldn’t like to have a dream like that? Well, naturally, I fling my arms open to embrace this miraculous reverie… Stop giggling, or I won’t tell you!
‘Now it all happened in pitch darkness, note, so I couldn’t even recognise that despicable boy…
‘But when he turned brazen and tried to take the kind of liberties that I don’t permit myself even in dreams, I finally realised that this wasn’t a dream, but an absolutely genuine assault on my honour. I pushed the blackguard off, and he fell onto the floor. I started shouting. And that disgusting Limbach, realising that his intentions had been foiled, ran off into the corridor.’
Whereas Zoya’s story inspired absolute trust (apart from her directing the villain to room number ten by accident), Reginina’s story required a few corrections. Otherwise it was hard to explain why she took so long to shout out to the rest of Madrid and why Limbach had suddenly become ‘despicable’ and ‘disgusting’ to her, although previously she had been well disposed towards him.
It was far more probable that Limbach, drowning in Vasilisa Prokofievna’s monumental corpulence, realised he had come to the wrong place, started floundering about and had broken free, thereby provoking the grande dame’s indignant howling.
However that might be, the next point on the night raider’s route was known for certain. At the sound of screaming, Sensiblin looked out of room number eight with a lamp in his hand and saw an agitated figure with a sword dangling on its belt running hell for leather along the corridor.
Turning a corner, Limbach ran into Xanthippe Petrovna. She had also stuck her nose out of her room, clad only in her nightshirt and curlers.
This is her story.
‘I was served a bad turn by my perpetual kind-heartedness. When I heard shouting, I got out of bed and looked out into the corridor, in case someone needed help.
‘A young man came dashing towards me. I didn’t recognise him immediately as your admirer, Limbach. But he told me he who he was and clasped his hands together imploringly on his chest.
‘“Hide me, madam! They’re chasing me! If I end up with the police, I’ll get at least a month in the guardhouse!”
‘You know, I’m always on the side of anyone who’s being pursued by the police. So I let him in and bolted the door shut, like a stupid fool!
‘And what do you think? That ingrate started molesting me! I tried to make him see reason, I lit the lamp, so he could see that I’m old enough to be his mother. But he was like a madman! He tried to tear off my shirt and chased me round the room, and when I started screaming and calling for help, he bared his sword! I don’t know how I’m still alive. In my place anyone else would take the brute to court, and instead of the guardhouse, he’d end up serving hard labour – for attempted rape and murder!’
Of course, there was even less truth in this than in what Vasilisa Prokofievna had said. There was no doubt that Limbach had spent several minutes in Vulpinova’s room. It is also possible that he entered the room of his own accord, hoping to sit out the commotion. But as for molestation – that seemed rather doubtful. Most likely Vulpinova herself had tried to solicit his attention, but committed the blunder of lighting the lamp, and the poor cornet was horror-struck at the appearance of his rescuer. It was also entirely possible that he lacked the tact to conceal his revulsion, and Xanthippe Petrovna would most certainly have been insulted by that. Offended and infuriated, she was capable of reducing anyone to fear and trembling. It was easy to imagine that Volodya, already badly frightened, had been obliged to snatch out his sabre – just as D’Artagnan bared his sword when he fled from Her insulted Ladyship.