Chapter Three: The Performance
As they neared the doors to the main performance hall Christine heard a powerful – but rather revolting – singing voice.
Beside her Raoul frowned. "Is there a cat being slaughtered in there, Monsieur Firmin?"
Monsieur Firmin's mouth twitched, like he was trying hard not to smile. "No, my Lord. That is the opera's newest primadonna, Mademoiselle Carlotta Blanchard."
Christine immediately pictured the woman in the painting. Now she wondered how Carlotta was able to worm her way into the opera house.
I shouldn't be so mean, Christine berated herself silently.
"Is she tuning her voice?" Christine asked Monsieur Firmin as they made their way inside.
Monsieur Firmin put a finger to his lips before replying. "No, my Lady. She is singing the opening of our new play," he whispered.
Christine and Raoul looked at the stage. Christine immediately recognized Carlotta as the woman swooping across the stage as she sang her lines, while completely dwarfing the other ballet dancers. Christine saw Madame Giry, half-concealed by the fake elephant that was now being pushed onto the stage.
A few cleaners were sweeping the aisles, but they looked up as Christine, Raoul, and Monsieur Firmin approached. They seemed to realize who Christine was, because they started whispering furiously amongst themselves. Their whispering must have attracted Carlotta's attention, because she suddenly stopped singing.
"What eez thees?" she demanded imperiously, striding to the front of the stage, her red and gold skirt sweeping the floor as she walked. "Deedn't I tell you to keep quiet when I am seenging?"
She had an odd way of speaking; she accentuated her I's like they were long E's, and she tended to sweep her arm in exaggerated gestures. Carlotta seemed to think it made her look grand, but Raoul thought it made her look ridiculous.
Even my own mother doesn't do that when she wants to make a point, he thought with distaste.
"Monsieur Firmin!" Carlotta cried, summoning him to the stage with a slight twitch of her finger.
Monsieur Firmin held his ground, and this must have infuriated Carlotta.
"Seence when deed you refuse me?" she shrieked, and Christine was shocked. Never had she met such a demanding woman, and Christine felt a little scared of Carlotta. "Come here!"
One of the cleaners whispered something to one of the ballet dancers near the stage. The dancer's eyes widened and she tapped Carlotta on her arm.
It was a mistake.
Carlotta slapped her with such force that she was knocked on her back. Tears formed on the dancer's eyes, and Madame Giry rushed to Carlotta and grabbed Carlotta's arm roughly. The older woman spun Carlotta around to face her.
"You shall not hurt my ballerinas, Carlotta," Madame Giry hissed. "She was only trying to tell you something."
Carlotta wrenched her arm from Madame Giry's grasp and sneered. "Your dancers know better than to touch me, Madame Geery."
"You are unbelievable, woman," Raoul said as he made his way up to the stage. He offered his hand to the dancer who stood up shakily.
"And who are you?" Carlotta spat. Raoul's looks must have appealed to her, because her expression softened a bit. "Why are you meddling een thees opera's affairs?"
"If you would quiet down, Carlotta, there is someone you should be introduced to," Monsieur Firmin told her as he accompanied Christine up the stage.
"Who would that be?" Carlotta said, her eyes still on Raoul. He was offering his handkerchief to the dancer, who politely refused. Madame Giry was over her in a second, telling her she could rest in the dressing room if she wished.
Monsieur Firmin cleared his throat. "The Duchess of Wiltshire, Christine Juliet Daae."
Carlotta's eyes left Raoul's face and alighted on Christine. Due to years of breeding and lessons on proper etiquette, Christine knew that she should adopt an unfazed and calm demeanor. Inside, however, Christine was shaking.
"Mademoiselle Carlotta," Christine greeted, curtsying a little. Her eyes never left Carlotta's face, and she noticed that the singer was eyeing her up and down.
"Your Grace," she finally said, dipping down in a bad imitation of Christine's curtsy. "It is an honor to have you here. Pardon my behavior; I must have had too much to drink."
"I'm sure you have," Christine said, her tone cool and distant, and it made Carlotta feel as if the duchess didn't approve of her attitude towards the dancer minutes ago. A few of the male performers snickered, and Carlotta threw them dirty looks. "Please, continue with your rehearsal. I don't want you all to fall behind."
Raoul stood beside Christine, and the sight of the two of them must have annoyed Carlotta. The singer continued to look at Christine jealously. The girl still had her youth, plus she was devastatingly wealthy.
Word had reached Carlotta of the riches of the Daae family of England, and she knew that the father was widowed. Carlotta had imagined herself as the new Duchess every so often, and she could see herself dripping with diamonds and wrapped in costly furs.
Now here stood a girl half her age, with decades of life and riches before her. It made Carlotta jealous beyond words.
And her escort – oh!
The Viscount de Chagny, that's who he was. The two were the most sought-after aristocrats in England, and Carlotta knew from stories the dancers told that they were expected to marry. Raoul was handsome, with a face that reminded Carlotta of a god. He was a gentleman too, and Carlotta now understood why the ladies of the English and French courts were dying for a second look from him.
But it was obvious he was smitten with the Duchess, and the silly girl didn't even know about it.
"Thank you, Duchess," Carlotta said after some time. Raoul placed a hand on Christine's waist and led her down the stage. They sat on chairs in the middle of the hall, and some of the cleaners even came up to Christine and shook her hand.
The girl is always smiling, Carlotta noted. With a twirl of her skirts, she motioned to the conductor to continue where they left off.
As the first notes left her voice, Carlotta marveled at how she was able to do one thing the duchess wasn't: to charm the very pants off the two opera owners and literally thrust her in the very center of the limelight.
"How did she even get on stage, Madame Giry?" Christine inquired as they walked towards the dining hall. "I've seen the plaque on her painting upstairs, but it only mentions her performing last Christmas."
Madame Giry had approached Christine earlier to apologize. At first the two had trouble communicating, owing to the way Carlotta was singing; it sounded as if she was trying to make the roof cave in on them.
Finally when the dancers broke into their dance, Madame Giry quickly explained that the formal dining hall hadn't been opened yet and they were to eat dinner in the actor's hall. Christine didn't mind, nor did Raoul.
Madame Giry looked around. "We don't know for certain, but rumors have it that she has an affair with Monsieur Andre."
"That explains everything," Raoul said, his hands clasped behind his back. "No wonder she feels as if she owns the opera house."
Christine remained silent. How can a woman use her body just to get something she wants? The very thought was unfathomable.
"Christine?" she heard Raoul say softly, and she turned her head to look at him. "Are you alright?"
"Yes. Yes I am," she said, giving him a weak smile. "You shouldn't worry so, Raoul."
"I can't help it," he admitted.
"Why? Am I that dear a friend for you to worry over me like a mother hen?" Christine teased.
"You are my dearest friend, Christine," Raoul said. "Your safety and well-being will always be my main concern."
"How sweet." Christine took his hand and squeezed it gently.
Raoul loved her touch; so soft and smooth. Although he hated himself for thinking it, but he wondered how her touch would feel all over his body.
Christine looked at him again before they entered the dining hall, and he silently scolded himself for letting such thoughts enter his head. Her hand slipped from his grasp as she walked forward to greet the performers who had decided to eat in the opera house.
A few of the male players who were part of the play – Hannibal, according to Monsieur Firmin – rose and bowed their heads respectfully as Christine entered. The chubby cook even bowed, and Christine smiled warmly at all of them.
"Please, no formalities," Christine insisted as she took her seat. "I've had enough of that my entire life."
The uneasiness in the air vanished, and the performers continued their steady chatter. Raoul sat beside Christine and watched the other helpers set down bowls of steaming mushroom soup, freshly baked loaves of bread, and sliced ham.
It seemed to be more than what the performers were used to, because they gave murmurs of approval and began getting their share.
Christine ladled soup in her bowl and waited for it to cool. The ballet dancer sitting next to her asked how long she was going to stay.
"I'm not sure," Christine admitted. "Maybe when my business here is finished, and all my affairs regarding the finances of the opera house are settled."
"If that Carlotta didn't insist on such extravagant things, we wouldn't even be in this mess," a male performer declared, brandishing his spoon. "Plus the Monsieurs indulge her every whim. The last singers were better than her, and they weren't as demanding."
"What do you mean?" Raoul asked. "Carlotta is spending the opera house's money?"
"Aye," the cook piped in. They seemed to be waiting to air their thoughts to someone other than Monsieur Firmin and Andre, because they seemed more talkative now.
"She buys furs like they're going out of style!"
"She insists that her champagne is pink. If it's yellow, she'll throw it in your face, no matter if it's a good year!"
"Our wages were cut in half just so she'd get her own coach and horses!"
Christine put her hand over her heart. She was deeply affected by the things these people said about Carlotta. Carlotta was simply horrible; how could she be so selfless? All she cared about was getting her dresses and jewelry.
Carlotta reminded Christine of the other silly rich girls she met at the parties she and Raoul were invited to. At least they had their own money to burn. Carlotta, on the other hand, used the money of others to finance her wardrobe and vanities.
"I can't believe her," Raoul exclaimed. His tone was calm, but his eyes flashed. He had an expression Christine rarely saw: anger. "She's a silly vain woman. It's fortunate Christine and I are here."
"That's why we're grateful, Milady," the cook admitted, setting another soup tureen in front of Christine. "We're hoping you can find another singer who's nicer than she is."
"And with a better singing voice," one of the ballet dancers said, giggling. "Cora has to stuff her ears every time she's on." She nudged a woman in a dirty white maid's dress, who was washing the dishes.
"That I can agree on," Raoul said, raising his glass and toasting the woman. "Carlotta has no singing talent at all."
"Her voice is powerful," Christine added. "But that's all there is to it."
The men roared with laughter. "She sounds like a train wreck!"
Christine tasted the soup. It was thick and creamy, and was still slightly warm. It was like the soup her Nanny Margerethe used to make for her when she was sick.
"Cook?" she called. The cook approached, still clutching her spatula.
"Yes, your Ladyship?"
"What recipe did you use for the soup?"
"Oh. I borrowed it from a good friend of mine. She lives near the outskirts of the city; I see her every few weeks or so," the cook replied.
"It's delicious. It reminds me of the soup my Nanny Margerethe made for me when I was little," Christine shared.
The cook frowned. "Margerethe Fournier?"
"Why, yes," Christine said, surprised.
"That's the name of my friend, your Ladyship," the cook said.
"You know her? My former nanny is still alive?" Christine gasped, clutching the cook's hands. "Oh, you must give me her address!"
The cook smiled and nodded. "Yes yes, your Ladyship. I will. Now please, eat," she urged.
Christine thanked the kind cook and resumed eating. She believed that her nanny had died, but now that she knew, Christine felt hope.
If Nanny Margarethe is still alive, then Erik must still be here, Christine thought happily. Wait for me, Erik, I'm coming to find you.
"Why should she come here?" Carlotta screamed, throwing the covers off her naked body and walking to the dresser. She sat on the soft cushion and began brushing her hair. "Why, Gabriel?"
Gabriel Andre sighed and closed his eyes. "I told you, she's here to help finance the opera house."
Carlotta snorted. "I don't believe it's her. I expected someone older! Send her away, Gabriel!"
"Why does she infuriate you so, Carlotta? She's going to provide us the money we need in order for us to live a comfortable life," Andre reminded her, still not opening his eyes. "Besides, it was you who told me about her."
"I didn't think she was young! And beautiful! Even you are attracted to her, Gabriel, admit it!" Carlotta threw a half-empty perfume bottle at the wall, where it smashed. The soft, citrus aroma soon filled the room.
"I'm not," he said tiredly. "Now please, let me sleep, woman."
"Liar! You want to fuck her!" Carlotta raged.
The woman drove him mad. If she didn't satisfy his seemingly endless longing for sex, he would have thrown her out on the streets long ago. The beautiful Carlotta he met last Christmas Eve was now replaced with an old, saggy witch who had a foul mouth and an even fouler singing voice. If he and Firmin hadn't found out that she was fucking the both of them behind their backs, he probably would have agreed to her little scheme.
Carlotta had approached him one night and told him that the Duchess of Wiltshire was planning to sponsor the opera house; an act that was done by her father, the late Duke of Wiltshire.
"If we can get the money and run, we'll be rich beyond our wildest dreams!" she had said, baring the neckline of her dress so that he could see the plumpness of her breasts. "Please, Gabriel. For me? We can live far away from this wretched place and away from Theodore. We'll be free!"
He had agreed rather enthusiastically then, but mostly because he wanted to rub his hands all over those plump globes of hers. She had brushed him off and said she was late for rehearsal. Andre believed her, but as he made his way to his office later that day (when Carlotta was supposed to be in the performance hall), she heard her sighs of pleasure and the urgent grunting of another man.
"Oh Theodore," he heard her say. "You make me quiver with delight."
Andre's insides boiled. He thought he heard someone say "She's fucking your business partner," somewhere behind him, but he dismissed it. He was probably imagining things. He wanted to burst in on the two of them, but thought better of it.
That night he cornered Theodore Firmin and told him what Carlotta was doing.
"She's doing us, Theodore. She's using us both," he had hissed as they watched her perform an aria from Lucia de Lammermoor. "We can take the money and run."
"And leave her in the dust," Firmin had replied. "I agree. Why should she come with us? She'll only spend it all on useless garments."
The two had shook hands on the deal. Once the Duchess handed them the check for the money, they would take it and run. She would probably make it out to both their names, so by the time anyone had figured out the truth, especially Carlotta, they would be far, far away.
Rant all you want, bitch, Andre thought, as he opened one eye to study Carlotta. She had thrown on one of her favorite fur coats and was studying the wrinkles under her eyes in the mirror. Once Theodore and I have the money, we'll leave you to rot with the other sluts.
Christine waved to the other performers as they left the opera house. Most of them lived near the artistic district of the city, and they still had to walk home. Christine offered them money for a cab, but they refused.
"The walk helps us keep in shape, my Lady," the cook – Isabelle – said, handing the coins back to Christine. "But thank you for your concern. You and the Viscount take care yourselves."
Now, she and Raoul headed back to their rooms. On the way they bumped into Meg, who was sketching something on a pad of paper. Christine accidentally jostled Meg's arm, causing the latter to draw a thick line across her sketch.
"Be careful!" Meg cried angrily, throwing her pencil down on the floor. "Look at what you did!"
"I'm sorry," Christine said. "Is there any way I can fix it?"
"No, I don't think there is," Meg sneered. "You don't know how to draw, and you'll probably ruin my drawing."
"Meg!" Madame Giry scolded, coming up behind Christine and Raoul.
"She didn't mean it, Meg," Raoul added, placing a supporting hand on Christine's arm. "I'm sure it isn't that bad."
Meg snorted and thrust her sketchpad in Christine's face. Christine saw a sketch of a man, although Meg hadn't started drawing his face yet. A black, thick line was drawn from one point of the paper to the very bottom.
"Oh Meg, I really am sor-"
"Save it," Meg said scathingly, snapping her pad shut. "You're useless."
"Meg!" Madame Giry said in a warning tone. "Let it go."
Meg began to say something, but Raoul stepped towards her. "Christine didn't mean it. Now why don't you be a good girl and follow your mother?"
With a snotty huff, Meg turned on her heels and walked away.
Christine sighed. "I'm sorry, Madame Giry. I seem to be quite clumsy today."
"Nonsense, Christine. You didn't mean to ruin her sketch," Raoul told her.
"She hasn't forgiven me, that's why she's so horrible towards me," Christine said softly, her eyes lowering to the ground. "I always wanted to be friends with her, but she always refused. Perhaps it was because of Er-"
Christine stopped suddenly. She was about to say 'Erik', but stopped herself just in time. "Erline," she finished.
"She still shouldn't be so cold to you, Christine. I don't know why you let her," Raoul chided her gently.
"I think there's still a part of me that wishes Meg and I could be friends," Christine said wistfully.
Although I mostly wish to see you, Erik, Christine thought. If you can see me, if you're still here, show yourself.