A Star is Born

Several Weeks Later.

La Carlotta closed the door to her dressing room, swearing under her breath in her native Spanish. Another meeting with the patrons. Another morning spent rejecting their futile pleas for an understudy. As she traversed the plush carpeted halls, the Bella Diva spotted her favorite target.

"Ah, Street Urchin," Carlotta smiled at Sorelli with false warmth. "I had the pleasure of seeing your Comte today. He was dressed quite nicely."

"Yes, I know." Sorelli forced a smile as well. "I had the pleasure of seeing him after he left you. He undresses quite nicely as well."

La Carlotta laughed at her enemy's reply. Sorelli always had a quick wit—a quality that Carlotta admired. It always made their encounters interesting.

Sorelli thought back to an earlier conversation with Phillippe. She knew that Victoire had already found an understudy for Carlotta. As much as she wanted to, Sorelli did not reveal this little tidbit to Carlotta. Such a remark would send the Spanish singer into a whirlwind of a tantrum; Sorelli was smart enough not to upset the volatile diva.

"Have you heard?" Sorelli looked at her fingernails carelessly. "We are going to have new managers."

"Yes, I have," Carlotta admitted, unsure of where this new line of conversation was headed.

"Perhaps," Sorelli still did not look at her adversary. "They will realize that certain performers are past their time. Perhaps some of us will be let go."

"Perhaps," Carlotta agreed, suddenly feeling a rising sense of fear. After her less-that-friendly run in with the patrons, Carlotta was in a very vulnerable position. If the new managers chose to end her contract, the Spanish diva would find herself without friends or allies.

So, Carlotta was determined to prove to them once and for all just how pivotal she was to the success of the Opera. She decided to play the one card she had left—she simply would feign illness, be unable to perform. Without an understudy, they would be forced to refund a full house. Then they would realize just how valuable the Bella Diva was. That would show them.

~*~

What Carlotta had not counted on was the fact that Victoire de Rossier had already commissioned an understudy. The Comte and his sister were more than prepared when the Diva sent a letter informing the managers that she had a sore throat and would be unable to attend the performance. This note was sent just hours before curtain—typical Carlotta.

"Oh, so she thinks she can pull the strings on my opera house?" Victoire chuckled amusedly as she crumpled up the letter and carelessly tossed it aside. "Well, let us show her who's boss."

She turned expectantly towards her brother, who simply shrugged, "As you wish."

Victoire let out a sigh. Phillippe was positively hopeless. Truth be told, Victoire was more ambitious than her brother, with a level head and an even temper. She was practical in business matters and shrewd with her money--talents that were not appreciated in women by society, which caused her to seek out her brother's assistance in sponsoring the Opera Populaire. Phillippe was the perfect patron--regal, of noble birth, dashing, handsome, well-educated and male. He was merely a smoke screen, the figurehead that kept Victoire's machinations hidden from public eye. In short, Victoire did the work and Phillippe got the credit. But it was an arrangement that both found to their liking: Phillippe enjoyed the praise and celebrity of being the brilliant patron; Victoire enjoyed the idea that all the men who proclaimed her brother's brilliance were really touting her own.

And so this formidable woman sat before Christine Daae, her ice blue eyes sizing up the small, insignificant looking little chorus girl, "She doesn't look like much."

"Looks can be deceiving," Giry replied smoothly, looking Victoire in the eye. Not many people did that.

Victoire smiled, "Alright then, Giry. If you say she's ready to step in for La Carlotta, then I believe you. But remember: if she isn't—"

"She's right here," Giry motioned to the girl seated before her, as if Victoire had forgotten. "Why don't you ask her yourself?"

Victoire turned to Christine once more. Christine felt a slight jump of fear.

"Are you able to do this?" Victoire's eyes seemed to pierce Christine's very soul.

"Yes," Christine replied timidly.

Victoire arched an eyebrow, "Your response is not exactly filling me with confidence."

"I can do it," Christine spoke with a little more force this time. Victoire smiled.

"Good. Now hurry to Costuming. We'll have to make sure everything fits before tonight."

~*~

Sorelli ran a hand over her perfectly coiffed hair. Regine was uncharacteristically quiet tonight, but she didn't really care. She preferred the silence. Normally, she would be mentally preparing for the on and off stage battle with La Carlotta that would usually accompany a performance, but Carlotta was not performing tonight. Some hopeful (hopeless, in Sorelli's opinion) chorus girl was taking her place. So tonight, Sorelli had no competition--all eyes would be on her, where she preferred them.

She looked at herself in the mirror one last time, straightening the bow in her hair and smoothing her gauzy ballet skirt. There was a knock on the door and a call for La Sorelli to report backstage. A final spritz of perfume, one last swig of champagne. Out the door.

~*~

"So nice to see you, Princess," Madame Giry, remarked dryly. La Sorelli had not attended the pre-performance barre exercise.

"A pleasure to see you as well, Madame," Sorelli replied courteously. She was the belle of the ball tonight, nothing could dampen her spirits.

The props were put in place, the lights adjusted just-so, the costumes fitted and tied to perfection. Stage hands lumbered about, yelling instructions and cursing one another loudly. Thankfully, the aristocratic audience could not hear this common clamor over the grand notes of the orchestra warming up. Sorelli exhaled deeply as a chill ran up her spine. This was her favorite time: the split second before the curtain rises and the world roars with delight at the sight of your face. She lived for this moment, the feeling of immortality and invincibility. She'd been here, standing in this very spot a hundred times before, but it never grew old. Each time was unique, but always full of love and adoration.

A homeless street urchin until she was taken in by the principle ballet, Sorelli felt she could never have too much love. She drank it up and begged for more; her wishes were always granted. Heaven forbid that when she grew too old to perform, her faithful followers would leave her in favor of some young, outstanding dancer, but that was many years into the future. Sorelli lived only for the moment.

She looked across the hall at Carlotta's replacement. If her memory served her well, Sorelli thought the child's name was Christine. Poor girl, she was pale as a ghost! She couldn't have been a day over fifteen. And to be taking the place of La Carlotta, Paris' renowned opera performer! What a nemesis!

La Sorelli did not try to comfort Christine. It was not her place to uplift the only other person sharing the spotlight. Better to have Christine completely fail and accent Sorelli's perfection than to have Christine outdo La Carlotta and La Sorelli in one fell swoop.

Everyone rose to their feet at the sight of La Sorelli; she grinned obligingly at her ecstatic audience. As usual, she was perfect--not one misstep, not one wrong turn. She was absolutely breathtaking to watch. Not a whisper stirred among the audience, not a cough dared to interrupt La Sorelli's magic. There was utter silence until the dancer finished her last pirouette with flourish. Then, like a roar of thunder, the audience broke into applause. The curtain lowered and La Sorelli the Triumphant walked away victorious. Glory and honor was hers tonight. Eat your heart out, La Carlotta.

~*~

Now the time had finally come for Christine's grand appearance. She meekly strode onto the stage, her thin lips quivering with fear. She stood still for a moment, frozen with fright. Backstage, the other chorus girls twittered anxiously. She was one of their own, they wished her the best. Besides, if Christine was successful, she would unleash the gate that held back every chorus girl's dream of being a prima donna. If she failed, so would they, and all would be resigned to a lifetime of chorus. How mundane.

La Sorelli also stood backstage, but she was not praying for Christine's success. Her green eyes narrowed in evil delight at the girl's obvious stage fright. Fate favored Sorelli. Or so she thought.

Whispers of shock and confusion rippled through the crowd. Where was La Carlotta? Was she ill? Had she been let go, after so many seasons with the Opera? And to be replaced by some unknown chorus brat! How scandalous!

A change came over Christine's pale face. She would show them. She would prove them wrong. The Orchestra began, slowly, softly. Seemingly from nowhere came a clear, strong voice. It was Christine Daae, bravely carrying the notes to soaring heights and rich lows. Even Sorelli was impressed. The whispers of indignation and outrage subsided. The new angel cast her spell, and Carlotta was pushed to the back of everyone's mind.

The night ended on a high--and grand--note. The audience cheered and whistled and clapped with delight; roses of every color covered the stage. Sorelli sulkily basked in the glow of her adoring public. The chorus brat had upstaged her.

"La Sorelli, what a night!" Phillippe cried out joyously. He stood waiting outside her dressing room, a single rose in hand. "And Christine--how superb! Carlotta will be lucky to remain in the chorus, much less hold the place of principle singer!" Phillippe turned to his younger brother, Vicomte Raoul de Chagny. "You remember Christine, don't you? The violinist's daughter?"

"In the house by the sea, she was called Little Lotte," replied Raoul softly. He was pale, with large, watery brown eyes and a thin nose. Sorelli did not care for him. He was too feminine for her taste. Phillippe, on the other had, was a paragon of beauty and brawn. Perfect skin with a shock of blonde hair that fell boyishly in his eyes, Phillippe was charming and well-bred. What more could an orphaned girl ask for? He was her Prince Charming, come to rescue her from a lifetime of squalor. When she became too old to be of any use to the Opera Populaire, Sorelli would accept Phillippe's long-standing offer and become his mistress, leading life of lavish luxury. The idea that Phillippe may not wait that long never crossed Sorelli's mind. She was content with her plans, shouldn't he be as well?

The chant of "Daae! Daae!" could be heard throughout the halls and dressing rooms. Sorelli rolled her green eyes in distaste and slinked away to her dressing room. She still had her fans, her public. But now she shared them with another. Sorelli was not good at sharing.

And so that night a star was born, this time in the form of young Christine Daae, the dead Swiss violinist's daughter, the hopeful chorus girl who was now catapulted to the highest form of celebrity that Paris could offer: she was the star of the Opera Populaire.