Carlotta knows she sings as well as anyone in the opera house and better. She's better than Piangi even when they duet, probably better than the opera ghost if he ever were willing to come out of hiding, and definitely better than Miss Christine Daae.
But then, pure song isn't what draws people to the opera house. There have to be other attractions as well. Not to put too fine a point on it, but success and popularity depend more on the size of someone's assets than the tenor of their voice. And while Carlotta has always had a certain level of sexual appeal, she knows she is getting old.
"They want her because she is prettier to look at," she tells Piangi, after another of Christine's shows has ended with a standing ovation on a night where Carlotta's piece got half the attention.
Piangi hums noncommittally. But he takes her arm and strokes it. "My love, the people of Paris have no taste in the aesthetic or in music. They are fickle little things—you know how they flit from one attraction to the next."
"You didn't say that when they favored me."
"A certain number will always favor you," he says. "Your music appeals to a purer part of their souls. A true patron of the arts must always appreciate the superior diva, my diva, my queen…"
"Silly man," Carlotta says reprovingly. She hates the fact that his words do make her soften. Coming from one of the managers or from any patron, she would take them as hypocrisy or shallow flattery, but Piangi's silvery tongue could make anything sound good.
"I will retire from the stage," she says, mainly out of habit. "No one loves my music anymore. I have grown old—you know I would have gray hairs if I stopped dyeing. No, it is no use for me to play the prima donna any longer. Let the tides of time wash me away. This audience may have their Miss Daae, and they may feast on the music of the opera ghost, and I hope they find him as unpalatable as I do."
"And yet there are still many who love you!"
"They are not as they once were," Carlotta says. "I will not be one of those hags who stays on the stage forever, refusing to admit her time is up. And should I let myself become a nostalgic gorgon, a bag of wrinkled skin who keeps on crooning about how times used to be? I would rather die than reach that state."
"You will not die," Piangi says. "And you will not retire."
And he says it as simply and as sincerely as ever, and yet for the first time Carlotta finds that she wants to contradict him in truth. She is becoming a bit too serious in her intent to leave the stage, and it frightens her.
Daae's fans are as Carlotta's used to be—fanatic worshipers of a golden voice. Carlotta knows her voice has matured well, and in her prime it was better than Christine's, but maybe she is wrong about how it is now. Perhaps it is hideous. Perhaps she deceives herself, longing to be as beautiful as she once was. In form, she knows, she grows fat and wrinkled. Lately she has needed more stage makeup, more foundation, to cover the signs of wear. Old women shouldn't perform on the stage, a place of ageless and altogether too temporary beauty and glory. They are a laughingstock there. No one can help but deride them.
No one in the opera house likes to deride her to her face, of course, but she knows they do so behind her back. They hear the Phantom's notes and they laugh and they laugh and they laugh. They like that he has the audacity to insult her. What he does is what they wish they could do. Yes, she can see the secret pleasure even in the humble face of Christine, who tries so hard to pretend she disapproves of her masked patron. Even if she hates the opera ghost, she still likes to see Carlotta degraded.
"Have you seen the size of my part?" she asks Piangi, when they receive the score for Don Juan Triumphant.
"A scandal, bella."
"I will quit. I will leave this opera house forever—there are other places, in Italy, in Spain…" that would never accept a woman as old as her for her first season there, but she can pretend…
"He would kill you," Piangi says.
Carlotta casts a look at him. "Oh, does he frighten you?"
"He is a madman," Piangi says. "You cannot doubt he would do anything he threatens." He strokes Carlotta's back in soothing circles. "We must do as he says. For now."
"After this opera, I am leaving."
"No, darling."
"I mean it," Carlotta says, and she does. "You and I will leave together. We will get a house in the country. No one in this city deserves us, not after the way they have treated us this season. We might as well go."
She has never told Piangi he should leave with her before. They are a team, but it is still presumptuous. Piangi's life onstage could last many years longer—an old man onstage is so much more acceptable than an old woman.
Piangi says, "The crowds would miss you." He does not speak about himself.
"Why should I care about them? They only care for Miss Daae, of late."
"We will talk about it when the opera is over, then," Piangi says. "Would you return to Italy with me? I know a village there…"
"Oh, if you want." She speaks Italian decently, though not as well as Spanish and French. Certainly she has sung in enough Italian operas to get along. She wonders if he means his home village—he never speaks of his past. Would he want to take an arrogant diva back to his home town, his old friends and family? And if they were to live together there, would they marry or simply live together as they do now, friends that are a little more than friends but too old to really cause a scandal?
Piangi smiles a small smile. "We will talk about it when things settle down."
They let the subject drop. But Carlotta keeps it in mind, as she stretches her voice to the lengths the Phantom requires, as she forces her ego into a tiny box, as she plays a role tailored to ridicule her and make Daae look better in comparison. The crowd will laugh at her, she knows. But who cares about the crowd? She will make good on her threats this time. In memory, she will become a legend. And her life with Piangi may never be as glorious as this, but she will never be consumed by nostalgia or regrets. One has one's run, and that is it. And let the shallow populace enjoy their pretty little ingénue. Years from now they will turn on her as well.
Piangi's regard, she reminds herself, is all that matters. Piangi the philosopher and artist, Piangi her best and dearest friend. Who cares for the words of a Phantom, a madman?
(Later she will realize she should have worried less about his mockery and more about his threats. But by then, it will be far too late.)