Chapter 4

"La valse"

"Never have I moved so lightly. I feel myself more than mortal. To hold this most adorable of creatures in my arms and fly around with her like the wind, till everything around us fades away…"

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, on waltzing

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The orchestra was again assembled, and Monsieur Reyer took up his baton.

As the deceptively slow and mournful opening strains of the music began to play, Erik commented, "Ah, 'Künstlerleben'—a beautiful tune. There are none better than the Viennese with a waltz."

"I agree, monsieur, and no one better than Herr Strauss," Christine replied.

"I cannot disagree with you, mademoiselle."

"In Vienna, when I was a little girl traveling with my father, I met him."

"I didn't know that," surprised at the revelation, he responded without thinking.

"I wouldn't expect that you did, monsieur," she giggled.

He inwardly cringed at his blunder; he was doing so well up to that point disguising his voice, he would curse himself to the grave should he ruin everything with a simple slip of the tongue. However, she did not question it, and he attempted to put it out of his mind as he gently took her fingertips and walked beside her out onto the dance floor.

Erik stretched his arms slightly apart in a welcoming gesture, and she delicately placed her right hand in his left. Reaching up, she laid her left hand on his shoulder and the soft wool of his jacket; he took her proffered hand and gently placed his right upon her tiny waist.

After the initial introductions and flourishes, as the music accelerated into the waltz proper, Christine looked up to him and advised, "I have heard, monsieur, that the key to not becoming dizzy during the Viennese waltz is to not look around but stay focused on your partner."

A small grin pulled at one corner of his mouth, "That, my dear mademoiselle, will not be a problem."

She blushed, and butterflies took flight as Monsieur Dambray began to lead her gracefully into the turns of the dance. For a slight moment, Christine felt as if she might cry at the beauty of it all, but she quickly caught herself, remembering that she was a young lady not a child. Her mind was transfixed; she, Christine Daaé, was twirling on the dance floor to a beautiful Strauss waltz in the arms of a handsome gentleman, as she had always dreamed. It was due only to her many years of ballet training that she was able to keep her body loose and supple.

As the music continued, Christine began finally to relax. She was elated. She felt airy, as if she floated above the floor, spinning as a cherry blossom petal falls gently to the ground in a spring breeze. And true to his word, her partner never took his eyes off her, which added to her feeling of lightness.

"You do dance wonderfully, Mademoiselle Daaé."

"Thank you. All those years of ballet have finally been for good.

"You dance very nicely yourself," Christine observed.

"A great compliment, mademoiselle, coming, as it does, from a professionally-trained dancer."

"You must have had lessons, monsieur?"

"I? Not really. As a child, a dancer I knew did show me some of the more basic steps, though one could hardly call them serious lessons. I think if you have an understanding of the music, dancing is not so very difficult if you just allow yourself to feel it—let the music flow through you."

At his words, something deep within Christine lurched; she did not know why. However, she could not think clearly at that moment and dismissed it from her mind; she was lost in her euphoria as she spun in three-quarter time with her attentive partner, never wanting it to end.

Off to the side, Madame Giry noticed that Christine had been escorted onto the dance floor by a gentleman. She quickly assessed him—tall, handsomely built, expensively and stylishly dressed. He wore a bone-colored mask over his face, ending just above his mouth. She would keep her eye on Christine, as well as Meg, who was then off to her right talking with a pleasant-looking young man. As the waltz began, she focused most of her attention on Christine and her dance partner who were whirling effortlessly around the great hall. Over the years, Madame Giry had become an expert at reading Christine's moods from the very subtle nuances that graced her face and the light that shone from her eyes. As Madame looked at her then, it was apparent Christine was experiencing pure joy. She looked again, more carefully, at the man upon whom Christine's gaze was so intently focused. Dark hair neatly brushed back behind his ears, a strong jaw with a subtle cleft at its apex, and those eyes—eyes, the color of the sea after a storm, glittering in the light like a pair of aquamarines. "Erik!" she gasped, as her eyes went wide and a hand instinctively flew to her mouth. Madame Giry could only look on in wonder and amazement.

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At the conclusion of the waltz, Christine's partner offered his elbow and led her over to the row of chairs set along the outer wall. Upon seeing her to a seat, Monsieur Dambray asked, "Would you care for something to quench your thirst, mademoiselle?"

Christine unfurled her fan and was sweeping it gently in front of her face to stir the air. "Thank you, yes, monsieur."

He bowed slightly and said, "I shall return with refreshment."

She watched him as he strode away, shoulders back, carriage perfect. "Yes," she thought, "he could have been a dancer."

Just then, Meg bounded into the chair next to her. "Christine," she exclaimed excitedly, "whoever is that?"

"Oh, Meg, that is Monsieur Erik Dambray." Christine could hardly contain the smile that threatened to break out across her face.

"Christine, he's wonderful! I'd love to see under the coat, I'll bet he's got a glorious backside."

Christine seemed momentarily appalled. "Meg Giry! I'm surprised at you." Then she giggled from behind her fan and added, "I think he must have."

They both laughed, and then Meg asked, "What happened to Monsieur Giguère? I lost track of you once Henri and I started talking. When I noticed you out on the dance floor, you were with this other gentleman."

"I'm not sure where he went off to, but, Meg, I think I much prefer Monsieur Dambray's company. I feel so comfortable with him and so safe. It's as if…," her voice trailed off.

"As if, what?" Meg inquired.

"Oh, I don't know…he seems familiar, somehow." Her brow wrinkled slightly.

"Perhaps you've met before…maybe after a performance."

"No, Meg. I don't think so. It's just…"

"Christine! You're glowing," Meg commented.

"You look quite happy yourself, Marguerite," Christine observed.

"Well, then, we both must be in love."

Christine giggled. "Don't be silly, Meg."

"I'm not being silly. Love at first sight, that's what it is. I know; I feel giddy."

"Meg, you're always giddy," Christine laughed.

Meg looked across the large hall. "Oh, there's Henri waving. I've got to go. And here comes your gentleman. I'll see you later." And she was off.

"My gentleman," Christine said softly to herself and sighed. "My gentleman," she repeated, liking the way it sounded.

He walked up to her, bearing a cup in one hand. "Mademoiselle, your beverage."

After he handed it to her and she took a long sip, she noticed he did not have one for himself. "Monsieur Dambray, are you not thirsty yourself?"

"No, mademoiselle, not at all," he answered her. The truth was that Erik had quickly downed two full cups of the potent liquid at the serving table to help steel his nerves.

"Are you certain? You may have a sip of mine, if you'd like," she offered sweetly.

Erik's heart drummed arrhythmically for a moment; had he been cognizant of anything but the alluring creature beside him, it may have concerned him. The idea of drinking from the same cup as Christine was beyond all his comprehension. "No, mademoiselle, I thank you though. I assure you that I am fine." The even tone of his voice belied what he truly felt, sitting next to her, talking to her as a real man, and being offered a share of her beverage. It was all so normal, and yet for Erik, it was all so unreal.

"Monsieur Dambray, are you from Paris?" Christine asked, in an effort to find out more about him.

"Yes, mademoiselle, I presently reside in Paris and have for some time, though I was born near Rouen," he answered, crossing his legs and leaning back in the chair at an angle to better observe her.

"And you, mademoiselle?" he inquired. A rather long silence followed.

"Mademoiselle Daaé…?"

"Huh?" At that moment, Christine was distracted. She was staring down at two very long, black-clad legs, a knee of which, she noticed, was casually resting in the massive folds of her skirt.

"Have you always lived in Paris?" he asked again.

"Oh…of course, I live in Paris now. But I was born near Uppsala, in Sweden, though I have no real memory of my time there. My father was Swedish."

"You traveled much as a child?" he asked.

"Yes. My father and I traveled all around Europe."

"Tell me about meeting Strauss. I would love to hear you recount it," he said.

"Are you certain?" she asked with surprise.

"Yes, mademoiselle, please," he added with a sincerity that warmed Christine's heart.

"Oh…all right." She smiled sweetly and thought back. "I remember my father and he spent a pleasant day talking of music and extolling the violin." She laughed softly at the memory. "His wife was very kind and let me play with her doll collection; Papa and her husband talked and laughed all afternoon. Frau Strauss was an opera singer, and I told her it was my dream too. She had me sing for her and the maestro after supper, while my father accompanied me on the violin. Then Herr Strauss picked up his "fiddle," as he called it, and he and Papa played together long into the night. The next evening, my father took me to the Sperl. I watched all the ladies in their beautiful gowns, twirling and whirling around and around Herr Strauss and his orchestra as they played the loveliest music on a white belvedere draped in floral garlands…I'll never forget it as long as I live." She ended softly, looking wistfully at nothing, lost for a moment in her picturesque recollection. Her faint smile faded, her head dipped, and her expression became suddenly sad. "It was very soon after…immediately after we returned to France that my Papa fell ill and…never recovered."

"You miss your father very much."

"Yes, monsieur." She fought to keep her newly-formed tears hidden. "He was everything to me for so long that when he was gone, it seemed I had no one. At my father's request, Madame Giry took me in and brought me here to the opera house, but I don't think I could have ever recovered from his passing if not for…," she faltered.

"For?"

"A very dear friend, monsieur."

"A friend? Here at the opera?"

"Yes."

"Tell me about your friend, mademoiselle," he entreated her.

"He…he is…," she hesitated. "He is my teacher, actually."

"Your teacher is…your friend?" Erik asked, surprised by her words.

"Yes…does that seem strange?" she inquired. "Oh, I know, it probably does. But it does not seem right to refer to him simply as my teacher…he is so much more."

Erik sat silently, contemplating her words as she continued.

"My teacher is wonderful…oh, he can be demanding and quite strict at times, but he listens to me…he truly cares.

"Truthfully, monsieur, I do not know where I would be without him." She smiled fondly and went on, "He saw something in me that I could not see myself. When I first came to the opera to live, he heard me sing; he saw my potential. He has been instructing me ever since, making my voice do things I never thought possible…and he teaches me not just music, but history and philosophy as well. He's had me read books I would have never thought to read…I am truly fortunate to have him." Her face was alight, radiating happiness.

"No, mademoiselle…it is he who is the fortunate one," Erik said so quietly that Christine almost did not hear him.

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Note: Johann Strauss II and the "Artists' Life"

"Künstlerleben" or the "Artists' Life" waltz was written in 1867 by Johann Strauss II. Strauss, who is known as "The Waltz King," wrote the "pop" music of the day, and Erik would have had no trouble walking into any music store in Paris and buying a copy of it.

Johann Strauss II was born in Vienna in 1825, the eldest, musically-gifted son of Johann Strauss I, the waltz king of his own generation (the "Lorelei" waltz or "Loreley-Rhein-Klänge" that Erik mentions in Chapter 1 was one of his most famous compositions). Strauss II was a worldwide celebrity, and he took his orchestra on tour across Europe on many occasions and even made a trip to the United States. Besides composing an endless list of waltzes, polkas, and marches, he also composed many operettas, as well as an opera. He was working on a ballet based on "Cinderella" when he died in 1899.