"There is to be a gathering later this evening, I was told." Phillipe had to call over the applause some, so his brother would be able to hear him. Glancing back to the managers he then returned his eyes to the cheering Raoul, who didn't seem as if he'd be silent any time soon. Laughing and giving a shake of his head, he clasped his bother's shoulder. "You're going to go hoarse if you keep that up, then how will you speak to your lady?"
Clapping until his hands stung, Raoul finally turned to his brother, that boyish grin back upon his lips. "Yes, yes. I heard you. Will you be joining the rest of us?" To which Phillipe shook his head. "I've a many number of things to tend to. In fact, I should be leaving now. I'll leave Claude with you, so you can have a ride home." Donning his hat he gave a polite bow to the managers then made his way from the box.
"Before the gathering, I would like to meet her." Turning to the managers as they collected their things, Raoul started out of the box with them, a bit of a bounce in his step. "Yes, yes, of course. The party will not start for another hour or so, giving the cast time to wind down and change from their costumes." Setting the opera glasses aside for them to be collected later by the box attendants, Andre lifted from his seat and gathered his hat and cane. Doing the same, his partner was beaming once more. "Perhaps if we can get through the masses we can have you waiting at her door."
Holding his elbow out for his wife, she settled her hand along the inner elbow and walked with him to and down the stairs. "I cannot believe how successful that was. I can honestly say that it was one of the most promising things I have seen in a while. We made quite a choice, Andre." Glad that their box had a sure shot to a semi-clear path, they both glanced back to ensure that Raoul was still behind them.
"Successful? It was a tour de force! I believe Miss Daae will prove to be a wonderful discovery. Dropped into our laps, rather." A little joke between them concerning the backdrop that had fallen upon 'poor Carlotta.' The two of them laughed on their way toward the dressing rooms.
The trio inched through the crowded wings: the excited and rambunctious ballerina, her stern and secretive mother, and the flabbergasted and star struck Prima Donna all pushing through the masses towards the equally congested corridor. Young patrons already filled the halls, awaiting the chance to strike up a friendly conversation with a member of the corps de ballet, beautiful girls, but most were daft and dull witted.
It was easy enough to slip past their barricade, Giry's icy stern glares repelling their heated hearts. However, the page boys could not be steered from their path as they approached Christine swiftly, two boys hardly a day over thirteen holding carefully in their arms, as predicted, the scores of roses they'd collected from the stage surface.
Of course, Christine was much too faint by the events of the night, so Giry and her daughter took them up instead, leading the young woman into her dressing room, only to find more tokens of adoration. Wall to papered wall was pink, intermingled with a bundle of white here and there to signify the other would-be suitors. She had yet to take note to the single red one upon her dresser, tied up with black satin and standing forth from the scene as a rather foreshadowing reminder of her Angel of Music.
Hearing Meg before he actually saw the woman, Erik turned his gaze to the door as the women filed in, and he scowled faintly. From the look of the young diva she was going to need rest, and he wagered a guess that her company would not be remaining for too long. For the time being he remained the silent observer.
Meg closed the door behind them swiftly, moving to guide Christine's weary trek to her chaise. Her eyes were wide, her manner bubbly as she fretted over her friend. "Look at all these roses! Oh, what a success you were! Where in this world have you been hiding, Christine? Really, you were perfect!" She laughed, clapping her hands as fitfully as a child, hardly acknowledging her mother's presence. That is, until the cold resonance of her voice lifted. "Really, Meg. Let the child alone for a moment." She took her child by her arm gently, tugging her away as Christine herself laughed softly and shook her head. "Oh no, I'm alright."
Meg, stung by her mum's stern reprimand, sulked away to idly observe and paw gently at the roses. The flowers seemed never ending, their hues rich against the thick carpet and golden fixtures of Christine's new dressing room. How quickly things could change over night in the Opera House. The chattering that filtered in from the corridor signaled the Dance Mistress to take her temporary leave, before she would once again return to assist the managers before the gathering.
She turned to face her child, clapping quickly as she moved for the door. "Meg Giry, are you a dancer?" The blonde turned quickly, nodding in vague confusion toward the question, folding her arms behind her back, in a half attempt to shield that costumed backside from the ever so painful blow of her mother's cane. "Then get to your dressing room, and don't forget to return your costume to wardrobe!" Without further hesitation the pair moved for the exit.
Christine would have watched the two leave, offered some sort of gratitude for their kind assistance, only ... something had caught her eye. That rose there upon her dresser seemed quite strange in a room of pink and white heavenly hues. It was the deepest of red – the bow, the blackest of ebony. She stood from her chaise, a rustle of fabric her accompaniment as she inched toward the dresser surface slowly, picking the thorny rose carefully up into her grasp.
She held it extended before her, studying its strange presence. As Madame Giry turned to close the door behind her, her gaze shot immediately to the object in Christine's hand. She said nothing but turned on her heels and closed the door behind her, urging her child through the stuffed corridor hurriedly – as if that room itself proved a dangerous portal to some unseen Hell.
While the managers spoke Raoul thought over what he would say to her. Would she even remember him? He remembered her, remembered all he needed to spark memories within her. But what if it wasn't who he thought it had been? It couldn't be any other woman, how many Daaes were out there? Or Christines in Paris for that matter? It wasn't a common name this day and age.
In a way he felt so foolish, just like he had when he thoughtlessly jumped into that freezing water to fetch the young girl's scarf, then asked for a kiss on the cheek as a reward. He had been so awkward then, and now he had the sense of familiarity with that feeling. He was again jumping into water, taking a chance of disappointment if it wasn't his dear Christine.
If the two glanced back to him more than once, he hadn't noticed. His mind was in the past, and he swore he could hear the distant lilting of a violin. It brought a smile to his lips.
"I think we've lost him," one whispered to the other, then began laughing. Firmin wasn't paying attention; he kept going on about the success, and, of course, the money. "Not one single refund from hearing about the change of cast. And not a seat empty either!" Andre just shook his head, but the other man's wife said it all with her soft murmur: "You are so greedy."
"Oh no, gentlemen, I'm still quite here." Chuckling deeply, Raoul shook his head gently and finally focused on just where he was going. If he had to head back to his carriage, he'd need to know how to get through this maze of hallways and stairs. Having to pause a moment as they were suddenly swarmed with people, the two gave their thanks and collected the gifts offered; a bouquet for the lady, and for the managers bottled of champagne and wine. Raoul hadn't been with them before, and upon seeing the man there were a few whispers between people.
The rumor mill began to warm up.
Finally making their way to the back wings, the stairs that led to the dressing rooms were taken. Because of her new status, as of the night prior, Christine no longer remained within that tiny room, but the one that had been once used by Carlotta's understudy, who was still quite ill. Even with its elevated size, the amount of flowers made it seem smaller. At least she could walk through without brushing into a bloom or two.
Lifting a hand he passed his fingers through the long strands, easing them back neatly, and adjusting his coat he brushed off a portion of unseen dust at the sleeve, making himself look presentable, even if he was whispered to be the epitome of perfection by ballet girls he passed. He didn't seem to hear the comments, his mind set on one thing and one thing only; meeting Christine again. This was revealed in a bit of impatience.
Turning he glanced to the managers and gestured to the hallway they were roaming down. "This is the final leg, Messieurs?" Restless, he gave another slight shift to his jacket and faced forward again with a growing smile.
"Yes, we are almost there. Right down the hallway from La Carlotta's room," Andre mentioned, motioning to the large doubled doors that were at the top of the stairs they were drawing close to. When they came to a closer set of doors with ivory handles surrounded by brass, Andre motioned to them with a grin. "Here we are, Monsieur le Vicomte. Would you like for us to announce you, or perhaps present her to you?"
As embarrassing as it was, he had to give a slight lean against the portion of wall beside him, his hand settled against the arrow that pointed toward Piagni's room. Drawing in a slow breath and gathering his composure, he nodded then stepped forward to the door, though he paused at the manager's words. "Ah, no thank you. If you don't mind, this is one visit I'd enjoy unaccompanied. Though..." He leaned over and snagged the bottle from Firmin's hands and grinned to him. "..I will take this. Thank you, messieurs." Again turning to the door he placed his hand upon the ivory and drew in a slow breath.
Time to jump into the freezing sea.
Grateful that the Madame warded Meg out of the room before she drove poor Christine mad with her bubbly nature, Erik turned his attention from the door and to her as she lifted the rose. Out of all the flowers that were within her room, it was that one that she picked up first. It was no surprise to him, considering it stood out vividly. A soft dampening of his lower lip, and he let his voice reach her, echoing ever so gently within the expanse of the room, and coming from the crimson bloom itself. "You were beyond perfect, my dear. How does it feel to have the world in your hands? At your feet?" He smiled gently, the gesture heard within his words. The word 'proud' wasn't enough to describe what he felt.
Such a strange fascination Christine had with such a flower, her gaze never leaving its tight petals as she shifted and moved to sit atop her upholstered stool. Her gown rustled loudly with the movement, fanning around her as she leaned her elbows idly upon the oak surface. Daintily, she touched the tip of each finger to the thorns, reflecting distantly upon her performance and sighing quite heavily with the poor favor she had fallen in with herself, that radiant creature with the face of a Botticelli angel, so distant from her success.
Distant until that voice pierced the air softly, traveling directly into her heart as a smile immediately crawled to her lips. He had seen her perform! She sat poised then, placing the rose gently onto the dresser as she lifted her otherwise downtrodden chin, the movement stirring her tumbling nest of curls. She still wore the dazzling halo of sorts, and if not for the crystal sewn fabric, the aforementioned wreath of stars, and the tint of her heavy stage makeup – her joy alone would have filled the room with brightened light.
It warmed him to see her joy, the brightness in her eyes and the scarlet upon her cheeks – that wasn't from the thickness of the makeup. She thoroughly deserved the praise, and he enjoyed giving it to her. Lips parted to continue, but then his voice became trapped as he stopped it abruptly. Though she might not have noticed the shifting of the handle, he did. He had to pay attention to such things, especially since he spoke to her.
He wanted no others to hear his voice as they walked in, not unless he wanted them to hear. Then he stepped in, the one he knew to be the patron of the Opera House. The Vicomte de Chagny. What was he doing here? And entering a woman's dressing room without warning or even permission? He felt his jaw set firmly as well as fingers curl deeply enough that beneath the gloves of leather, his knuckles were stark white. If looks could kill, the fop would be burned to cinders by now.
A thousand times over.
For those that know me.. you knew I had to use the word 'fop' at least once, heh.