Staring up at the Opera Populaire, Christine Daae knew that even in her most opulent dreams she had never seen anything so grand. Within the walls of the mighty fortress, the company was rehearsing the up and coming production of Carmen. Every exquisite note floated back to her, lifting her spirit high above the dismal winter streets. All her life she had pictured herself waltzing across that stage, delighting audiences with her voice. Wind cut through her thin shawl. She imagined that, had they wanted to, any one of the gargoyles adorning the building could have swallowed her whole before anyone could ever notice. Attempting to quiet her nerves, she cleared her throat, gripped her antiquated satchel, and pushed the door open.
Immediately, she was flooded with a warmth that she has not known since the summer months. Living on the streets, she lit small fires and lingered in the doorways of businesses to fight the cold. Here, however, they seemed to deal in excess, from the posh red curtains lining every entrance to the elegant staircase leading to the viewing boxes.
"Excuse me, mademoiselle! How may we help you?" She spun round to face the voice addressing her. Standing before her, were two greying men decked in debonaire business suits. Why am I here, she thought quickly to herself.
"B-Bonjour, messieurs. I am looking for Monsieur Debienne."
"Ah, well, I am afraid that Monsieur Debienne is no longer with us. He began his retirement two days ago. I am Monsieur Firmin and this is my associate, Monsieur Andre. We are the new managers of the Opera Populaire. How may we be of service, Miss…..?"
"Christine Daee. Monsieur Debienne," she fought back the tears rising behind her eyes, "Monsieur Debienne was a friend of my late father, Gustave Daae. My father was a great violinist, messieurs. After he passed, he told me that if I came here and talked to Monsieur Debienne, he could supply me with a part in the chorus." The two managers watched Christine as two mothers might listen to the musings of a small child.
"Unfortunately, Mlle. Daae, as you can hear," Andre gestured towards the singing in the main room, " rehearsals are underway for our most recent production. Come back next season and we shall be more than happy to oblige." As the pair turned to go, Christine could feel her heart began to pound like hooves on cobblestones as the white hot panic rose within her.
"Please, messieurs! My only way to live is by obtaining work. Please, surely there must be something I can do."
"I'm sorry, but our hands are tied, mademoiselle. Come back some other time," said Firmin.
"Pardon me, messieurs," called a woman's voice. "But I could not help but overhear your quandary. Emil is looking for another girl in the costume department, I heard him say so myself just this morning."
"Working in costuming is no easy job, Madame Giry. It requires a great deal of effort and skill and we are not willing to take risks."
"I am aware of the stakes, messieurs. Give her a chance. She can stay in the ballet dormitories. I will claim responsibility for any mistakes made." She was an older woman dressed in all black, with hair the color of pitch. Everything about her screamed austerity, but at that moment Christine could have hugged the stranger.
The two managers shared a quick glance before Andre said, "Have it your way, Madame. Mademoiselle Daae, you may work in the costume department on a trial basis. Madame Giry will show you to your quarters." Christine feverently thanked the managers before following Madame Giry down the winding corridors of the Paris Opera House.
"Thank you, Madame. You have no idea what this means to me." The dark haired woman smiled.
"Nonsense, child. No one deserves to starve when they are more than willing to do their share of work. But work you must. In the costume department they will show you your duties. Work hard and you shall have no problems."
The ballet dormitories were composed of a large room filled with twenty or more twin beds packed into rows accompanied by a trunk at the foot and nightstand and water pitcher by each.
"This will be where you sleep," Madame Giry said, motioning to the unmade mattress in the far left corner. "I am the director of our ballet and my daughter Meg will be on the bed beside you. You may put any possessions you might have in that trunk." Noting the look on Christine's face, Madame Giry smiled and said, "Do not worry, child. You will get used to things in time. I will give you half an hour to get settled in before I send someone to retrieve you."
After Madame Giry left, Christine sat on her new bed feeling lost. She felt blessed beyond measure to have work and a place to stay, but she was also overcome by a great sense of emptiness. She opened the trunk and unpacked her few belongings: a dress, a nightgown, a comb, a rosary, and an aged violin. When she closed her eyes, she could still see her father lying motionless in the home of a kind stranger, could still hear his weak goodbye and promise to send her the Angel of Music. A tear slid slowly down her porcelain cheek as she grasped the instrument and played the simple melodies he had taught her. They were scratchy and strained, but they contained all the sadness of the world. She placed the instrument on her lap and allowed a sob to escape.
"Oh, Papa! What am I going to do?"
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Sitting in Box Five watching the rehearsals, it was all Erik could do not to storm the stage. The new managers had been in office for less than 48 hours and already Erik had marked them as cultureless swine. The chorus lacked any form of expression, the baritones were employing the articulation of a three year-old and the new soprano, Carlotta- there were to words to describe the fresh waves of horror caused by her belting. Through all of this sacrilege to sound, the two imbeciles sat there nodding their heads, smiling. Smiling for God's sake!
Even worse, at their briefing Monsieur Debienne had warned the future managers of the threat posed by the infamous "Phantom of the Opera". Instead of heeding Debienne's careful instructions, the two cackled like a couple of hyenas. Opera ghost, they exclaimed. Why, there was no such thing. Erik grinned devilishly despite the pain brought to him by the poor excuse for a rehearsal. The buffoons would learn; the Opera Ghost would simply have to pay them a visit.