Erik rubbed his chin, seeming unsure whether to laugh or to scold her. “If fashion is what you’re after, shouldn’t it be curled, then?”
“Yes, yes,” she admitted miserably. “But I realized too late that I don’t have an iron to curl it with.”
“I will procure you an iron, if it will keep your hair out of your eyes. But the absurd whims in vogue with the nobility are not as important as you think. Besides, Ilia would not have modern-day bangs.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” she sighed. “At least I left the rest of it alone.”
Chapitre Dix-Sept: Las Incertitudes
Christine closed her eyes as she sang, enjoying the beauty and brilliance of her own voice. Even the stagehands had stopped talking when she had begun her aria, and with such little sound besides the music, it was easy for her to imagine that the empty seats were filled with the highest of nobility, all dumbstruck by the marvelous seraph whom the gods had generously allowed to grace the opera house. The music of the orchestra swelled, and she sang louder so that the audience would be sure to hear every single Italian syllable. Though Erik had written translations on her script, it was all still gibberish to her—but it didn’t matter; the glorious beauty of the music was everything. She was an angel, she was a muse, she was a goddess—
Suddenly she realized that she had reached the last note of the tiny eight-line aria, and, though disappointed that it was over so soon, she poured her heart into that note.
As the music ended, the stagehands resumed their work; all the clanging and clattering as they constructed the sets, as well as their continual conversation and laughter, made Christine grit her teeth to keep herself from screaming at them to make less noise. How could anyone be expected to work under such conditions?
“You’ve done very well with ‘Padre, germani, addio,’ mademoiselle,” said Monsieur Mercier. “You have all the syllables and notes correct.”
“Of course I do,” she said, rather irritated. Couldn’t he come up with something more complimentary than that?
Mercier ignored her. “But you don’t seem to understand the emotion of the aria. King Idamante has just defeated Troy, your country, mademoiselle! And though you love Idomeneo—”
“I know, I know,” she snapped. Erik had told her all this already. “Idomeneo is Idamante’s son, so Ilia doesn’t want to admit that she loves him because he’s just conquered her country! I know!”
“Well, then,” said Mercier, less than patiently, “why don’t you sing it as if this were happening to you?”
“Because the music—and my voice—are too beautiful to be downtrodden by the hesitance of Ilia’s character, that’s why!”
“Mademoiselle, you are on the verge of sounding like Carlotta!”
“WHAT?! How dare you say that!”
“You are threatening to destroy Ilia’s character—”
Suddenly a man’s voice spoke out from the empty seats. “I must side with the lovely mademoiselle.”
Mercier whirled around to confront this new opponent. “The Garnier is not open at this hour, monsieur!”
The man stood, and Christine gasped at the beauty and expense of his clothes, every bit as bold and fashionable as Raoul’s. “I am fully aware of that,” he said mildly. “But I could not resist hearing Mademoiselle Daaé’s voice give life to Idomeneo before the rest of the world has a chance.”
She giggled and fanned herself with her script, quite flattered, but Mercier thrust his baton in the direction of the exit. “You will leave at once.”
The man ignored him, and instead jumped down into the orchestra pit, stacked one chair atop another, and gracefully stepped up onto the stage. His actions reminded Christine of a noble knight, braving the moat to reach the beautiful princess in the castle.
He kissed her hand. “Bon jour, pretty mademoiselle.” He wasn’t handsome, but his obvious wealth almost made up for it. His dark brown suit and forest green silk cravat were of the finest make, and Christine saw a slight sparkle at his wrists of what she believed to be diamond cufflinks. “I am Maurice de la Durantaye, chevalier, duc de Saint-Simon, pair de France. And you are absolutely the most beautiful creature I have ever laid eyes on.”
“Why thank you,” she murmured, looking down in a coquettish fashion, pretending to hide her blush. Erik had explained the aristocratic hierarchy of France several times, and she was fairly certain that he had said chevalier was a very rare and distinguished title borne by only the most noble families. This was fabulous!
“Would you be interested in accompanying me to supper tonight, mademoiselle, and grace me with more ethereal words from those resplendent lips?”
She giggled again, and allowed him to continue to hold her hand as she said, regretfully, “I am very sorry, Monsieur le Duc—”
“Maurice, please, mademoiselle.”
“Maurice,” she said with a smile. “I’m afraid I have a prior engagement.” If only Raoul hadn’t asked her to dinner tonight. Of course, she should be faithful to Raoul, so perhaps it was for the better.
“A great shame,” he said, with a charming, perfect smile.
After that, a very irritated Mercier started up the orchestra again, and Christine was forced to bid the wealthy nobleman good day and continue with the rehearsal.
Christine cursed as horribly as she knew how as her fingers, shaking with angst and anticipation, fumbled the eyeliner pencil and she drew a hideous line across her cheek. How could she possibly be so nervous? Raoul obviously thought she was marvelously beautiful if he was so anxious to see her again that he couldn’t even wait until she had been back at the Garnier for two days. In fact, the moment he had seen her after her recovery, he had kissed her hand and begged her to allow him to escort her to dinner again. After glancing all around for Erik she had ecstatically agreed, on the condition that they go somewhere besides Les Ambassadeurs; she had made such a spectacle of herself the other night that she would never be able to show her face their again. He had suggested the Pavillon Ledoyen—just as renowned and expensive as its more ornate competitor, though contained in a smaller building—and set the date for the fifth. When she asked him why they had to wait until tomorrow, he’d said something vague about a prior engagement, and that his only free night was the fifth. His hectic dinner schedules seemed to be a regularity, and usually it didn’t matter to Christine, who was free every night anyway, but on the fifth Mamma was having one of Christine’s father’s old friends over for dinner. Mamma had been very upset when Christine had told her she couldn’t be there. It was a shame; the man was only going to be in town one night, and she wanted to see him very much, but she couldn’t say no to Raoul—what if he lost interest?
She licked her finger and rubbed it furiously across her cheek, but she only succeeded in widening the black line into a muddy trail of grey. She threw down the pencil in disgust. She could wash it off in a minute, she supposed, as soon as she left the costume rooms.
She hated the dingy, cracked mirror in the costumery, and the room was cold and disgusting, filled with rats and cobwebs, but she had no choice—she couldn’t let Erik know that she was skipping rehearsal to go out to dinner with Raoul. Still, she would have to compromise herself to go beg some lipstick from Madame Giry; she hadn’t realized that she was all out. Perhaps she could just borrow some from the ballet rats’ dressing room after they all left for the stage. It was a safer plan—Erik seemed to use Madame Giry as a messenger between himself and the managers quite regularly, after all; the ballet mistress might mention it to him if Christine appeared at her door in an evening gown instead of her Ilia costume.
She grabbed the costume that she had selected after an hour of deliberation and shook it violently, hoping there were no spiders in it. Spiders were almost as bad as rats. She had a hard time getting it on—the skirts, rich, maroon velvet, were so long and full that she kept tripping on them. The V-neck was trimmed with a thick band of gold that met fairly high on her chest and travelled down to the golden belt
in a band of the same gorgeous fabric. The sleeves that had looked so pretty on the rack were very baggy and annoying, and as she studied herself in the mirror she kept having to push them back up so her hands were visible. The skirt was also ridiculously heavy, she discovered, and fell in a heap, gathering the dust from the floor. She frowned and picked them up, wondering if there was some kind of petticoat or farthingale to give the skirt shape. It was Florentine, according to the label on the hanger (whatever that meant), but she had no idea what century or even what opera it was from. She was sure that Erik would know the answers to all these questions—he was quite well-informed in just about every possible subject—but of course she couldn’t ask him.
She grimaced and bit her lip as she scrutinized her figure, finding to her dismay that the thick fabric—though clingy—made her waist appear slightly larger than normal, and for a moment she was afraid she could see the tiniest bulge of her stomach. She turned sideways and straightened her back, staring intensely at the mirror, but she couldn’t see anything but a perfect waist.
Just the same she stripped off the gown and set to tightening her corset even farther than she normally took it (after she had broken her corset the night she had first played Marguerite, she’d had to plead with Erik before he’d agreed to fix it. He still didn’t approve, but his replacement laces were stronger than the originals, so she could lace it even tighter now). She couldn’t just be her usual beautiful self—she had to be a goddess. Raoul could choose any bride in France—in Europe, for that matter—and she had seen the noble women Paris deigned the fairest of all when they came to the operas, with their sparkling jewels, perfect hair, gloves so white they shone in the light, and figures made to die for by the most expensive corsets money could buy. She couldn’t compete with any of that, despite her matchless beauty. And she not only had to be able to compete, she had to win! She gasped in pain as she tightened the laces to their very limit, repeating to herself, it’s worth it, it’s worth it—it didn’t matter if her ribs hurt or if she couldn’t talk during dinner for lack of breath—she would be the most beautiful woman in Paris if it killed her!
It was very inconvenient having to lace up her own corsets without the help of a servant; it was doable, but it took longer and she couldn’t achieve quite the level of tightness that she would have otherwise. When she was a vicomtess, she would have a maid hired just for that purpose.
She checked a small, dingy clock she had brought with her and squeaked in surprise as she realized that she only had a few minutes. Racing as quickly as possible, she threw on the dress, fixed her hair, stashed her things in a corner in case someone came in while she was gone, and opened the door to the hallway. She didn’t see anyone, and she hurried down towards the chorus dressing room to secure a new lipstick from that snooty Anastasie—she had plenty; she wouldn’t miss it.
She successfully traversed the halls without encountering anyone, and when she reached the dressing room, she eased open the door an inch or two to see if there was anyone inside. She saw only Meg, seated on a chipped, wobbly stool and reading something from the piece of paper in her hands.
“Hello, Meg,” said Christine, stepping into the room and making a beeline for Anastasie’s dressing table.
Meg considered her for a moment—Christine supposed she was still angry about the whole Tannenbaum thing, though they had been on speaking terms again for a little while now—and then apparently decided to be polite. “Hello, Christine. I hardly get to see you anymore.”
“Ah yes, well, that’s the price of fame,” she said distractedly, rifling through Anastasie’s makeup tins. She was glad Meg wasn’t ignoring her anymore. It hadn’t been that big of a deal—Tannenbaum had been released, hadn’t he? It was so annoying that Meg was making such a fuss about it.
“Are we doing dress rehearsals already?” asked Meg.
“Oh, no, this isn’t for a rehearsal.”
“What are you doing?”
Christine, unable to find any lipstick, muttered an impatient curse and began to throw everything out of the drawer in her search. “I’m going out to dinner. Don’t tell anyone.” She didn’t want it to somehow get back to the managers (she didn’t want them to realize that her “sick headaches” were actually just an excuse to go to dinner with Raoul during rehearsals), or worse, for it to get back to Erik.
“Oh.”
“Anastasie said I could borrow a lipstick. Just pretend I’m not here. Read your letter. Who’s it from, anyway?”
Meg looked up, pressing the letter to her heart, and said with a soft, dreamy smile, “It’s from Hulbert.”
“Oh, him again.” Christine moved to throw a particularly pretty pair of earrings out of the drawer, then paused and pocketed them. “You simply have to tell that man that his poetry is awful and to stop bothering you.” Meg had only shown her one letter, a while ago—she couldn’t remember when—but it had been absolutely abominable. If Raoul had written her something like that, Christine would have ended their relationship on the spot.
“I think he’s wonderful,” said Meg defensively.
“Oh, come on, he practically can’t spell his own name, let alone all the flowery garbage he writes to you. Aha, here’s a lipstick—drat it, it’s some ridiculous orange color. What is wrong with that stupid Anasta—”
“I don’t go around insulting the Vicomte de Chagny, do I?” demanded Meg.
“All right, all right, I’ll stop. As Mamma always says, there’s no accounting for—” She stopped to examine another lipstick. This one was empty. “For taste.”
Meg ignored her and continued to read Hulbert’s absurd poem. Christine could work faster without talking at the same time, and she quickly found two lipsticks of a decent color. She washed the eyeliner off her cheek with the water from a nearby carafe, scrubbing so hard that the skin concerned turned a furious, throbbing red.
“Well, good night, Meg,” she said when she was satisfied that the treacherous eyeliner was fully gone, concealing the lipsticks in one hand and striding to the door.
“Christine, wait!” called Meg, who had turned around in her chair.
“I’m in a hurry.”
“There’s something I need to tell you.”
Christine, halfway out the door, sighed and folded her arms. “What is it?”
Meg set down the poetry, biting her lip. “I was talking to Mercier, and he said that—you told me that the Vicomte de Chagny was going to marry you, yes?”
“Yes, yes. So?” Christine was impatient to leave. Raoul was waiting, and Meg was stalling her departure.
“Well, I was talking to Mercier and he said that the vicomte was already engaged to someone else.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“He said her name was Veronique de la Musardiere,” pressed Meg, “and that she was a comtess.”
Christine swelled in rage, the heat of her anger broiling in every limb, every vein. “How dare you repeat such a vile lie?” she demanded.
“But it’s true!”
“You—you’re just trying to get revenge for what I did to your precious Hulbert, aren’t you! Well, it’s not going to work! And I’m never speaking to you again!” Christine stepped into the hall and slammed the door behind her with such force that she was showered with bits of plaster from the ceiling.
She cursed several times and raced back to the costume rooms. Now she had to redo her hair! Gods, gods, she was going to be late! Curse that stupid Meg! She was jealous, just jealous—she, with her plain looks, was stuck with some stupid stagehand while her breathtakingly-beautiful friend was worshipped by Paris and being courted by a vicomte. Jealous, that’s what she was!
Once she had redone her hair and applied and reapplied her makeup—her hands were shaking so badly from rage that she kept smearing it—she gave herself one last intense inspection in the cracked mirror. She was now ten minutes late, but she had gotten her makeup perfect. She prayed to every god she could think of that Raoul would be pleased.
When she met him in the main foyer, breathing terribly hard from having raced all the way, Christine was gratified to see Raoul’s expression turn thunderstruck as he caught sight of her beauty.
“Mon ange, mon precieuse, you are absolutely radiant!”
“Oh…Raoul…thank you,” she said in between gasps, trying to smile despite the horrible and insistent pounding in her ears.
“But, my bewitching belle, you are quite out of breath!”
“Yes, I didn’t…want to…be…late!”
“Well, you are actually quite late, but I think we’ll barely keep our reservations.” He smiled at her dashingly and offered her his arm.
As they drove to the restaurant, Christine tried to keep herself focused on the intense happiness of knowing that Raoul was pleased with how beautiful she looked, but she couldn’t keep Meg’s words—or her sad, hurt expression when Christine had yelled so furiously—out of her head. All the way there she had to keep dismissing the thought of asking Raoul about it. It wasn’t that she feared the answer—of course she didn’t!—but it was such a poor subject, and she didn’t want to insult Raoul. He was a gentleman! Obviously he wouldn’t be courting her if he were already engaged! And how could he possibly be engaged to anyone else? She was the most beautiful, most radiant, most perfect woman in Paris!
In the midst of her worrying, they arrived at the Pavillon Ledoyen. Raoul exited the carriage first and offered his hand to Christine as she descended. The heavy fabric of her dress made it difficult to move, but with a little help from Raoul, who was all too willing to support her, they approached the restaurant. The façade, though not as impressive as Les Ambassadeurs, spoke of untold wealth and prosperity. Glass windows stretched across the front of the building and, just above the entrance, an arc of glass fanned out from the building, which reminded Christine of the rising sun.
Inside, a waiter in an immaculate white suit met them. He asked for their reservations, and Raoul handed him a small red card with gold filigree. He then led them through the foyer, past the grand staircase to a dining room, to an isolated table for two next to one of the large windows. It was all fabulously expensive, but Christine, though she tried enjoy the splendor, felt so sick that she couldn’t really appreciate it. Once they had been seated and Raoul had so kindly ordered for both of them, Christine glanced out the window. Outside was a beautiful courtyard that rivaled the interior design. Great trees formed bowers over benches that were separated from each other by an array of flowers and bushes. Little butterflies flew from flower to flower. Christine hoped that her worrying would go away quickly, so that she could value its beauty if Raoul asked her to take a stroll around the courtyard after dinner.
Costumes and Filigree: A Novel of the Phantom of the Opera Page 19
