CH 37
Annie stood among the Corps du Ballet as they congregated at the door of the opera house to bid the copper haired ballerina goodbye. Marie had carried her one small suitcase to the coach, securing it to the back before folding the younger girl in a sturdy embrace. Once she was seated with the door securely closing her in, Giselle looked out through the window and gave them all sorrowful wave before the crack of the coachman's whip set the carriage on its way. It was the second goodbye Annie had experienced within the span of eight days, and while it was less heartrending than the first, it was still extremely jarring.
She recalled the events of the previous night, as the dancers were readying for the evening performance.
"When did you know?" one of the girls had asked curiously.
"I suspected earlier this week," Giselle responded in exhaustion, "but only the doctor's words confirmed it in my mind."
"Is it Philippe's," another girl asked, earning her a cold glare from Marie.
"Yes," Giselle sighed sadly. "It could only be Philippe's."
"Have you told him?" another girl piped in.
"Of course she has not told him, you dolt!" Marie snapped, at the end of her patience. "Did you not hear her say she wasn't sure until today?"
"It would not matter if I told him or not," Giselle responded, miserably. "You all…" she paused to take a deep breath. "You all saw what he was doing with…with…," her voice trailed off, not able to say the name of the former ballerina with whom her lover had betrayed her. Gathering her strength, she continued, "He…never loved me."
"Oh Giselle!"
"That might not be true…"
"It's his child…"
"Perhaps if you told him…"
"You will do no such thing!" Madame Delacroix's voice cut through the girls' chatter, as the entire room went silent.
The girls all turned to face the severely dressed woman who had just entered the dressing room. Her expression was stern and rigid yet there was something in her demeanor that told Annie she did not relish saying what she was about to say.
"You will not tell the future count about the child," she commanded. "You will have no further contact with him or any other member of the de Chagny family. You will not be dancing in the show tonight, and…" she took a breath, as if bracing herself for her next words. "Tomorrow morning, you will be leaving the opera house."
Annie heard the other dancers gasp as Giselle's face crumbled with shame. Marie patted her friend's back, an expression of shock and outrage on her face.
"Madame," Annie heard herself say in a steely voice, before she could think better of it. "This is hardly fair."
Delacroix turned her forbidding gaze toward Annie, raising an eyebrow as she said, "Fair or not, it is the managers' decision."
"Philippe de Chagny had just as much to do with this situation as Giselle," Annie pressed on, against her better judgment. "Why is she bearing the brunt of it alone?"
"Because Philippe de Chagny is a nobleman by birth," Delacroix informed her with a tight smile, irritation clear behind her eyes, "and the son of the opera house's chief patron. This affords him certain…," she took another deep breath before continuing her sentence, tightening her expression even more, "privileges."
"The privilege of abandoning his own child?" Annie asked, incredulously. "And the woman who is bearing it?"
"Mademoiselle Laramie!" Delacroix snapped sharply. "I would advise you to watch your tone and remember to whom you are speaking. It is a woman's responsibility to protect herself against such…unfortunate…occurrences—and to always remember," she spat, addressing the entire group, "noblemen do not marry dancers! Not even ones who are carrying their bastard children!" Taking one last steadying breath and lifting her head, she regained her composure, before adding, "Dancers, I expect to see you all at places for your first cue. Mademoiselle Fontaine, you will be filling in for Mademoiselle Bonnet'. Mademoiselle Bonnet'," Delacroix continued, looking at Giselle. "I would suggest you use this time to pack. The carriage will be here early tomorrow morning." With a crack of her baton, Madame Delacroix turned and exited the room.
The room immediately burst into a flurry of activity, as Giselle broke down in tears and the rest of the girls crowded around her, trying to be of some comfort. Annie stood off to the side, watching the situation with her hands curled into fists. This situation was deplorable, and she felt utterly powerless to do anything to help. Philippe de Chagny had declared his love for Giselle. He lured her into his bed with the promise of a future together, all the while carrying on a torrid affair with Babette Sorelli on the side. He always knew his dalliances with both women were completely meaningless—fully aware that because of the privilege of his birth, he would never have to bear any responsibility or shoulder any blame if something like this were to happen. And now, when the more innocent of his two lovers found herself to be carrying his child, she was being stripped of her dream of dancing on the stage, just to spare the count's son any embarrassment. It was disgraceful. It was reprehensible. It was unfair!
"Fair or not, it is the managers' decision."
Without a word, Annie stormed out of the dressing room, slamming the door behind her. She stalked down the hall to the managerial wing, and pounded on Giles Giry's door.
"Mademoiselle Laramie," Giles began, a smile lighting his features as he opened to door and stepped to the side to allow her entry. "I was not expecting…"
"How could you?" she demanded, brushing past him to get into his office. "How could you be so unfair?"
Eyebrows knitting together at Annie's obvious ire, Giles closed the door and turned to her, "I'm sorry, I don't understand…"
"Really?" she retorted, her eyes aglow with indignation. "You don't understand that Philippe de Chagny is just as much to blame as Giselle for her current predicament? And yet you would send her away without even informing him that she is carrying his child?"
Taking in a deep breath, Giles exhaled loudly before beginning calmly, "Mademoiselle, please believe me…"
"I don't believe you!" she spat angrily. "When I was alone…when I needed help…you were there for me. You offered your cottage when you barely even knew who I was! Why me, Monsieur Giry? Why did you help me, when you are being so cruel, so unfeeling, so…."
"Antoinette, please listen to me!" Giry exclaimed, his blue eyes blazing as he finally lost hold of his calm, professional demeanor.
Startled by the curt tone of his voice as well as his use of her first name, Annie just stared at him. Tension and defensiveness were clear in his expression, as well as a touch of…regret? After a moment, Annie looked down and quietly said, "I'm listening."
Giles inhaled deeply to calm his nerves. With a quiet, shaky voice, he said, "It was not my decision. Monsieur Richard and Monsieur Moncharmin…outvoted me. They were afraid of the scandal that a pregnant dancer would bring upon the opera house. They do not wish to lose the Count's patronage."
"The Count's son plays a large part in this scandal," Annie stated, but in quieter tones.
"I know, and I agree with you," Giry told her. "But the nobility does not always enjoy being forced to own up to its mistakes."
"They are forcing her to leave," Annie added softly. "In the morning."
"I am aware," Giles told her, nodding gravely. "The carriage is arranged…"
"Can you not convince them otherwise?" she implored him.
Looking at the plea that was clear in her eyes, Giles wished nothing more than that he could. "I did try, but Moncharmin and Richard simply would not hear of it. The opera house policy is that dancers who are showing signs of pregnancy cannot perform—and since she cannot dance, she cannot stay. We do not run a boarding house."
"She is not showing yet," Annie tried one last time to make him see reason.
"But she soon will be," Giles answered. "Plus, with the added problem of the Count's son being the father…they thought it best she leaves immediately."
Annie nodded, looking down at the floor. She believed that Giles had, indeed made the effort to convince the other two hardheaded managers to give Giselle a chance. Still, it did not make her feel any better about the situation. "I apologize, Monsieur Giry," she said not looking at him, as she turned to go. "For taking up your time."
"Mademoiselle Laramie," Giles exclaimed, rushing to beat her to the door. "Wait!"
Annie glanced up and saw a look of desperation on his face.
Giles swallowed the lump in his throat and said, "I apologize for using your first name earlier…"
"It is alright, Monsieur Giry," she said, shaking her head to dismiss his worries.
"No. It…" he quickly added. "It signifies a familiarity which I have not yet earned. I meant no disrespect."
"None taken," Annie assured him. "I apologize for barging in here and raising my voice to you. I had no right."
"You were angry," Giles told her. "And you had good reason. I admire your willingness to defend your colleague and I am flattered that you felt you could express yourself to me."
Annie looked down and nodded, not at all certain what to say.
"And I want you to know, Mademoiselle Laramie," Giles added more softly when Annie said nothing. "That I would do it all again."
Annie looked up at him with narrowed eyes. "Do what again?"
Giles chuckled to himself, "I do seem to have an inability to make myself clear when I am speaking with you." With a sheepish smile he added, "But I want you to know that I would choose to help you again. I would offer you my cottage. I would encourage you to audition here. I would not change anything about the way I have treated you."
"Why?" Annie questioned.
"Because I knew from that first moment," Giles told her with a nervous smile, "that you were remarkable. The way you steal each night's show as a member of the ballet, and the way you stormed in here to do battle for your friend simply confirms what I always knew was true. You are very special, Mademoiselle Laramie."
She gazed up into his kind blue eyes, and shook her head sadly, before saying, "So is Giselle."
And with that, she'd turned the handle and walked out the office door.
In the morning, Madame Delacroix watched as the hired coach carried Giselle away from her fondest hopes and dreams. Finally, with a cluck of disgust, she turned away from the road and looked at her dancers, shaking her head. "Our numbers are dwindling, ladies," she told them. "First we lost Babette and now Giselle—and ironically because of the same man. Let this be a lesson to all of you!" she added, holding a finger up to make her point. "Keep your legs closed! And whatever you do, don't get pregnant!"
She stalked off in irritation as the crowd of girls began to disperse. Rehearsals would not start for at least another hour, and as Annie took her time walking to the rehearsal room, Giselle's situation weighed heavily on her mind. It was not fair. It was not right.
They had prohibited Giselle from even telling Philippe that her child was his, but would anything have changed if he'd known? According to Madame Delacroix and Giles Giry, the answer was no. The Aristocracy played by different rules than the rest of society. Their privilege allowed them to ignore their mistakes, overlook their responsibilities. If they get caught in an affair with an unmarried girl, they simply get the girl fired from her job. When they impregnate a lover they have no intention of marrying, they have no problem sending the lover—and the child—away. It is of no concern that the woman will have to scrimp and save every penny that she manages to earn, while the man lives out a life of luxury. It is easy for a nobleman to forget that the child—his child—will never know a minute of the privilege he so enjoys. It is simply a minor inconvenience—a small blemish that is easily swept under the rug.
A real man, Annie knew, would never behave that way. He would no sooner betray his lover than he would abandon his child. A real man would meet his responsibilities. A real man would marry the woman and help her to raise the child. A real man like… like…
Erik!
Annie stopped in her tracks as she recalled the night before Erik left for Monaco. It had been a magical night when they had spoken vows to one another—promises of everlasting love, and a future spent together forever. They had sealed those vows with acts of love—consummating their bond with their hearts, their minds and their bodies. Was it possible that in their passion for one another they had created a life? Could it be, that even now, she might be carrying Erik's baby?
Annie's hands trembled as they clasped together over her abdomen. Oh, would that it were true! Being pregnant with Erik's child would be the answer to her prayers.
Erik would be absolutely overjoyed to know that a new life had been created through their union. Annie knew he would do all that was within him to care for her and the child. He would marry her immediately, of course, declaring before the entire world that she and the baby were his family. Obviously, she would no longer be able to dance at the Garnier—Giselle's situation had proven that!—so staying in Paris would no longer be an imperative. She could move with her love to Monaco, where he would continue his work with the esteemed Charles Garnier. They could live together, she, Erik and the child, in a little home by the sea, and when she was recovered from giving birth to their baby, she could dance in the magnificent opera house that would bear her love's own mark. What did she care if she danced on the Paris stage? A stage built by Erik's own hands would be far greater, in her opinion.
Annie's spirits rose as she turned back toward the dormitories, feeling suddenly hungry for the breakfast she had skipped earlier that morning. Her hands continued to hover by her middle, feeling for the first time in a week, that perhaps she was not so very alone after all.
The full moon cast a soft glow on the swirling black waters below Monte Carlo, as figures both imagined and remembered spilled onto the pages of Erik's sketchbook. Laying the heavy stones for the opera house's foundation had been long and arduous work—but Erik was happy to do it, since he knew that each stone set in place was a step closer to his future. And though it was clear that the rest of the crew merely tolerated him for his strong back and eagerness to work, Erik found that being a part of building the new opera house stimulated his imagination. Visions of soaring heights and gilded angels swam in his mind, encouraging him to press on even as his muscles screamed in protest at their harsh treatment.
But now the backbreaking work had temporarily ceased and day had ebbed and flowed into a long and lonely night—made all the darker because Annie was not there to share it with him. The scent of sea salt burned his nostrils, making him long for the sweet fragrance of rose petals floating up from his beloved's hair. Sleep would not come to him, since his cot seemed to be so much rockier than the ground on which he had slept for years, using Annie's bosom as a pillow. Every second the darkness drew on was a reminder that his heart was not with him, and so he forced his mind to expel onto the page the images his work inspired, since he knew this was the only way he would survive this separation.
So absorbed was Erik in his work, that he never noticed the shadowy figure approaching in the darkness until he was right beside him.
"Do I not keep you busy enough during the day to inspire rest at night?" a familiar voice teased. "Do I need to give you heavier stones?"
Erik startled, once again irritated with himself for letting the man catch him off guard. Closing the book out of instinct, Erik turned to face his employer. "Monsieur Garnier! I did not expect to see you here."
"I might say the same about you, Erik," the older man smiled, lowering himself down beside his employee. "Having trouble sleeping?" he asked, looking out at the water before them.
Erik nodded, "I am, sir."
"So am I," Garnier responded. "It is difficult to sleep when there is so much to consider…" his voice trailed off as he stared out at the horizon, and Erik detected a wistful note to his gaze that signified his employer was thinking about more than the opera house. They were quiet for a moment, both lost in their own untold thoughts, until Garnier looked over at the book that lay across Erik's lap. "Sketching, I see?"
"I had hoped, sir," Erik said, by way of explanation, "that it would help to clear my mind."
"Did it work?" Garnier asked.
Erik sighed, looking down at the book in his lap, "No sir, it did not."
"Never does for me, either," Garnier sighed, and once again, Erik noted a tone of regret in his employer's demeanor. "May I see what you've been working on?" Garnier asked next.
Erik's chest tightened in dread. "Oh, sir," Erik tried to dissuade him. "It was nothing. Just some scribbles. Nothing worth your attention."
"Looked like more than that to me," Garnier retorted, not willing to let his mysterious employee off the hook. "Besides, it is a company sketchbook," he added, raising his eyebrow at Erik for emphasis.
"I…I apologize sir," Erik said nervously, since he had, in fact, procured the book from the supply store in Garnier's makeshift office.
"No need to apologize," Garnier dismissed his contrition with a wave of his hand. "I have been watching you, Erik. You do fine work, son—and probably more than your share. I do not begrudge you the sketchbook. I only wish to see what you have been filling it with."
Feeling slightly nauseated, Erik passed the book over, stating, "I am, as always, your obedient servant, sir."
Erik barely breathed, as Garnier opened the cover, the soft rustle of pages seeming to pull all of the oxygen out of his lungs. "Erik," Garnier said quietly after a moment, "perhaps you have talents we have yet to explore."
Erik did not know how to respond to the man's implied compliment, simply looking out silently over the inky waters below.
"These designs…" Garnier muttered, peering with great interest at the scribbled illustrations on the page. "These ideas are…remarkable." He turned another page, "So elegant…so graceful… and yet, perfectly functional."
Erik turned his head slightly so that he could take in the sight of his employer poring over the sketchbook with care. He could not believe what he was hearing. Charles Garnier—the genius behind the Paris Opera House—was thumbing through his sketches, and he liked them? How was this possible?
"Why did you do this, here?" Garnier asked, gesturing to a point on the page. Erik looked over at the book and saw that the man was pointing to the drawing Erik had done of the grand chandelier that was to be installed once construction was completed. Only Erik had made his own modifications. "Candles? To what end?"
"Well, sir," Erik cleared his throat and responded. "I do believe candles have a timeless charm."
"We have plans to wire the thing for electric light—just as we did in Paris."
"Yes, sir," Erik tapped the page excitedly, "But I believe by using electric lights fashioned to look like candles instead of globes, we can preserve old world charm while still providing the latest in modern convenience."
Slowly, Garnier nodded, the right side of his mouth turning up into a smile. "I like it," he exclaimed. "I would like to show this design to the craftsman, if you agree."
Erik felt a bubble of excitement build up in his chest. "Of course, sir," he nodded, still in awe that Charles Garnier wanted to use one of his ideas for the opera house.
"I thought Pierre said you had no training in architecture or design," Garnier continued, as he turned the page and saw another of Erik's designs—this time the interior of a stately home.
"That is true, sir," Erik confirmed.
"Then where did you learn so much about design?" Garnier asked, turning his face to look Erik directly in the eyes.
"I did much reading…as a child," Erik began, trying to frame his boyhood loneliness in a more positive light. "I had a strong interest in other places. Far away places…" he said, as he recalled how often he'd dreamed of just running away to escape his mother's abuse, only to wind up captured by new abusers once he finally had. "I … greatly admired the buildings I would see illustrated in books. And I took to drawing them thinking one day…" One day I might escape, Erik finished his thought silently.
Garnier's eyes narrowed as he regarded his new employee. From the guarded expression in the boy's eyes, it was obvious that there was more to his story—and much of it was probably unpleasant. Still, his drawings in the sketchbook were outstanding, and even more noteworthy because they were a product of natural talent.
Turning back to the sketchbook, Garnier turned another page, and the smile on his face widened. There was no building on this page, nor any plan for an extravagantly decorated interior. No, on this page, he looked upon a drawing of a girl in a tutu, her neck curved in an elegant arch, her cherubic face angled upward triumphantly, with a long trail of black waves flowing behind her.
"She's beautiful," Garnier said simply, and he watched Erik's exposed cheek redden, his eyes soften, and a look of pure joy relax his face.
"She is…" Erik began, his voice wistful with his sudden longing for Annie, "my fiancée."
Garnier gazed at Erik in surprise. "Your fiancée?" he asked. "She is a dancer?"
"Yes, Monsieur," Erik nodded, his eyes still gazing upon the picture. "At the Opera House in Paris."
Garnier smiled even wider when he realized that meant she was dancing on a stage he himself had designed. "Pardon me, Erik," he began in a jovial tone. "But if this woman, who is in Paris, has agreed to marry you, what in the hell are you doing here?"
Erik chuckled a bit despite himself at the tone of disbelief in Garnier's voice. "I am giving her a chance to come to her senses," he said, joking a bit on his own. But then, in all seriousness, he said, "I could not find a job in Paris, Monsieur Garnier. No one would give me a chance, because of my…" Erik paused, hesitant to mention his one feature that caused him the most shame. Garnier had yet to ask Erik about his mask, preferring to judge upon his efforts rather than his appearances. Erik knew, however, the man must have noticed, so steeling himself for a discussion he did not want to have, he finished his sentence, "my mask."
Garnier was quiet a moment more, understanding that the mask was a point of great discomfort for his young employee. Still, he was curious. "Why do you wear the mask, Erik?" he asked conversationally, as if Erik's answer, either way, would have little bearing on how the man would think of him.
Taking a deep breath, Erik explained. "I was born with a deformity, Monsieur," he said gravely. "My…face… is hideous. Not even my… mother…" he forced out the word with some difficulty, "could bear to look upon it. And so I have worn a mask my whole life." Erik's eyes fell back to the inky waters of the Mediterranean, as if they could somehow wash him clean of his imperfections.
Garnier truly felt for Erik, this clearly talented young man who had obviously met great rejection because of the misfortune of his face. The few words he spoke said much in terms of the sadness that must have plagued him his entire life. Having always been a sickly man, Garnier could relate to some of the difficulties Erik must have faced, and he was very grateful, in that moment, that Pierre had sent this fine young man to him. After another moment of quiet, he asked, "But she?" gesturing to the beauty on the page. "She has no problem with the mask?"
"Oh, she despises the mask," Erik laughed again, remembering the scoldings Annie had given him over the years when he would forget and wear the mask in her presence. "But her answer is for me to not wear it at all when I am with her—which is something I doubt very many other people could wish of me."
"Then you have cleaved yourself to a very fine woman indeed," Garnier said, with a smile. "For she obviously understands that a man's worth is not in his face, but in his deeds, and in his character. You must miss her terribly."
"I do," Erik said, feeling the ache in his chest intensify as he remembered how Annie would gaze upon him with all the love in the world filling her eyes—how she would touch him as softly as she would a precious gem. "I do."
"Then make her proud, son," Garnier smiled, with a fatherly affection. "And get back to Paris and marry her!"
Smiling, Erik looked at his employer. "You sound very much like her, Monsieur."
The two men shared a laugh then, and Garnier flipped another page. When he turned his head to glance down at the sketchbook, he caught his breath in a loud gasp. "Erik!" Garnier exclaimed. "How can you know?"