Mr Gautier held the letter that Celeste had given him. Still he couldn’t bring himself to read it. Instead he read his notes for yesterday, 30th December. Again there was only an evening performance. Hildegard had seemed very tired and he had made many notes on her lacklustre performance, her lapses of concentration. He had watched the first half of the show from the auditorium. He noted that three times she had slurred her words, stumbled on the stage and had come in a beat too late on Columbine’s Lament. Quigley had done his best to cover for her. Sitting on the swing, she had appeared to fall asleep. The audience laughed as Quigley made a joke of it.
In the interval Mr Gautier heard members of the audience chatting.
‘My dear, the girl can hardly sing.’
‘I’ve no idea what all the fuss is about.’
‘What was the reviewer thinking of?’
Mr Gautier felt that some firm words were needed and went backstage. There he saw Quigley carrying Hildegard in his arms, Celeste behind him.
‘What’s happened?’ he asked.
‘She collapsed on stage,’ said Celeste, ‘as the curtain came down.’
Quigley took Hildegard to her dressing-room and laid her on the day-bed. Celeste knelt beside her and took her hand. She was stone-still.
‘I told Mr Gautier yesterday that my daughter is not up to doing a full run,’ said Madame Sabina. ‘I think it would be wise if you have an understudy. And as the situation is desperate, I could, of course, step in.’
‘So that’s your game,’ said the clown.
‘I’m offering my services for nothing,’ said the diva.
‘And that’s exactly what they’re worth – nothing,’ said Quigley.
‘Get out!’ screamed Madame Sabina. ‘Get out, all of you, get out immediately!’
Celeste stayed where she was. ‘The water,’ she said to Quigley.
Quigley went to a side table and picked up a glass of water. He sniffed it.
‘What is this?’ he asked.
‘Water,’ said Madame Sabina. ‘Water and lemon with a little honey. It helps the throat. Surely you know that.’
‘Drink it,’ said Quigley to Madame Sabina. ‘Drink it now.’
‘If you will excuse me, I must look after my daughter.’
‘No,’ said Quigley. ‘I will not excuse you. Drink it.’
Madame Sabina Petrova, faced with the clown’s icy rage, did as she was told.
‘As you can see, there’s nothing in it.’
But Quigley wasn’t listening. ‘We need a doctor, Gautier,’ he said.
‘Viggo has gone to fetch one,’ said Celeste, and at that moment Viggo showed Dr Marks into the dressing-room.
Dr Marks made a quick examination of Hildegard and said, ‘She has been drugged.’ He turned to Madame Sabina. ‘What have you given her?’
‘Why does everyone think I have given her something?’ she said.
‘What was it? I must know, if I am to treat her,’ said Dr Marks, his voice harsh.
Madame Sabina was inching towards the door. ‘I have to go—’
‘No, you stay put,’ said Quigley, blocking her exit, ‘and tell the doctor what it is you have poisoned your daughter with. What’s in the water?’
The stage manager put his head round the door. ‘It’s Act Two beginners,’ he said.
‘No, it’s not,’ said Quigley.
‘She looks drugged,’ said the stage manager.
‘Precisely,’ said Quigley. ‘It’s the work of her loving mama.’
‘There was nothing in the wat… er.’ Madame Sabina’s words were slurred. ‘I would never do…’ She took a step, grabbed the edge of the dressing-table and fell.
‘Get her out of here,’ said Quigley.
Mr Gautier and the stage manager dragged her into an empty dressing-room as if she were a rolled-up carpet.
Dr Marks said to Viggo, ‘Would you go and find Anna?’
‘Try my house first,’ said Quigley, and gave Viggo the address.
‘Mr Gautier,’ said Celeste, ‘there’s an emerald ring on Madame Sabina’s little finger that belongs to Hildegard. Would you…’
‘With pleasure,’ said Mr Gautier.
He left the dressing-room and after a minute returned with the ring. Celeste washed it, found a piece of ribbon on the dressing-table and gently tied it round Hildegard’s neck.
‘She needs it,’ she said to Dr Marks, who was mixing a medicine from the contents of his bag.
‘I believe she does,’ he said.
‘Mr Gautier,’ said the stage manager, ‘I’m sorry, but we have to tell the audience something.’
Quigley straightened his Harlequin suit and put the conical hat back on his head. He took a deep breath.
‘Celeste, when I give the cue, can you light up as you usually do? Or do you need Peter to pull a lever?’
‘No,’ said Celeste. ‘I can do it on my own.’
‘I thought so,’ said the clown. He turned to the stage manager. ‘Call the company together, please.’
As they stood for a moment in the wings, Celeste felt tears sting her eyes. She glanced at Quigley and saw that he too was crying.
The velvet curtains rose silently. There was no music, only the sound of Quigley’s shoes as the great clown walked on stage and stood in the footlights.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, my dear audience,’ he said. ‘Tonight, you may have noticed that the young star of our pantomime, Miss Hildegard Petrova, was not on top form. The reason is that someone who should have known how to love her and care for her has given her what we hope is nothing worse than a sleeping draught.’ There was a gasp of horror from the audience. ‘A doctor is with her and your good wishes will go a long way to helping her recover. I hope you understand that in the circumstances, the performance will not continue as planned. However, we would like to perform a finale for you.’
The conductor tapped the lectern and the orchestra started up. All the actors came on stage, stood in a row and sang Columbine’s Lament. At the end when Celeste’s beams of light filled the auditorium, the curtain came down to a standing ovation.
Mr Gautier had run out of notes to read. There was only Hildegard’s letter left. He wiped his eyes. It wasn’t long. It read:
I'm sorry I have let you down.
Hildegard.