clapping, yet there was still one more number before the intermission, a singer named Fragson.
Vivianne had never mentioned his name in her many discussions of the stars, but nevertheless the audience had settled down into the clenched hush of excitement which Eve now knew preceded the appearance of a reigning favorite, a performer so established, so beloved that he or she had nothing to expect from the public except worship.
The curtain went up on a dark stage and then a powerful spotlight picked out a single figure; a tall, dark-haired man wearing a dark English clubman’s suit, a high, starched collar, the chain of his gold watch just visible under the knot of his somber tie. He inclined his head unsmilingly at the avalanche of applause that greeted him. As soon as he sat down at the piano and began to play the first notes of Folie , the audience interrupted him with thunderous applause and it wasn’t until he began to sing that they finally became silent. Eve heard the familiar words of Alain’s signature song, “I only dream of her, of her, of her,” in a nightmare in which she understood nothing. Did Alain know that someone named Fragson had stolen his song? How could this be allowed? How could the Olympia present this Fragson when only a few streets away, at the Riviera, Alain was singing the very same songs—the new one she loved so much, Adieu Grenade , and the droll song he’d just learned, La Petite Femme du Métro , and now, dear God, now even Reviens , Alain’s most precious piece of music, the one he always sang at the last, just before Je Connais une Blonde .
She looked about the theater frantically, as if she expected the police to come in and arrest Fragson at any minute, butshe saw only hundreds of faces nodding in delighted recognition as each song was performed, all so well known to them that they needed no announcement. The woman seated next to her knew the words to all the songs by heart, for her lips were moving silently as she sang steadily along with Fragson, Eve realized in cold horror. She forced herself to focus on Fragson as closely as possible, and she realized that he must be many years older than Alain, that he had considerably less hair and considerably more nose and that he sang with an English accent. Otherwise it might have been Alain Marais on the stage of the Olympia.
As soon as the final applause was over and the intermission began, Eve left the theater as quickly as possible, walking home in a trance. Fragson . Fragson, who was a greater attraction than even Polin or Dranem or Chevalier, for she had heard them all now and none of them had aroused the extreme fervor of the audience as he had. Fragson, who sang Alain’s songs. Fragson, who sang in Alain’s style, a style she had never heard anywhere else in the music halls.
Fragson, Fragson—the name filled her mind inescapably, like a drumbeat, until finally Eve had to admit the truth. It was Alain Marais who sang Fragson’s songs, Alain Marais who sang in Fragson’s style, Alain Marais who even dressed like Fragson. She was certain that if she looked in Fragson’s shirts she’d see a Charvet label and if she looked inside his suit jacket she’d see that it had come from Old England.
Fragson’s existence explained everything she had wondered about in silence ever since she and Vivianne had begun to go to the music halls twice a week. It explained why Alain was content to stay in a music hall that she had thought was second-rate, but now realized was no better than third-rate. Fragson’s performance explained why a man with Alain’s splendid voice had never auditioned for one of the great impresarios, for now that Eve’s first shock at the sight of Fragson was lessened, she was forced to admit to herself that he sang with an extraordinary authority. He sang with the powerful presence of a grand seigneur, with a special charm of personality that could never— should never—be imitated. Fragson was the real thing
Vivianne had never mentioned his name in her many discussions of the stars, but nevertheless the audience had settled down into the clenched hush of excitement which Eve now knew preceded the appearance of a reigning favorite, a performer so established, so beloved that he or she had nothing to expect from the public except worship.
The curtain went up on a dark stage and then a powerful spotlight picked out a single figure; a tall, dark-haired man wearing a dark English clubman’s suit, a high, starched collar, the chain of his gold watch just visible under the knot of his somber tie. He inclined his head unsmilingly at the avalanche of applause that greeted him. As soon as he sat down at the piano and began to play the first notes of Folie , the audience interrupted him with thunderous applause and it wasn’t until he began to sing that they finally became silent. Eve heard the familiar words of Alain’s signature song, “I only dream of her, of her, of her,” in a nightmare in which she understood nothing. Did Alain know that someone named Fragson had stolen his song? How could this be allowed? How could the Olympia present this Fragson when only a few streets away, at the Riviera, Alain was singing the very same songs—the new one she loved so much, Adieu Grenade , and the droll song he’d just learned, La Petite Femme du Métro , and now, dear God, now even Reviens , Alain’s most precious piece of music, the one he always sang at the last, just before Je Connais une Blonde .
She looked about the theater frantically, as if she expected the police to come in and arrest Fragson at any minute, butshe saw only hundreds of faces nodding in delighted recognition as each song was performed, all so well known to them that they needed no announcement. The woman seated next to her knew the words to all the songs by heart, for her lips were moving silently as she sang steadily along with Fragson, Eve realized in cold horror. She forced herself to focus on Fragson as closely as possible, and she realized that he must be many years older than Alain, that he had considerably less hair and considerably more nose and that he sang with an English accent. Otherwise it might have been Alain Marais on the stage of the Olympia.
As soon as the final applause was over and the intermission began, Eve left the theater as quickly as possible, walking home in a trance. Fragson . Fragson, who was a greater attraction than even Polin or Dranem or Chevalier, for she had heard them all now and none of them had aroused the extreme fervor of the audience as he had. Fragson, who sang Alain’s songs. Fragson, who sang in Alain’s style, a style she had never heard anywhere else in the music halls.
Fragson, Fragson—the name filled her mind inescapably, like a drumbeat, until finally Eve had to admit the truth. It was Alain Marais who sang Fragson’s songs, Alain Marais who sang in Fragson’s style, Alain Marais who even dressed like Fragson. She was certain that if she looked in Fragson’s shirts she’d see a Charvet label and if she looked inside his suit jacket she’d see that it had come from Old England.
Fragson’s existence explained everything she had wondered about in silence ever since she and Vivianne had begun to go to the music halls twice a week. It explained why Alain was content to stay in a music hall that she had thought was second-rate, but now realized was no better than third-rate. Fragson’s performance explained why a man with Alain’s splendid voice had never auditioned for one of the great impresarios, for now that Eve’s first shock at the sight of Fragson was lessened, she was forced to admit to herself that he sang with an extraordinary authority. He sang with the powerful presence of a grand seigneur, with a special charm of personality that could never— should never—be imitated. Fragson was the real thing
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