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photographs – they had photographs of him, as if he were a film star! – and tolerated their warm hands touching his sleeves. Some even reached up to stroke his hair.
    A member of the theatre staff appeared at his shoulder and chided the crowd, asking them please to stand back and wait their turn. Emil brushed him off.
    “Ladies, ignore this old spoilsport,” he called cheerfully. “I have ink in my pen for everyone.”
    Expressions of shocked delight among the older females made him aware of a
double entendre
he hadn’t quite intended… but what the hell. He grinned with them, unable to suppress his amusement. A cloud of mingled perfume and soap, beginning to sour on overheated bodies, threatened to suffocate him. He kissed every hand presented to him, every powdered cheek…
    A black limousine slid past. Inside, he glimpsed Madame Lenoir’s face looking out at him with a cool, amused smile. Half the crowd turned and rushed after her, calling out her name. Surrounded by bouquets of lilies and white roses, she waved like royalty as she disappeared into the night.
    Around him, the press of women sighed with bliss and love. Suddenly Emil began to lose his nerve, wondering what he’d started. Then someone pulled out several strands of his hair. The sting of pain made him jump. More than pain, the sheer brazenness of the action shook him. He stepped back, palms raised to say,
Enough
.
    A handful of backstage staff came to his rescue, easing him from the crowd’s grip and inside the building. Plaintive voices followed him, fading as the heavy wooden door shut. “
Emil, Emil, we love you!
”
    Emil stood in the sudden quiet of a brick corridor. His assistant Thierry – a fortyish, dour Frenchman who took care of his mundane needs – said, “Sir, we’re bringing your car around to a different entrance so we can deliver you to the hotel without any more fuss.”
    Emil barely heard him. The wave of adoration had been unprecedented, terrifying… but gods, so exhilarating! He could spare a few strands of his thick golden hair, after all. He threw back his head, took a deep breath.
    “Actually, Thierry, I rather enjoyed the fuss.”
    “Oh, who would not, sir?” Thierry said drily. “But, perhaps a little discretion next time? You know Madame does not care for… too much display.”
    Emil only laughed. He ran the length of the corridor, leaping in a high
grande jeté
as he went.
    * * *
    “So, you have admirers,” said Violette.
    They stood together at the rail of an ocean liner, ready to set sail for Europe. Well-wishers and photographers lined the quay. Violette had ordered all her dancers, musicians and staff on deck to wave farewell under the Statue of Liberty’s serene gaze. Their departure would be shown on newsreels in every cinema across the States within a few days.
    “Admirers, madame?” he said, unsure whether she was teasing or scolding.
    “Yes, I am addressing you, Emil. Your devotees impressed everyone by their sheer number.” She looked stern, which was nothing unusual: she could make her face an ice-mask that struck terror into the bravest heart.
    Emil reddened. “No, no, madame, they were there for you, for the whole company.”
    Violette’s mouth relaxed. “Dear, I am teasing you. Did you think I was jealous?”
    “Of course not. I’d never presume to receive a hundredth, a thousandth part of the admiration that you have earned… but still…”
    “It’s nice to be appreciated.” She raised a gloved hand to wave as the ship slid away from its moorings. “Don’t be modest, Emil. You’ve made a great impression.”
    “It was a shock, if I’m honest, to find so many people…”
    “Swooning as if you were a matinee idol?”
    He gripped the rail, braced for a reprimand. “Forgive me if I embarrassed you.”
    “How did you embarrass me?”
    “Perhaps I should not have been so… available. But…”
    “It’s all right. You’re young, and this is very new and exciting.” She