With her Jewelled headdress, scarlet forehead dot, exposed midriff, kohl-lined eyes, near-transparent costume and sinuous walk, 'Princess Jelhi' was instantly popular, attracting a platoon of admirers in white tie and tails or dress uniform. Most of the men had swords: as a consequence of jostling for position among the upper ranks, several duels were likely.
As Irene flirted and fluttered, the Persian scanned the ballroom.
The dancing floor was not the classic square, but an oblong. Brassbound porthole-shaped windows above and below the waterline reminded guests that they were on the river. The mooring was secure and the barge heavy in the water: only the slightest motion confirmed that the company was not on dry land. The theme of the ball was Childhood Remembered, and the room was dressed as a giant's child's playroom. Ten-foot tall wooden soldiers and other outsized toys stood around, as conversation pieces or to excite wonderment. In the centre of the floor, a gigantic, stately top spun on its axis, ingeniously weighted not to stray from its spot or fall over. Above it all shone a giant, crescent-headed Man in the Moon. A wooden spoon on wires shovelled snuff into a lunar nostril.
Irene lifted a bare foot, showing off her painted nails and oddments of paste jewellery from the opera house's vast store of dressing-up kit. The motion parted her sari, affording a glimpse of shapely inside-leg. Gasps rose from her admirers and she tittered modestly at the 'slip', chiding the gallants in delightfully broken baby talk French.
The Persian looked about for anyone not enraptured by the Princess. If the business of this ball was fishing for fiancés and an uninvited interloper was raiding the stock, the fleet who held rights in these waters would be out of sorts. The Countess Joséphine had not made an entrance, but the Persian knew she would be watching. Erik was not the city's only addict of secret panels, two-way mirrors, listening tubes and portraits with removable eyes. Any descendant of the mountebank Cagliostro would be mistress of such matters. The single exposed eye of the snuffling Man in the Moon glistened like a lens.
Irene Adler could be relied upon to glance at a crowd of gentlemen and single out the most distinguished victims – taking into account inherited or acquired wealth, ancient or modern title, achievements on the field of battle or in the arts, and degree of commitment to their current marital state. At a masquerade where everyone was dressed up as what they were not, she could spot a Crown Prince through a throng of mere Viscounts and chart a course which would lead inevitably to taking the prize. Within minutes, she had dismissed the also-rans and narrowed the field down to the three men in the company worth bothering with.
The choice picks were Count Rouboff, the Russian military attaché(which is to say, spy) and a cousin of the Tsar; Baron Maupertuis, the Belgian colossus of copper (and other base metals); and 'Black' Michael Elphberg, Duke of Strelsau, second son of the King of Ruritania (a mere unmarried half-brother's death or disgrace away from succession to the crown). Any or all of these might be candidates for the Marriage Club, though only the Baron was elderly.
Count Rouboff asked the Princess to demonstrate the dancing style of far-off Kalabar, and Irene obliged with a shimmy she had learned as warm-up for a snake-oil salesman in the Wild West. As a well-developed thirteen-year-old, her tour with a medicine show had been her first attempt at escape from New Jersey. Of course, the moves that dried mouths and stirred vitals in Tombstone, Cheyenne and No Name City were still effective in Paris, though the crowds were cleaner and, on the whole, had more of their original teeth. Some women simply gave up, collected their wraps, and went home in huffs, leaving behind befuddled gentlemen who would find domestic lives difficult for the next week or so. Others took careful note of Irene's steps, and resolved to learn them.
A five-piece orchestra provided ever more frenzied accompaniment in what they must have fondly imagined was the style of far-off Kalabar. The musicians were dressed as a strange breed of clown, with ridiculously stack-heeled boots, lightning-pattern leotards immodestly padded with rolled-up handkerchiefs and cut low to reveal thick thatches of chest hair (not entirely natural), faces painted with celestial maps so eyes and mouths opened disturbingly in purple moons or stars, and shocks of bright orange hair teased up into jagged peaks. The band made a lot of noise, and even more fuss – sticking out gargoyle tongues, making obscene advances to their sparkle-patterned instruments, capering grotesquely like dressed-up apes with their rumps on fire.
Irene began to unwind the interlocking scarves that constituted her sari, wrapping them around admirers' necks, brushing the trail-ends across their faces to raise their colour. The Khasi of Kalabar, suspecting this might go too far, was on the point of stepping in to reprimand his 'daughter' when the Princess was flanked.
Two pretty girls, similar enough in face and figure to be taken for sisters, assumed positions either side of Irene, clicked fingers, and fell in step, mimicking exactly her dance moves. A ripple of applause came from those who supposed the Countess had brought in a choreographer. A frown of surprise briefly passed across Irene's tinted forehead. She left off the Salome business, concentrating on energetic, elaborate footwork, with snake-moves in her hips and back. Out West, the crowd would have hauled out their Colt 45s and blasted the ceiling. The sisters, however, were not thrown. They perfectly matched her, not even seeming to follow a lead.
The Persian considered the bland, shiny faces of the girls. They showed no emotion, no exertion, scarcely even any interest. Irene was, in polite terms, 'glowing' – and thus in danger of sweating through her betelnut make-up. The caste mark on her forehead looked like an angry bullet-hole. It was harder and harder for her to keep up with the dance.
Everyone in the room was watching this trio.
The band were murdering '
Ah! Je ris de me voir si belle en ce miroir
' – the 'Jewel Song' from Faust
. Carlotta's signature number, as it happens. One of the clowns sang like a castrato, inventing new lyrics in double Dutch. If he tried that within earshot of a certain Phantom, he'd find himself wearing a chandelier for a hat. The Gounod opera was a favourite with Erik.
Irene made a tiny misstep, and lost her lead. Now, she had to follow, to mimic, to copy – and the terpsichorean sisters began to execute a series of balletic leaps, glides and stretches which were too much for the New Jersey Apsara. Her bare foot slid, and she had to be caught by a nobody – her former admirers were now enslaved by the sisters.
For a moment, it seemed there would be a problem – three swains, two dancers – but Irene was instantly replaced by a third girl, darker haired but sharing the family resemblance. The debutante locked at once into the dance, and the three tiny, strong girls performed like prima ballerinas prevailed upon to share a leading role. Now there was a sister apiece, if sisters they were, for the Count, the Baron and the Duke.
The Princess was helped, limping, out of the circle by her rescuer, Basil – a homosexual English painter with only academic interest in the female form. Even he deserted her as soon as she was dumped on a couch, and was drawn back to the circle around the dancing girls.
'They ain't human,' the Princess said – through angry tears – to the Khasi.
The performance concluded with a tableau as the darker girl was held high, pose perfect. Thunderous applause resounded. The girls' pleasant smiles did not broaden.
'It must be mesmerism,' said Irene. 'Trilby's old tutor is probably behind it. Svengali. He put her to sleep with a swinging bauble and fixed her croak so she came out with the purest voice in Europe. Those witches have had the same treatment, only for dancing.'
Irene stood up, putting weight on her foot. Her ankle was not turned or sprained. Only her dignity was really damaged.
'The patsies are lost,' she told the Persian. 'While no one's watching, let's sneak out. There must be something on this tub to give the game away.'
He nodded concurrence.