Chapter 20

An hour before the curtain rose on the opening night of Le Baudelaire, the entire staff and cast joined for a meeting. I stood at the corner of the stage near the lights along the lip, Jeanette and Marie on either side of me. The dancers, chorus, and principals were in full costume and paint. Each dancer wore her headdress draping over her hair and down to the middle of her upperback. I found myself studying them to ensure the dresser had affixed the piece correctly over the young women's chignons. All appeared well.

I leaned forward slightly and took in the general appearance of the cast, but couldn't see the entire picture. Looking to make sure that the managers had not yet appeared, I went about the curtains, crossing beneath the drop rafters and to the stairs leading to the floor. I hurried to the center, and plopped down in a front row seat.

"Can all of you look at me, please?" I raised my voice, loud and clear, over the chatter. All eyes turned to me. I traveled down the line of performers with my gaze until I ascertained all the costumes were donned properly and projected well into the theatre.

With an apologetic smile, but not sorry for making certain our work had been dislayed correctly upon each individual, I walked quickly back onto stage, my face unable to quell the smile that my lips formed. The triumph that soared through me at how perfectly designed and created the costumes were was worth a thousand days like the ones I'd had recently. Remember this precious feeling. This is what you stand to lose.

The managers appeared a moment later and a gave an impassioned speech of how vital and important this night was to the future of the Opera Populaire. They urged each individual, whether their role was the diva or the small boys who would run drinks of water to the men toiling in the flies, to do their best. Monsieur Andre introduced the two new patrons. Both gentlemen stood, their eyes moving lavaciously over the dancing girls. I heard Carlotta stamp angrily and bit my lip to keep from laughing. Jeanette leaned over and whispered in my ear.

"You didn't cut her bodice low enough. She's going to have your head after the performance."

I lookedincreduoulsy downthe line, finding the redheaded woman tugging at her dress while trying to bat her eyes at the two patrons.

"She's in for a nasty shock. They're both eyeing Meg," I murmured. Both men's eyes had gone wide at the sight that little Giry's bodice showcased.

"Madame Giry will chase them about the stage with her cane." Marie wickedlywhispered on the other side.

The three of us must have pictured the sight all at once, for Jeanette began to shake, Marie trembled, and I bit my tongue so hard I tasted blood. And once a group of two or more began to laugh about the same thought, it was difficult to stop, even after the hilarity wore off.

I closed my eyes tightly, tears slipping down my cheeks, my hand clasped to my stomach. Jeanette and Marie were both propped against either of my shoulders, nearly choking with holding in the laughter.

"Ladies!" Andre boomed and we lifted our heads still shaking uncontrollably. "Is there something you'd care to share with us?" He raised one brow, looking furious.

"No, Monsieur," I managed to gasp out, my sides cramping horribly. "No, I'm sorry."

The twins nearly collapsed against me.

"Well, since obviously everyone is overjoyed about tonight, let us open the doors!" He clapped his hands and he and Monsieur Firmin and the two gentlemen smartly turned and exited the stage. Monsieur Reyer peeked his head out above the orchestra pit.

"Places! Places, please!" He called fretfully, his bushy brows wiggling furiously.

I took a girl in each hand and turned them to the backstage area resolutely. We exploded into laughter. I felt like a school girl again.

Minutes later, we stood behind the curtains, watching the performance begin. The lights along the stage had been lit, the auditorium dimmed, and the curtain slowly opened. The magic began.

I sank slowly to my knees to sit and watch as the dancers began to float out upon the stage, their movements graceful. The music swelled and grew, then drifted throughout the auditorium. I closed my eyes, sighing with ecstacy, my lips parting in a smile.

Each time Armand had took me to the Opera, he'd only gone to see and be seen, to further his contact and political influence, but never to simply listen and enjoy. I'd had to accompany him, on his arm, his tall, elegant wife, gowned to perfection, each curl glistening, my throat winking with jewels, as he'd moved from box to box. I didn't dare suggest that we go back to our own box to watch the performance. To do so would have invited a savage beating later for embarassing him.

But now I not only was able to sit and soak in the magic and mystery of it all, but to actually know that the beautiful clouds of aqua chiffon whirling about the stage in time with the swirling music were mine.

I sat, enraptured as Meg slowly pirouetted onto the stage, her golden hair loose, her scarlet sash saucily tied about her small waist. Gilles Dunoue, the principal male dancer leapt onto the stage with bravado, insantly swooping to Meg and lifting her into the air and then allowing her to slowly slide down the length of his body. She coyly spun away from him, and removed her sash, then began a sensual solo, teasing him mercilessly with the banner of scarlet red. He followed her, his arms outstretched, finally rewarded as she threaded the sash through her ownarms and about his neck. He caught the length of chiffon and used it to pull her to him, where he gathered her in his arms, then slowly swept off the stage with her.

Beside me, Madame Giry stood. She gripped my shoulder and I raised my head to look at her.

"That sash was the perfect prop. I'm very pleased I bowed to you on that." I smiled up at her and looked back to the stage, blinking back tears. Praise indeed, coming from the very demanding ballet mistress.

The next scene began and soon the theatre was swelling with the voices of the chorus and principals, the air trembling with each note.

I shifted my eyes away from the performers for one moment and looked toward the audience. In one of the boxes over the left side of the stage sat a fashionably dressed couple, his golden brown head bowed to her deep chocolate curls. The love between them was obvious as Raoul trailed a hand gently down Christine's softly curved cheek. She leaned into his hand, kissing his palm. He leaned forward, taking her lips under his. Her hand rose to his hair, brushing some behind his ear.

I lowered my eyes, my chest constricting. Tears blurred my eyes as I studied my trembling hands. I opened my fingers and stared at the red, scraped palms with an aching heart.

I knew it was very possible, that after this afternoon, I was falling in love with an angry, destoyed man who would never return my affections.

My eyes raised to the young couple once more and the gentleness with which he pressed a kiss to her hair. How many times had I cried myself to sleep wishing that Armand would touch me like that?

I was broken myself. How was I ever to love a broken man?