Costumes and Filigree: A Novel of the Phantom of the Opera Read online

  Mercier looked stricken. “But—”

  “I can,” she pressed.

  Madame Giry and Monsieur Mercier glanced at each other, their quarrel forgotten. “It can’t hurt,” Madame Giry said slowly.

  Mercier, looking more resigned than interested, picked up his baton. “Very well then, mademoiselle. Which aria do you feel the most comfortable singing?”

  “’Je Ris,’” she replied immediately. The Angel had been teaching it to her, before—well, before she’d yelled at him.

  As the orchestra struck the first chords and the chorus girls took their places, she tried to remember everything he had told her: the gasp at the beginning when Marguerite discovers the jewels and flowers left by Faust should be clearly heard, but not overdone; though the aria starts fairly loud, it crescendos all the way until the end; the especially high note in the chorus is a D, not a C—

  “Mademoiselle,” moaned Mercier, breaking through her thoughts, “you missed the opening line!”

  “Oh—oh yes,” she stammered, blushing. “I’m sorry.”

  “Start over, everyone,” Mercier commanded the orchestra. This time she paid attention and began singing on cue. She performed the first verse without a single flaw, and her confidence swelled. Mercier’s face was full of enchanted surprise, and he nodded to her enthusiastically. Christine decided it was time that everyone heard her new, heavenly voice. Throwing her arms open dramatically, she hit the first note of the second stanza with a magnitude intended to shake the very foundations of the opera house, and—

  She hit the wrong note.

  The dissonance was amplified a hundred-fold by her foolish decision to sing louder than she could control. Violin bows jerked in surprise across the strings, producing a harsh cacophony of squeals. Several of the chorus girls faltered in their pirouettes, and some clapped hands over their ears.

  As the music died, an embarrassed silence overcame the stage. Everyone stared at Christine, their expressions all showing the same, solitary thought: she wasn’t fit to sing. “Could—could I try it again?” she pleaded. “I’m sure that won’t happen—”

  “No, mademoiselle,” Mercier said firmly, “that won’t be necessary. We’ll just have to wait until Carlotta returns.”

  Chapitre Quatre: Les Directeurs Nouveaus

  Christine dipped and weaved, in perfect sync with the rest of the ballet girls, forming a vast semi-circle behind Carlotta, who was singing at the front of the stage. The diva’s voice was loud and powerful, echoing down to the very bowels of the opera house with such brute force that those standing close to her wore pained expressions. Her exaggerated vibrato and heavy Spanish accent clashed with the sweet, innocent character she was supposed to be portraying—but no one dared complain. She was a diva, and to speak out against her was to get oneself fired within a fortnight.

  But at least she’s hitting the right notes, Christine thought miserably. Not like me. Nothing had been more painful than having to tell the Angel of Music that he had been right—she just hadn’t been ready. He had accepted her reluctant apology and assured her that she would be ready soon. That had been two weeks ago. The memory of all those disgusted faces, the hands clapped over tortured ears, hurt her terribly, and she didn’t want to hear Faust performed ever again. The Angel had tactfully suggested that she learn a different song—but he said it was imperative that she learned an aria from Faust. She couldn’t fathom his reasoning, but she accepted it without question. She had no intention of ever disobeying him again.

  Carlotta, as Marguerite, sang even louder as the song reached its crescendo, and the sorrowful words were forgotten amidst the volume of her commanding voice. The chorus girls fell to their feet, playing their part as prisoners within the dank cell; their prop chains hindered their movements, and several girls tripped. Christine herself tripped several times, and she hoped fervently that, when they performed for an audience tonight, they would think it was on purpose—to add to the aura of sorrow and agony of the prison scene, or something like that.

  Suddenly the music stopped, and everyone faltered. Carlotta screeched at the conductor, “What are you doing?!” Receiving no answer, she whirled on the members of the chorus. “Who was it is being doing something wrong?”

  “Calm down, señorita,” pleaded Monsieur Mercier, pointing to the back of the stage with his conductor’s baton. “The managers are here.”

  Everyone turned to see Messieurs Debienne and Poligny leading two distinguished-looking gentlemen onto the stage. It wasn’t any great mystery what they were going to say; the managers had been looking for someone to take over the Garnier for quite some time now. They acted as if it were just a business decision, but Christine had heard some of the chorus girls speculating that dealing with the Phantom had proved to be too much strain. It seemed to Christine that the Phantom’s notes (though she had only heard about a few of them) were more helpful than threatening, suggesting improvements to the performances, and the like. But she wasn’t regularly included in the employee gossip circle—in fact, most of the other girls blatantly ignored her—so she didn’t have the best information.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” began Poligny, the taller and more commanding of the two, “please, if I could have your attention?”

  After a few moments of continued conversation, mostly on the part of the disrespectful stage hands, everyone quieted to listen. Christine considered starting a conversation with Meg, just to defy the man—Poligny had chastised her on more than one occasion for the problems the other chorus girls had with her (so unfair—none of it was her fault), and the almost-ex-manager couldn’t do anything to her now. But then she realized it would probably form a bad impression of her in the minds of the new managers, and kept quiet.

  Poligny continued, “Today is the last day that Monsieur Debienne and myself will be managers of the Garnier—we have just concluded signing the papers, and are pleased to announce that Messieurs Richard and Moncharmin”—he gestured to the two gentlemen standing to his right—“are now the proud owners of the Opera Garnier.”

  A smattering of applause greeted this introduction. Christine could hear several chorus girls whispering things like, “They must be rich!” and “I want the taller one.” Christine shook her head incredulously. To be able to buy an opera house, these men must be wealthy—but they wouldn’t even consider marriage to the likes of ballet rats. On the other hand, she had gathered, from years of living in the opera house, that it was not marriage these girls aspired to, but to be mistresses. She wasn’t exactly sure what that meant; when she’d asked Madame Giry, the woman had just winced and told her kindly, but firmly, that it was an evil thing and to stay away from it. She thought it had something to do with the frequent disappearances of various girls for a few days, sometimes longer, and their triumphant return with a locket, ring, or other expensive bauble. Perhaps noblemen could request private renditions of chorus songs, or something of the sort. She supposed she’d never know—whenever any nobleman tried to speak to her, Madame Giry was there to warn them away.

  The taller one—Poligny hadn’t specified which was which—stepped forward. “And we are honored to announce our new patron, the Comte de Chagny, who unfortunately could not be here but will be attending tonight’s performance—”

  “And so,” interrupted the shorter one, “we are pleased to present his brother, who has agreed to accept the position of co-patron, the Vicomte de Chagny.” He turned, gesturing to a man who walked on stage. Christine’s heart stopped.

  It was Raoul.

  She hadn’t recognized his title at first, but there was no mistaking him. Who else could have such shining, ice-blue eyes and such a charming, cultured smile? His hair was darker now, an even more lustrous blonde than it had been. His suit, cut in the very latest of Parisian fashion, a formal black accented with a cravat and gloves of perfect white, along with his signet ring, bespoke of fabulous wealth. They had been best friends as children. No, they had been more than that—they had bee
n sweethearts. She hadn’t thought about him for years. Perhaps it was the will of Frigg, goddess of passionate lovers—surely it must be divine intervention that they would meet again!

  “My brother and I are honored to support all the arts,” Raoul said cordially, “especially the world-renowned Opera Garnier.” He was so genteel, so courteous! He had been an adorable boy, but he was now a very handsome man. One of her father’s stories of the gods came to her mind—the one about Baldr, the god of beauty, whose hair shone a brighter gold than the sun, and whose proud, unshakable stance put the very mountains to shame….

  Meg was asking her what was wrong, but Christine didn’t hear. She started forward to talk to him, but Carlotta beat her there, motioning imperiously for Monsieur Poligny to introduce her. Poligny obliged, though rather reluctantly, as if he’d wished she hadn’t been there for the new managers to meet. “Vicomte, gentlemen,” he began, “this is Señorita Carlotta Torres, our leading soprano for…five…seasons.” He hesitated over these last words, and Christine suspected he’d suddenly realized just how long the Opera Garnier had been under Carlotta’s thumb. Fortunately, the temperamental diva didn’t notice, as she was too busy smiling and cooing unintelligibly in Spanish. Raoul bowed and kissed her hand. Carlotta curtsied in reply, fluttering her eyelashes flirtatiously and tossing back her magnificent head, letting the golden baubles in her hair catch the light and glitter opulently.

  “An honor,” said Raoul, and it pleased Christine to detect nothing but uninterested politeness in his voice. “But I believe I’m keeping you from your rehearsal. I look forward to being here this evening to share your great triumph of Faust.” He bowed to them all and began to walk off the stage.

  Monsieur Debienne, a short, timid, balding man, stepped forward at this point, twisting the brim of his hat with anxiety—he seemed to hate speaking in front of a crowd—and said, “Mesdames and messieurs—actors, musicians, and fellow…fellow servants of the arts—it has been a great…great pleasure to have worked with you under this roof.” Poligny looked visibly annoyed at this burst of sentiment from his usually-silent partner, but did nothing to stop him from continuing.

  As Debienne spoke of how he would miss the opera house, Christine ignored him completely and waited for Raoul to get close enough to recognize her. As he passed Christine, she stepped forward and began to speak, but he, looking at another chorus girl with upsetting interest, did not notice her.

  “Once more, from the beginning!” called Monsieur Mercier, annoyed at the interruption. Christine dejectedly walked back to her position on stage, feeling immensely sorry for herself. The music began and her body automatically responded, though her mind was elsewhere, reflecting on those glorious blue eyes…eyes that would never look at her, a pathetic chorus girl.

  The new managers walked around the stage, observing the ongoing ballet and eyeing chorus girls and ballet rats with an excess of appreciation. Their eyes lingered on Christine for a moment, and she was so busy trying to smile at them that she accidentally tripped. The taller manager, to Christine’s surprise, seemed rather interested in Meg. Meg was pretty enough, she supposed—petite and blond, with the large, innocent eyes of a little girl—and her costume for the prison scene, though grey and ragged, did not obscure her figure in the least.

  Not once during the ballet did the managers bother to glance at Carlotta, and the diva sang even louder—and therefore more painfully—than usual, but they didn’t notice. She was so distraught that she backed into Christine; swearing in her native tongue, the diva shoved her out of the way.

  Christine fell on her ankle, which twisted painfully. Her pitiful cry went unnoticed. Tears sprang to her eyes, which she furiously tried to subdue—how would it be for Raoul to meet her again like this? Fortunately the ballet ended before she could get up—she wasn’t sure if she could walk. Meg rushed over to her, asking frantically if she was all right.

  “The comte is very excited about tonight’s gala,” one of the new managers told Debienne and Poligny proudly.

  “Yes, we’re good friends,” said Debienne. “He has expressed his extreme delight at his new patronage of the Garnier. He reminded me over luncheon today that this year marks the centennial anniversary of the first performance of Idomeneo, and has suggested that we—goodness, I had already forgotten that I am no longer involved—that you push back Medea so as to perform Idomeneo before the year is out.”

  “A splendid idea,” said the taller manager, and the shorter one voiced his agreement.

  “Time will be short to prepare and present a different opera before the new year, gentlemen, but our employees are quite talented—I’m sure they can pull it off.”

  At this point, Carlotta interrupted their conversation to demand the attention of the managers, both old and new, and remind them of her lofty station.

  Christine stared at the section of curtains that Raoul had disappeared through, feeling horribly cowardly and depressed because she didn’t dare go after him—what if he didn’t recognize her? Or worse, what if he did, and wasn’t interested? Or if he was already married?

  She glanced back at the managers, who were still being dominated by Carlotta’s shrill, accented tirade, and cursed herself for being too much of a coward to go up to them and make her talent known. How was she ever going to become a diva if she didn’t demand it? But her failure in front of the entire cast and crew was still too painfully near, and she couldn’t bear the thought of another such mistake. Please, Angel, she prayed, help me. I can’t do it on my own.

  Erik stood in the shadows above the stage, on one of the precarious walkways built for the stage crew. His expression was one of cold amusement at Debienne and Poligny’s (as well as the new managers’) predicament, and irritation that neither of them were intelligent enough to see what was right under their noses. Who needed Carlotta Torres when you could have Christine Daaé? The only commendable attribute of Carlotta’s voice was how loud it was.

  Carlotta seemed very close to throwing a tantrum to make sure that the new managers understood how important she was, and Erik rubbed his chin thoughtfully. It was amazing that such an arrogant, demanding wench had been allowed to hold on to such an exalted position for so long. Well, it didn’t matter now; whether or not she threw a fit and left, Christine would get her chance to show the managers her talent.

  A rather hassled-looking messenger pushed his way through the crowd of actors, catching Erik’s eye. “I have a parcel for Mademoiselle Torres!” he announced, looking around at all the women on stage.

  “Señorita Torres, Señorita!” Carlotta snapped, stomping a foot in anger. “Address me properly or I will be having you thrown out!”

  “Beg pardon, señorita,” said the man, seeming more annoyed than contrite. “An admirer requested that these be brought to you.” He offered her a very large box, garnished with a hideous, gaudy bow.

  “Ooooooh!” Carlotta cooed, grabbing the box with unnecessary force. “Who is it from?”

  “I have no idea. The man requested that his identity remain secret.” The man bowed in a very businesslike manner and turned to leave. “Good day, señorita. Gentlemen.”

  The diva ripped open the box to reveal a veritable ocean of chocolates. Her eyes narrowed slightly in irritation—she seemed to have been hoping for jewelry—but she selected a piece of nougat nevertheless and popped it into her mouth before shoving the box into the arms of one of her attendants.

  Apparently Carlotta had decided that the managers, both new and old, respected her position, because instead of throwing a fit, as usual, she marched up to Mercier and demanded that he tell the orchestra to play one of her arias from Faust—to impress upon everyone the height of her talent, Erik supposed. As the orchestra sounded the opening notes of “Radiant Angels,” Erik watched silently from above, and waited for her to sing.

  “AAAAANGES PUUUUUUUURS,” Carlotta began, her painful vibrato shaking the rafters beneath Erik’s feet. Her accent mangled the graceful Latin into
something completely unrecognizable, so much that instead of sounding like a dulcet appeal to the angels, the song resembled a war cry. He grimaced and tried to block her out as he waited for the managers to see for themselves that Carlotta wasn’t worth keeping. As soon as he saw Moncharmin glance at Richard in disappointment, he knew that his job was done.

  “AAAAANGES RAAAAAAAAAADIEUX, eeeeerrr-go…ergo…suuu…um—” At this point, Carlotta’s voice, having dwindled from a raging roar to almost the squeak of a mouse, disappeared entirely. She grasped her throat, apparently trying to shriek, and her face turned a dead white as she tried to make a sound.

  “Señorita! Are you all right?” cried Debienne, starting forward.

  No! he could see the diva trying to shout. He wondered how long it would take her to realize that the chocolates were to blame. Erik watched her mouth form several foul Spanish curses against the managers, her attendants, and the opera house in general, before turning his attention to Christine. He hoped she recognized the opportunity he had created for her. The girl glanced up at towards the heavens, grasping the amulet she wore around her neck; if he hadn’t pulled back into the shadows in time, she might have seen him.

  Personal servants of Carlotta’s escorted the diva (still clawing at her throat and turning quite red with rage) across the stage in the direction of the entrance, probably to fetch a doctor. The formula would keep the overbearing star quite silent for the rest of the night—not long, but long enough for Christine to sing Marguerite’s part for the opening performance. It made him very happy that his knowledge of chemistry, which, like the rest of his knowledge, had seemed so worthless, had made him useful to Christine.

  For a moment, Erik wondered if it would have been worth it to take the less-subtle approach and drop a set on the diva instead. It might have kept Carlotta out of Faust permanently. But Christine deserved Christian-like behavior from her Angel, even if it had been the despised Spanish diva who had been hurt. In the end, it didn’t matter; after the managers heard Christine, they would never spare a glance for their old prima donna again.