“Now what do we do?” demanded Moncharmin of the ex-managers, twisting his hat in his hands with anxiety.
“Surely there’s an understudy,” said Richard.
Poligny actually laughed. “You don’t seem to have learned much about Carlotta Torres in the few minutes you were in contact with her, gentlemen—Carlotta would rather die than permit an understudy to even think of performing her role.”
“Well then what do we do?” insisted Richard.
Poligny smiled and fingered the unlit cigar in his hand, seeming quite unconcerned. “Welcome to show business, gentlemen.” He turned his back on the panicking managers and strolled towards the wings. “It’s your problem now,” he called over his shoulder.
“Oh dear,” whispered Debienne apologetically. “I’m very, very sorry that your tenure of the Garnier had to begin with such a frightful problem.”
“Just tell us what to do,” Richard said tensely.
“You must secure another comparable singer at once, gentlemen, or refund the seats of the opening night—”
“A—a full house!” choked Moncharmin. He doesn’t look like he’ll be able to handle the stress of his managerial duties, thought Erik, noting the red color of his face and the sweat forming on his forehead.
Debienne nodded uncomfortably. “I—I believe that Adelina Patti is in town.”
Erik looked at Christine, hoping that she would take the opportunity he had made for her. But she stood as still as the rest of the cast, listening to the managers speak.
“She is very good,” said Moncharmin, looking hopefully at Richard.
“It doesn’t matter how good she is,” Richard snapped. “We need someone who already knows the lines!”
“I—I know the lines!”
The stage as a whole turned to stare at Christine, who looked nervous under the pressure of so many startled eyes.
“You—you’re a chorus girl, is that right, mademoiselle?” asked Richard, rather skeptically.
“Yes,” she said, glancing at her feet ashamedly. “But I’ve been learning from a great teacher!” Erik grinned in spite of himself.
“Who might that be, mademoiselle?” Richard asked her.
Even from such a great height, Erik could clearly see the blush that rose to her cheeks. “His name?” she repeated, obviously unsure of how to reply. Strange, thought Erik, that the Angel of Music doesn’t have a name.
Richard’s mustache twitched in annoyance. “Yes, girl—his name.”
“M-monsieur…ah…François…le Chatelier,” Christine lied.
Richard and Moncharmin glanced at each other. “I’ve never heard of him,” declared Richard.
“Neither have I,” his partner agreed.
Christine shrugged and treated them to her most dazzling smile. “Well, he isn’t very well-known, sir, but he’s very good just the same.”
She’s a fairly good liar, observed Erik, wondering if such a trait was good or bad. It had certainly been useful just now.
“Very well,” said Moncharmin, believing her without a thought. He turned to Debienne and inquired, “Is there a suitable aria that the mademoiselle might sing for us from Faust?”
Debienne mopped the sweat from his forehead with a rather dingy handkerchief, looking strained, and looked at Mercier for direction.
Mercier looked at Christine uneasily, obviously recalling her disaster of “Je Ris.”“Yes…‘Roi de Thulé,’” he answered at last. “In Act Three. Do you know it, mademoiselle?”
Erik watched with mild interest as Christine nodded; the girl looked quite astonished. He had taught her all of Marguerite’s arias from Faust for just this reason, but she didn’t know that—she would probably attribute it to “divine intervention.” Christine’s sudden petulance had been a temporary setback, nothing more. Her voice had vastly improved in the past two weeks, and she wouldn’t make another mistake like “Je Ris.” Now that she was listening to him again, everything was going according to plan. All of Paris would soon see how divine Christine’s voice was—and they would never waste a thought on Carlotta again.
“Very well then,” said Mercier, turning to the correct page of music and raising his baton. The orchestra began with the first few, soft notes of “Roi de Thulé,” and Christine nervously stepped forward.
“I don’t believe this,” muttered Richard.
“Well,” replied Moncharmin offhandedly, “it will only take a few minutes. And she’s quite pretty.”
But when Christine began to sing, all doubt instantly melted away. Her voice was so pure, so innocent and glorious, that it was as if an angel were singing. It soared higher and higher, reaching the rafters with pure, divine notes that seemed to make the large auditorium glow in the sublimity of her brilliant voice. The chorus girls stopped whispering and giggling; everyone on the stage, including the managers, who had been so skeptical moments before, stood awed and silent, content to let her perfect notes and sensuous vibrato melt away their anger and their uncertainties and carry them far beyond Paris and into the very heavens. Erik listened from above, as enthralled as the rest of the witnesses of this dramatic change. His heart was filled with pride, and a happiness that erased everything but his darling protégé from his mind.
Chapitre Cing: Le Vicomte de Chagny
Erik hurried up the steps to the trick mirror, trying to fold the two dresses he was carrying as he went. Christine was coming back to her dressing room, and he couldn’t risk being caught. He hadn’t even had time to grab his mask off the piano (which he had taken off to examine the gowns one final time in the dim light) in his rush to reach the room before her. He couldn’t afford for anything to be wrong with the gowns—Christine’s performance was tonight, and she needed appropriate costume.
He’d only been able to have two costumes made; he had asked Antoinette Giry to find a good tailor to make a gown for the prison scene and one for the rest of the opera (she had Christine’s measurements already for chorus costumes; it was becoming quite useful to have the Ballet Mistress as a long-time friend, albeit a distant one. He wished now that he had allowed her closer to his heart during his long years at the opera house—if he had, he wouldn’t feel as guilty coming to her for help now). For something so specific—the incredibly outdated fashion of a sixteenth century German noblewoman—it had been quite costly, even though the tailor was of the middle class. Though Erik had never made a dress in his life, he had been forced to ransack the Garnier’s supply of fabrics to make alterations to the gowns after he’d gotten them back; the incompetent tailor had seen fit to ignore Antoinette’s instructions and had given the beautiful dress short sleeves, as modern fashion dictated for evening gowns, instead of the long sleeves of the sixteenth century. Erik’s sewing skills were a little rusty—he usually had Darrius (his only other friend in the world, who hailed from Persia) secure clothes for him from his own tailor—but he had managed it.
He wondered if Antoinette knew that he was acting as Christine’s mentor. If she did, she probably wouldn’t say anything; she had always given him the distance he needed. He supposed that he was rather glad of it, in a way; the last thing he needed was criticism concerning the mess of lies he had managed to tangle himself up in.
Erik flipped the switch and the mirror pulled away. He didn’t wait for it to be fully out of his way before darting through the frame and placing the two dresses on Christine’s vanity table. In doing so, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the vanity’s mirror. With a cold frown, he averted his eyes. He didn’t need any reminders of how disfigured he was.
When he had left the stage, Richard and Moncharmin had been telling Christine that she would most certainly be taking Carlotta’s place. By now they would have realized that Carlotta’s costumes would not fit their new diva and would have instructed her to find something suitable among her own clothing—of which, of course, there was nothing. He liked Christine’s dresses—they were simple, well-made—but they were not fitting for the performance.
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br /> As he stepped back from the table, he realized that, among all the clutter on the vanity, it was doubtful Christine would ever notice the two foreign parcels. Perhaps he should hang them in her closet. No, her closet was just as utterly chaotic as the rest of the room. As the Angel, he would have to instruct her that neatness was a virtue. (Not that he practiced it much himself; his collection of rooms below played host to mountains of music books and instruments.) Blast it, where should he put them…?
The sharp sound of a turning doorknob echoed in the silent room—it was Christine! Oh God, if she saw his face—!
He snatched the dresses off the vanity and set them hastily on a stool before racing back to the safety of the mirror.
As Christine opened the door to her dressing room, completely preoccupied, she didn’t wonder what the strange “click” was that came from the direction of the mirror. The old opera house was always creaking. And besides, she had far more important issues to worry about—what was she going to do? At first she had been thrilled that the managers had agreed to let her play Marguerite. She attributed most of this praise to her own hard work and talent, but the role Fate had played—injuring Carlotta and ensuring that she knew Marguerite’s arias—suggested the Angel’s interference. In any event, that wasn’t the important thing right now.
Carlotta had no less than fifteen gowns for this opera, each one costing a king’s ransom in silks and pearls. Unfortunately, the diva’s sumptuous figure was far from Christine’s thin, willowy one. It would be impossible to take in the garments to such an extent if given a week—but the performance was this very night! The new managers had told her, after a heated argument with the head seamstress, that she’d just have to wear something she already had, whether it fit the opera or not. Christine, thinking of the few worn dresses she owned, had given up all hope of finding a solution.
Angrily, she slammed the door behind her and stomped over to her small, dingy closet, throwing out all the boxes, food trays, knick-knacks, and other clutter. When she finally unearthed the five pathetic dresses she had, she examined each and threw them to the floor in disgust. They were all far too plain for Christine Daaé, lead soprano of Faust! It was so unfair! Why couldn’t Mamma have parted with a little more money to make her dresses less plain?
A small voice in her mind whispered that Mamma made very little money as a seamstress, and Christine herself made even less; they couldn’t afford sumptuous wardrobes, and the dresses Mamma had made for her were perfectly acceptable. Christine did not want to listen to this line of reasoning, however, so she shut it out. It was still unfair, no matter what!
Furiously, she kicked the closet door and sat down in a huff on the stool in front of her vanity. She realized immediately that she was sitting on something, and, still raging, she pulled it out from under her.
To her great surprise, the offending parcel happened to be a dress. It was a full, flowing gown, soft white damask with a teasing hint of pink where the shadows hit it. The sleeves were puffed and full at the shoulders, and the fabric was very fine, but other than that, it was a very simple design. It was far from Carlotta’s dresses, which took an entire jewelry shop to decorate, but it was acceptable. Christine immediately tried it on and was surprised to find that it fit her perfectly.
Admiring the mysterious dress in one of her mirrors, she saw something in the reflection that she did not recognize. Turning around, she saw that it was another dress, previously hidden under the first. She lost no time in examining it and was severely disappointed in her findings. It was dull grey and completely unadorned, with a frayed length of rope for a belt. It was even uglier than the dresses in her closet. She threw it in the wastebasket, absolutely disgusted.
A moment later she was scrambling to fetch it out again, having realized what it must be for: the prison scene at the end of the opera!
But who had sent them? Someone who knew the opera, obviously, and the fact that she would be performing in it. But most mysterious of all was the fact that they were both exactly her size.
She was still puzzling over it when she heard a familiar voice echo through the room. “Are you ready, Christine?” The Angel’s voice seemed, for a moment, a little uncollected and out of breath. But she must have imagined it, for his next words were spoken with his usual kind, composed air: “The performance starts in less than half an hour.”
“Yes,” she told the Angel, even though she had yet to arrange her hair or reapply her stage makeup. “But where did these come from?” She gestured to the dress in her hand and the one she was wearing.
“I couldn’t have you performing your first starring role without appropriate costume, my dear. They are a bit simpler than they could have been, perhaps, but you must understand, I do not have much practice in dressmaking. But still, simplicity is purer than coarse vanity, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Then—then you made them?”
There was a slight pause. “I had help from the other angels,” he said at last.
For a moment her anger was revived; if it was angels who had made them, then why hadn’t they woven a gown out of silvery star dust, or out of the golden rays of the mane of Skinfaxi, the horse that raced Day’s shining chariot across the sky? Or the silvery light of the horse of Day’s sister, Night? Didn’t the Angel think she was good enough for something like that? It was so unfair!
But then she realized how many uncomfortable questions it would raise if she walked onstage wearing a gown from the light of a celestial body. She would not be able to give any reasonable explanation for such an impossible garment, no matter how hard she tried. Christine’s shoulders sagged in embarrassed defeat. She had learned already that the Angel always knew best, and this case was no exception.
“Did you cause Carlotta’s absence, too?” she asked, changing the subject. “Oooh! Did you steal her voice away?”
A momentary silence gave her the answer, despite his words: “That wouldn’t be very Christian of me, would it?”
“Well, no…. But it was in a good cause.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” he replied cryptically.
Christine shrugged again and dismissed it. It was obvious that this wonderful opportunity was entirely his doing. “While you’re doing marvelous things, can you fix my ankle? I can barely stand, let alone walk. I don’t know how I’ll manage to make it through the entire performance.”
“I’m so sorry, my dear, is your ankle still hurting you?”
“Abominably,” she said, her voice sour. “Curse that blasted Carlotta.”
“Are you applying ice and exercising it as I instructed you?”
“You couldn’t just snap your fingers and heal it?”
“Magic is inadvisable concerning such small troubles.”
“Fine, fine,” she sighed, moving to search her vanity drawers for a suitable necklace to go with the beautiful pink gown. “I used the ice, and that helped, but moving my ankle hurts far too much to even contemplate exercise.”
“Small exercises will reduce the swelling and stiffness, Christine.”
She held a faux-diamond collar up to the light for inspection. “Well, it’s too late now.” Some of the glass gems were cracked, and the clasp was broken. Absolutely intolerable for the future diva of the Garnier. She would have to sneak into Carlotta’s dressing room and filch something more befitting of her impending station. “How do you know so much, anyway?”
“I’ve perused the occasional book of medicine.”
“You’re supposed to be an Angel of Music.”
“It’s never advisable to have one’s entire store of knowledge constituted in a single sphere, my dear.”
“Mm-hmm.” She shrugged and stepped behind her screen to change. Her thoughts turned to the performance, and within moments, she had forgotten all about her ankle and cursing Carlotta.
“This is the most wonderful day of my entire life!” she chattered happily, giving little heed to what she was saying. Surely Raoul would ask to meet the bea
utiful star of the opera! “I can’t wait for the performance!”
“Yes,” agreed the Angel. “It should start an illustrious career for you. Within no time at all the new managers will have you replace Carlotta permanently. After this performance, if we are fortunate.”
“Oh yes, well, that too.” She paused, drawing in a large breath to shrink her waist while she struggled to lace her corset as tightly as possible. “Stupid corset,” she muttered.
Apparently the Angel could hear very well, for he said, rather unhappily, “Christine, you shouldn’t wear that.”
She gasped, yanking the laces tighter. “Of course I should—a diva must be beautiful!”
“But it’s very damaging for your body. It’s crushing your organs.”
“I don’t care. I want to be as beautiful as is humanly possible!”
“You already are.” His voice sounded oddly husky as he said it, but she was too busy to notice.
“You don’t suppose you could use some heavenly magic to make me fit into this thing?”
“No, I don’t suppose I could.”
She gave the laces one final jerk and gasped in horror as one broke. “Blast it to Niflheim!” she screamed, throwing it to the floor. “The world hates me!” she shrieked, violently stomping on it. “Why, why would it choose to break now, of all times?! It’s not fair! Why do I have to be so poor? Why can’t I afford nice things?” She fell to the floor and began sobbing wildly.
“Christine, Christine,” the Angel pleaded, “please don’t cry! It’s all right—sixteenth century fashion did not require corsets. You are doing the opera a service not to wear one.”
She sniffed and wiped the tears out of her eyes. “I am?”
“Yes.”
“But I won’t be as beautiful!”
“Christine, you are so beautiful that no one could possibly find any fault with your appearance, corset or no.”
“Really?”
“Yes!”
She stood, feeling a little better, and started to put on the costume. “Well, okay. I hope you’re right.”
A few moments later she stepped out from behind the screen and seated herself at her vanity to retouch her eye shadow. Unlike all the other chorus girls, she was already wearing her stage makeup, supplied by Madame Giry; it was the only makeup she owned, so she wore it all the time as a surrogate for normal cosmetics. It wouldn’t do to have anyone suspect she was too impoverished to purchase any.
Costumes and Filigree: A Novel of the Phantom of the Opera Page 5
