by Colette Gale
Her fingers were cold and moist, and they sought back behind her, brushing over the top of his head as her left hand had done…and then slid down over his temples, and touched something smooth and unexpected where his forehead would be—lifeless, cool, and yielding. Not flesh, not hair—
He shifted away from her touch, grabbing her hands and pulling them down behind her, between them, trapping them at the base of her spine, where the folds of his cloak billowed about. “Your boldness surprises me, Christine.”
“Why can I not see you?”
“When it is time.” Something hot and warm, faintly moist, touched her neck and sent shivers down to the base of her belly; she tried to turn toward him, but his hands gripped her wrists too tightly. “When it is time,” he repeated, his mouth against her delicate shoulder. “Now…you sing for me tonight. And if you please me, you shall be rewarded with my devotion.”
And then he was gone.
The lights fluttered back to life, and Christine was alone in her room. The only sign of what had occurred was the streak of fingerprints on the mirror…and a glistening trail of moisture along her neck.
~*~
The sea of faces, the heat from the hooded gas lamps at the edge of the stage, the strange constriction of the heavy costume…the blur of light and sound and the deep breaths that she needed to take…the mosaic of sensations swam in Christine’s mind as she sang. She felt the music tear from her body as if released by some pent-up energy. She heard the reverberation as the clear, high notes swelled and filled the stage alcove. And then she drew in her last breath and expelled the last note, and the sea of rapt faces turned into a mass of thunderous applause, cheers, shouts.
L'Ange de Musique would be pleased.
And over the shouts and whistles, she heard it, deep in her heart… “Brava…bravissima…”
And in the wings of the stage, she saw Madame Giry, nodding and beaming with clear, studying eyes.
Christine was left in the midst of the stage to make a careful curtsy in her heavy, formfitting gown, over and over. Flowers, gloves, even hats, were tossed onstage at her feet.
~*~
From the box in which they were sitting, the Comte and Vicomte de Chagny watched Christine Daaé’s bowed head as she made her third curtsy. Still the crowd roared and applauded.
“Quite a lovely woman. Very lush,” mused Philippe, the comte, settling back in his seat. “It is no wonder the dancer La Sorelli never cared to introduce her to me during our attachment. Miss Daaé is her name? I wonder where she came from and how long she has been here. I have never seen her in the dancers’ lounge, nor in the singers’ lounge. I wonder where she has been hiding.”
“Her father died some years ago,” replied Raoul, his younger brother. “I do not know how long she has been here at the Opera House. I only learned she was here this week. I have not spoken with her in years.”
“So it is no wonder that you insisted that you would attend tonight, without your regular companion of Mademoiselle Le Rochet.”
Philippe noticed that Raoul had not taken his eyesfrom the dark-haired figure below. “I met Miss Daaé at the sea near Perros-Guirec some years ago. Do you recall that summer? You were there too, that first day I met her and her father.”
“I am sure I would not forget such a lovely form if I had seen it before.” No, indeed. He was not accustomed to passing by such lovely womanhood without finding a way to sample it. And an actress, of course, would be simple and easy for the picking…despite the growing strength of the bourgeois, who believed that with the Third Republic and the rise of their class, the actresses had miraculously become modest and moral.
A laughable assumption.
“We were younger then. She was but a girl. I saved her scarf from being blown away by the surf—oh, look at her! She looks as though she might faint!” Raoul stood from his seat as if to rush to her side.
Philippe grabbed his arm and pulled him back. “Sit, dear brother. It is not fitting for a Chagny to make a fool of himself over a singer or dancer, even one as beautiful and gifted as she. And see, the others have caught her. She is not about to crumple to the floor in front of an entire opera house without someone else noticing.” Indeed, several of the dancers had rushed to her side and caught her as she began to sag. Her face did look pale. Philippe turned and considered Raoul thoughtfully. “You appear quite taken with her.”
“I’ve never met a more lovely, endearing woman. It was an unforgettable summer, and I spent a great deal of time with them. You were too busy with your own affairs to notice. I met her father, a great violinist, who would play for us…and she would sing. Only passably then, but with great promise. She sings more beautifully now than she ever has. Before Monsieur Daaé died, he would tell us wonderful stories about the Angel of Music and Little Lotte…tales from Sweden, where they were from. He never came to love it here in France, and often told us stories from their homeland, for which he was strongly homesick.” Raoul seemed lost in his memories, a fact that greatly annoyed Philippe, who preferred to live for the moment.
Philippe stood. “Then I would imagine you must hasten to congratulate Miss Daaé on her lovely performance. She will be delighted to renew your acquaintance, whilst I make my way to the dancers’ lounge, where La Sorelli is waiting to renew mine.” A smile played about his lips. This could be quite interesting, Philippe thought.
~*~
When at last she came offstage, Christine was surrounded by the girls of the ballet corps, of which she had been a member until just this afternoon. Even if her new role was only temporary, the entire day had been like a dream. The girls squealed and clapped and bore her like a hero in their midst back to her dressing room, for what she had accomplished was in the heart of every one of them as well. Still light-headed from her experience, her fingers trembling and her knees weak, Christine nevertheless felt as though she could be no happier. She’d sung perfectly, clear and true, dressed in the heavy, gorgeous gown that looked as though it belonged to a queen. The applause had been for her, and her alone. The enraptured faces, rows after rows of them, had been in her honor.
It was as if she’d traveled back in time to the moment when as a very young child, she’d seen the beautiful lady…dressed in a glittering golden gown, seeded with pearls and rubies, her honey-colored hair coiffed in whorls and braids and little puffs around her ears, with more jewels and slender golden chains woven throughout…and she, little Christine, gazed up at her in adoration.
She would never forget that beautiful woman opening her lovely pink lips, so soft and plump and shiny, and the incredible sound that came from them. She remembered how her voice made Christine’s little heart expand in her chest, and how she wanted to touch the lady’s skirt where its scalloped hem brushed the stage directly in front of her eyes. How, looking up in awe, she had wanted to be up there herself, like a splendid bird, capable of making such sweet, pure sounds, and looking like a faery princess.
And she was certain that standing on the stage, in the midst of all the adoration, garbed as richly as a queen, the woman was happy. Joyous. Loved. She had to be. One could not be that beautiful and that adored and not be happy and secure.
Eventually, young Christine somehow convinced herself that the beautiful woman was really her mother, who had died when she was five. She used the memory as a talisman, as an aspiration and an escape from a life that was as colorless and bland as the woman’s gown was brilliant and warm.
Her lonely life, spent with her father, who still swam in his own grief for the loss of his wife, had few pleasures. Master Daaé was a famous violinist who traveled and took Christine with him everywhere; thus, she had no home, nor friends, and merely saw city after city from coaches and small hotel rooms. It was not until that long-ago summer by the sea at Perros-Guirec that her father decided to stay in one place. But that was years after Christine had seen, and fallen in love with, the beautiful lady.
And tonight, with shaking knees and churning belly, s
he’d become that beautiful lady of her dreams.
And now all would be well. She would be happy and loved and safe.
Now, as Christine reached her dressing room, a deep, masculine voice penetrated the high-pitched tones of her girlish companions. “Miss Daaé?”
The voice, not the disembodied one of her ange, but an earthly one, was close behind her and drew Christine from the task of unlocking the door of her room.
As she turned, his name came to her ears, hissed in the undertow of voices from the excited girls…“The Vicomte de Chagny! It is he! The new patron's brother!”
She turned and saw him, recognition following immediately. “Raoul!” she exclaimed without thinking, for he was a friend from her childhood, one whom she’d come to know for a short, happy time during that summer by the sea.
How handsome he had grown, how tall and chiseled and elegant he was, from his slender fingers to his small, clipped mustache. His long blond hair, clubbed at the back of his neck, gleamed golden and tawny in the light. Clear blue eyes smiled at her, taking her back to those days when they’d played together and listened to her father’s stories about the Angel of Music. She recognized that he was wearing a naval uniform and was not surprised, for he’d loved the sea, even all those years ago.
She wondered what Raoul would say if she told him she’d been visited by a true ange, and that he’d been tutoring her for months. And that it was because of his tutoring that she had become the beautiful lady.
He stepped forward and the sea of girls parted before him like he was Moses. He removed the tasseled key from her hand. “Allow me, Miss Daaé.”
He unlocked her dressing room door, sending it open with a flourish. She brushed past him, noticing how the heavy gown dragged against his shiny boots and cuffed jacket.
He closed the door and they were alone.
Lamps glowed, and the shadows that seemed so often to be dramatic were now low and brown, and did not lurk in the corners as they were often wont to do. Flowers had already been brought into her room, and vases rested on every surface—the floor, the dressing table, the tea table, even the sitting stool. Roses, daisies, gillyflowers, lilies…filling the air with their perfume.
“Christine, you were magnificent.” Raoul came to her side, clasping her hand with his and drawing it to his perfect lips.
“Raoul, how lovely to see you again,” she replied, slipping her hand from his and brushing her fingers over his fine cheek. It was warm and smooth.
“You have grown up so. I could not believe it was you, my little Christine, singing like an angel.”
An angel.
Christine stepped back, suddenly nervous. “Raoul, I am no angel.”
But he did not seem to notice her apprehension. “You are, you are, beautiful angel. I shall have to make a point of returning to the opera every night, now that Philippe and I are the patrons and now that you are to be the new star.”
“I hope that I shall see you often,” she replied, and felt a change in the air. It was him. For some reason, she didn’t want him to know about Raoul, that she had an admirer. “Raoul, shall we leave here? I must speak to Messieurs Richard and Moncharmin, and I am hungry, and we have so much to talk about. It has been so many years.”
“Yes, indeed, I would be happy to escort you to dinner.”
She opened the door, and was greeted by a throng of admirers clutching flowers and waiting eagerly. “Oh, my,” she said, pleased and warm, but very, very aware of a barely tangible shift in the room’s mood behind her.
Raoul pushed past her. Blocking the door, as if to keep the others from seeing into the room, or, perhaps, seeing much of Christine, he turned toward her. “I shall bring my carriage around and come back for you shortly. Shall I call someone to help you change?”
“No…no, thank you, Raoul. I shall be able to take care of it myself.”
He closed the door and she was alone.
And then she realized that she wasn’t. “Madame Giry?”
“You did well tonight, Christine. But he will not be pleased if you neglect your rest in favor of social activities.” Madame Giry had moved behind her and was working quickly at the buttons that lined her spine.
The heavy costume fell away, and Madame’s warm hands moved over her shoulders and down her arms to push the silk to the floor. “Take care not to anger him, Christine. His wrath is not to be borne. Are you certain it is wise to go with the vicomte?”
So Christine’s worry that her angel would not be happy to know she already had an admirer was correct. “But…I must eat, madame. And he is nothing but an old friend, and the brother of the new patron. It can only be good for the success of the theater if he wishes to dine with me.”
Madame's face, aged but still beautiful, turned hard with concern. She bent close to Christine's ear, her breath warm and moist, sending prickling shivers along the edge of her neck. “Have a care, Christine, for as his pupil, you have the chance to be great, with or without the favor of the patron’s brother. If you please him, you will be cared for beyond your imagination. If you displease him, his wrath will be immense. He is brilliant and kind, but he is selfish and would not be willing to share you. Note well what I say, Christine. With him as your tutor, you need not worry about finding a protector, as the other girls do.”
Did she mean that her angel would be her protector? Or that he merely wished to be certain that she did not forget about her lessons?
Instead of asking, for Christine felt a strange squiggling feeling in her middle at the thought that he might hear, she twisted the subject. “A protector? Raoul? I do not think he has such an idea in his head. He is only an old friend, pleased to see me again. Nevertheless, I will heed your warning, madame,” Christine replied earnestly. She did not forget that it was her ange who had tutored her to this wondrous night. “It is only a dinner, to celebrate my debut.”
“I hope that you shall remember that, my dear. And it is fitting that you should celebrate. Now, quickly, let us change your clothing and get you prepared for dinner. It must be a short meal, so that you sleep well tonight. Look, I have brought you a gown to wear.”
Surprised, and embarrassed that she hadn’t thought for herself of what she would wear to dinner with a vicomte and the theater managers, Christine turned. “It’s beautiful. Where did it come from?”
It was striking, and very stylish, and nothing like any gown Christine had ever owned, or even seen up close. Certainly the opera costumes were all beautiful and bejeweled and ornate—the better to be seen from the boxes and the stalls—but they were too heavy and fancy to wear in the real world.
“I bullied Tiline into letting you borrow it,” Madame explained. “Her Monsieur Boulan has gifted her with many lovely gowns as of late.”
It was a dinner gown of deep garnet satin trimmed with gold lace that gathered in soft folds at the tops of her arms. The lace made a narrow vee from shoulder to shoulder in front and back, and where the dark red bodice gathered over her breasts, more gold lace hung along its lower edges.
The skirt was nearly as heavy as the costume Christine had been wearing, and fell in generous folds that were gathered up into a bustle at the base of her spine. A wide swath of gold satin draped from each side of the front of the skirt and was fastened over the bustle with a huge bow made from more gold lace festooned with white and red satin roses.
When she saw herself in the mirror, she hardly recognized herself as shy, lonely little Christine Daaé.
“Thank you, madame,” she said as she left the room at last.
Outside of her dressing room, the passageway was empty. Still, shadowed, silent…so unlike what Christine was used to, with the comings and goings of actors and costumiers and musicians, prop hands and stagehands…it was quiet and lonely. As she had been, it seemed, forever.
But now, tonight, she was a star. Everyone wanted to see her, speak to her, be with her. No longer the shy mouse of a girl, she was sought after by a vicomte!Even if he was an old f
riend, he would not have sought her out if he did not wish to see her.
She was no innocent girl. Madame Giry had seen to it that none of her little dancers—called rats de l'opéra for the fact that they often came to the theater young and straggly, and were seen as always being underfoot—were innocent ingenues, though they might appear to be. She instructed them in more than simply ballet. Madame felt each of the young rats was her responsibility, for many of them had chosen the profession over being a schoolmistress or working in manual labor, upon being orphaned or because their family became destitute.
The theater was a profession, Madame told them, that allowed a woman quite a bit of control over her life, including her choice of lover or protector—if she was young and pretty, or at least if she was talented both onstage and in the boudoir. Thus Madame had ensured that none of her charges were waiting to be deflowered and left with nothing to show for it. Her rats were taught how to take advantage, rather than be taken advantage of. She instructed them how to attract and select a good protector who would not be physically cruel in the boudoir and who would otherwise treat them well.
But Christine could not fathom that Raoul—good, handsome, polite Raoul, who had dashed into the surf to retrieve her scarf when it blew away—would dare have the thought of being a protector. It made her warm to even think of it.
Raoul did not fit the image of one. Christine had met the older gentlemen that took care of the two former dancers Tiline and Régina when those two began to have solos of their own and thus attracted attention to themselves. Their protectors had bloated cheeks, were pompous, and had squinting, beady eyesthat seemed always to be looking right through the girls’ costumes—yet they patted the girls on the heads and brought them gifts and trinkets whenever they visited. If one did not look in their eyes, one might think they were no more than a father or favored uncle. But of course, that was not so, and Christine, who had not been a virgin since her sixteenth birthday, recognized all too well that the looks in their eyeswere anything but paternal.
