The impromptu, Parisian melody sings in my heart through Act I rehearsal. It is refreshing to see the Russian Grand Duchess looking small and innocent for once; she is out of her element sitting alone among a mass of empty theatre seats. Quite the contrast to the racetrack, with her throng of devoted adulators quarrelling over who gets to light her cigarette. I imagine the sense of lonesomeness is one she makes great effort to avoid at all costs. Our variety spectacle is a full technical and dress rehearsal, for tomorrow we open. M Chevalier's return visit home after establishing himself in Hollywood is honoured by a rather large, painted photograph of his likeness on the window cards out front, of which he makes every effort to remind me. As songwriter and fellow actor, I get double-billing, of which I make every effort to remind him. During intermission, after the gallic rantings and ravings of directors, producers, and managers, Maurice catches sight of Kate down center and I vainly attempt to introduce them. Doffing his straw boater, he puts on his characteristic charm and sing-song banter. I can't get a word in edgewise, but they appear to hit it off rather well without my help. "Psst! Simon!" I hear from backstage. When I leave Kate's seat, Maurice has her hand in his, rambling off nonsensical French phrases concerning the moon and her eyes. Deplorable. Backstage I find sweaty, red-faced Edouard looking somewhat scandalised. "What is it, Edouard?" "You've a visitor in your dressing room," he says with his bushy eyebrows sitting high on his wrinkled forehead. He needn't say more. I know perfectly well who it is. When I enter, I find Mlle Joséphine Baker in her gossamer dressing gown, a bottle of champagne in one hand and two empty glasses in the other. "Shall we celebrate, mon amant?" The long, lithe comedienne is stunning to behold. Her mocha complexion is a dusky, svelte silhouette through her sheer, lavender negligee. Abandoning bottle and glasses on a prop table, Josie tugs loose my white tie and closes her mouth upon mine. "Er, perhaps this is unwise," my conscience voices aloud despite emphatic protests from my libido. "What are you afraid of?" Josie asks innocently. "Your rather fierce protector," I admit, feebly resisting Josie's caresses. She laughs. "Chiquita wouldn't hurt a fly, Simon. You know that." Josie now busies herself with filling the two champagne glasses. "No, not the cheetah," I rush, keeping an eye upon the dressing room door. "I mean that Sicilian Count of yours, one of our backers." Josie's expression remains fixed in giddy defiance of authority; I'm obviously not getting through. "A man who," I continue, this time raising my voice slightly, "if he knew what we were up to, would as like as not pull his investment and leave us without a show!" Josie finesses a full champagne glass into my hand and winks. "Oh, Peppy's not as bad as all that. He's quite open-minded, you know, and never interferes in my little...indulgences." I give a sigh of resignation. Clink.