This is the first time I write fanfiction (what has this fandom done to me ? D:), and English isn't my first language, therefore I beg your indulgence. Any feedback is very much appreciated :)
A big thank you to TheStraggletag for encouraging me to try this, and to Oceanofdarkness for being an awesome beta reader !
Paris Opera House, 1881
Belle French had never considered herself weak or shy. No, even when she was a little girl, and she and Papa lacked bread some nights. Even when dozens of villagers had their eyes fixed upon her in the little town fairs of Sweden and she sang with Father accompanying her at the fiddle, she never trembled, never complained.
Yet the girl who never trembled was now gripping her shawl tightly to keep her hands from shaking.
Sitting there in this antechamber where so many before her had spent their hopes in vain, in the middle of the draperies and the rich golds of the fallen Napoleonian Empire, she couldn't keep the fear away. It was enchaining her, making her heart beat so fast, she felt like she was going to faint at any moment, and her throat was so tight…
Father was my strength, my voice, and it died with him. Now there's only a terrified little mouse left, and she doesn't know where to hide.
She suddenly felt terribly nauseous. Rubis had insisted she lend her one of her old dresses this morning, the beautiful yellow muslin one with the embroidered bodice, far more formal than anything Belle had ever worn though still smelling like dust and unfashionable. It clung uncomfortably at her chest, and she was glad she had resisted Rubis's efforts to get her to wear a corset. However improper it was for a young lady to appear in public uncorseted, it would have been far more inconvenient to be unable to breathe, in Belle's opinion.
Rubis had shaken her head with exasperation when she told her that, and had exclaimed loudly that she'd never make a true Parisian of that little farmgirl. She had maintained her stern face for maybe five seconds before bursting into laughter at Belle's indignant expression. She had joined her friend then, and there was no fear, no nausea. In that glorious moment everything was fine.
I must remember that feeling. Fear only has so much hold on you as you let it have.
Suddenly she heard the sound of footsteps coming from the room behind the door and got up with a start, forgetting about the papers in her lap. With a panicked little shriek she went to her knees to gather the scattered documents, only for her trembling hands to let them fall again.
Please, no, no, no, no, no.She felt cold sweat roll down her spine, and her hair was getting into her eyes. The footsteps were approaching, and she heard the sound of the door opening.
"Er… Mlle French ? "
She lifted her head to stare at a portly man wearing a white beard and round glasses with his eyebrows raised either in disapprobation or astonishment, but in her state it was only an added blow. She must be quite the spectacle indeed, a disheveled peasant girl on hands and knees in a borrowed dress, with her letters all around the floor. Her cheeks were burning with embarasment and she felt she would never get up. They would have to carry her, petrified with terror as she was, and she would die of shame.
" Mlle French, are you well ? "
I must act brave. This can't happen. Do the brave thing. Do it now !
Gathering the damned papers at least, Belle got up with a calm she certainly didn't feel.
" I'm fine, thank you, Monsieur. ", she said with a voice only slightly higher than usual. " I'm ready "
The man looked more than a little dubious. He made a small gesture and she followed him into a room grander than anything she'd ever seen, with only one high window to let the white light of the morning in. All this luxury only managed to make her feel even more small and frightened. Two men clothed in dark were were seated at a long table of black wood in front of her, their eyes fixed upon her, as the man that had greeted her joined them.
The first man was stone-faced and severe, and his gaze chilled her to the bone. She quickly looked away from him. The second man was surprisingly young, tall and classically handsome, with clear blue eyes, and she concentrated her gaze on him.
Although she had never seen those men before, she had heard enough from Granny to know their names. The first one must be M. George, one of the two managers of the Opera house with M. Midas, and was said to be of an implacable and ruthless nature. The second was much too young to be M. Midas, and therefore must be David George, soon to succeed to his father's position, if the rumors were true.
That only left the man who had opened the door, who must surely be M. Lheureux, the chorus-master, whose presence was always required for auditions.
" You can sit, Mademoiselle ." M. George's voice was as sinister as his face.
So lost in her thoughts had she been, for a moment, that she had neglected to actually see the chair facing the table.
Trying her best not to blush, she sat in the awkward silence.
" Now, is she the last one ? " continued the man.
" Yes, she seems to be, at least", answered M. Lheureux, looking at what seemed to be a register in front off him. " Mlle Isabelle French, it is ? "
" Yes, Monsieur." Her voice was much better this time, not trembling at all. If only her heart wasn't beating so fast.
" How old are you, Mademoiselle? "
" I will turn twenty this month," Belle said, " Monsieur ".
" Twenty ? " said M. George, " You look much younger than that. "
Belle didn't know how to answer that, and so kept silent.
"Where do you live, Mademoiselle ?"
" In the rue Scribe, just nearly. When my father died, my teacher's wife treated me as her own daughter, and I've been living with her ever since."
An indifferent nod.
"How long have you been singing ?"
"I've been singing for as long as I can remember, Monsieur, but I've only had proper training since the age of fourteen."
M. George snorted at that, but M. Lheureux continued.
" Have you any letters of recommendation, Mademoiselle ? Some word from your teacher, perhaps ? "
" Yes, I have, " said Belle, getting up and walking to the table to give the precious letters to the portly man. " Though not from my teacher. M. Lucas died three years ago, but his widow was kind enough to gather his letters to my father, about me, and my singing lessons. I think you'll see that he was satisfied with my progress "
She couldn't help the slight tremor that came into her voice as she said that. Those sparse words on paper, her name in black ink, and his written reassurances of her talent were the last thing remaining of her tutor for her, and seeing it carelessly opened by stranger's hands, like it meant nothing more than the material it was made of…
" M. Lucas, you said? Auguste Lucas, the concierge's deceased husband ? "
Before M. Lheureux could even begin to look through the letters, M. George had taken it from him, his fierce gaze going through it quickly.
" Yes, he was my teacher. " Granny wasn't always the opera house's concierge, but when consumption took her husband away from her, she had no choice left to her anymore.
The beautiful gown Belle currently wore was only a painful reminder of luxury long past, from the time when Master Lucas taught the children of the bourgoisie. The time when his word would have been enough to get her to the highest honors. He had been a respected and reputed musician, sought from all Paris, a talented singer and the kindest teacher of all.
He was also the man who had seen a little poor country girl, the daughter of the fiddler, and thought she deserved a better fate. The man who had brought them to France, who had been a second father to her when the first had died. That man gave her a new family and hope. He was good and kind, and she had cried bitter tears when his cough had ceased at last, forever.
And now, he was only "the concierge's dead husband ".
She wondered when anger had replaced the fear. She tried to remind herself to stay calm. He probably meant no wrong by that.
" Ah, yes, " continued the man, smiling thinly, " I remember him. Quite the useless fool, this one. The man took into him to teach some merchant's offspring how to screech Mozart, and thought it was a glorious thing. Yet it seems he had some admirers when he was living… Critic's approbation is a curious thing, sometimes. Sit down now Mlle French. "
Belle stayed where she was. She didn't notice David George's worried look at his father. Her hands were shaking again, but not from fear this time.
How dare he ?
"No."
"Mlle French ?"
" No, I will not sit. Master Lucas was a great musician, and an even greater man. No wonder you can't recognize that. "
Only when the manager's gaze fell on her did she realize that she had expressed her thoughts out loud. What madness had possessed her ? She braced herself for the humiliation that was sure to follow. George wasn't reputed to be a vengeful man for nothing, after all. She may have compromised her future as a singer forever with that thoughtless comment.
And yet she couldn't find it in her to regret.
" Monsieur ", she added at least with a curt nod of acknowledgement. As if it could soften the blow. What a way to impress for the most important audition of her life, indeed.
The silence was deafening.
Belle would have found George's petrified expression amusing if it wasn't so terrifying, and his son's face was a curious mix off amusement and apprehension. Looking at M. Lheureux, she saw that the man's face had turned purple. Truly purple. Was he even still breathing ?
It was a little noise that broke the unnatural stillness. An innocent enough sound. The sound of paper ripping.
No, thought Belle. No.
Two white shreds fell from George's hands, shreds that had a minute ago been one of her most precious treasures.
The man's face was a mask made of stone as he took the next letter in his hands and ripped it in two, then again, and she felt like it was her living, beating heart the monster was tearing apart. All this time, David George kept silent.
Belle had never wanted to kill more than she did now, and so she stayed still as a statue, even when her eyes began burning. She would not cry in from of him.
" M. George, maybe this is… ", murmured M. Lheureux in a shy voice.
" Lucas never taught the girl common politeness, it seems, " George interrupted calmly as he took the last of Belle's letters. "The man was useless, like those papers," he continued, "yet it seems she's got some self-control, underneath" For a moment it looked as though he would let the fragile sheet off paper fall intact, let it go.
Belle could only look when he crushed it into his hand. In that moment she knew that she hated the man. It was a new feeling for her, and it burned her throat like acid.
" Self-control. A valuable trait in a professional singer, Mlle French. You should cultivate it. Now, we only need to hear that fine voice of yours, hmm ? The great Lucas was so enthusiastic about it, I certainly hope you'll not disappoint. "
She could hear the stinging mockery in his voice, see it in his cruel gaze. He was enjoying this, she knew.
Stiffly, she nodded.
"What did you prepare, Mlle French ?"
" Despina's aria, by Mozart". An easy piece for her tessiture, but she had opted for simplicity, and right now… She wasn't sure she could sing greater pieces with the same ease as usual. Her eyes stung and she felt she had no air. Yes, it would do.
" Mozart, of course, "said George in a derisive tone. "How original. Well, don't make us wait, Mlle French"
Closing her eyes, she tried to calm herself. She would not get the place, she knew it, George had no intention at all of judging her voice fairly. The only thing he wanted from this little game was a laugh at her expanse, and to crush the little thing that had dared to defy him. The message with the letters had been clear enough. Her career was finished. Her father would have been so disappointed.
Or maybe not. Maybe he would have been proud of her, of the daughter in a yellow gown that had defied the dragon to defend the memory of a good man.
She would never know anyway, would she ? He was dead. So dead.
Do the brave thing.
She opened her mouth.
Then the screaming began. From the depths of the opera house, it grew louder until it surrounded the room, resonating though the walls, the same words, again and again.
"Joseph Buquet ! Joseph Buquet is dead, dead !"
—
N.B : Heureux means Happy in French :)