Chapters 34
Strange Bedfellows

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Friday, April 15, 1881
Paris – Palais Garnier

Organized chaos, better known as dress rehearsal, ensued. Today was the first day the company at the Paris Opera had a chance to do a dry run while in their new costumes, with the usual assortment of mismatched and malfunctioning wardrobe articles. In the wings of the Paris Opera house, Anatole Garron was tripping over his new attire, that of the High Priest of Dagon in Camille St. Saëns's opera, Samson et Dalila.

He paced to and fro, shaking wrinkles out of the woolen garb while trying to avoid stumbling over the hem. The costume reminded him of a Roman toga, with its white floor-length gown trimmed around the hem, neckline and cuffs with fancy braid work. It was accented with a maroon cloth draped over his left shoulder held in place by a golden brooch, and made him feel wrapped up like an Egyptian mummy. Worse yet were the wig that reached past his shoulders and tickled the back of his neck, the inordinately heavy headdress (he wondered if Old Testament-era priests really wore such contraptions!) and the false beard that smelled like horse hair.

He glanced out on the stage as he heard the piano accompaniment commence. It was afternoon; most of the vocal parts were done for the day, and singers were either hanging around in the wings or making their way to their dressing rooms. Now it was time for the corps de ballet to go through its paces, as the dancers were trying to work out their movements for the bacchanal sequence. Leading the female dancers was La Sorelli, with Meg and her coterie of ballet rats in tow. Anatole suspected that, from the looks that passed between them, there might be a feud brewing.

Still harrumphing over at the tangled mess he'd made of his costume, Anatole had his eyes cast down and failed to notice that he nearly bumped into another member of the cast.

"You are having troubles with your costume, Garron?"

He looked up in time to see La Carlotta standing in front of him. She, too, was in costume. Dressed as Dalila, she was wearing a sleeveless gown that was made of layers of floating, diaphanous material, almost the color of cream and cinched at the waist with a belt of golden chains, its hems brushing the tops of her sandaled feet. The bodice was decorated in such a way as to draw attention to her feminine curves, and the whole costume was bedecked with garlands of flowers. On her upper arms were gold armlets and around her wrists, bracelets. A golden circlet sat atop her dark, waist-length hair.

"Oh, my apologies," Garron said, making an exaggeratedly formal bow. "I didn't notice you standing there. It's this darned costume. It's worse than awkward. I feel like a walking drapery shop, and fear that I shall embarrass myself when I make my entrance on the stage by promptly tripping over my skirt and falling flat on my…er, face. If that happens, Samson et Dalila shall become a farce, more suited to the halls of the opera comique than the Opera Garnier."

He bestowed upon Carlotta his most charming, congenial smile as he spoke to her, noticing for the first time how attractive she was and suspecting that the almost-transparent fabric of her costume was helping to accentuate her assets. The more he thought about it, the more it occurred to him that the temperamental diva had not been difficult these past few weeks. In truth, she had been quite friendly, so much so that even M. Villeneuve, who was usually driven to despair by her antics, had even been seen with a small smile on his face from time to time. Was it possible that with Christine's resignation, Carlotta was feeling more secure in her position on the stage and was actually softening? Anatole, a man who always appreciated a fine figure of a woman, smiled to himself as he wondered what it would be like to romance the diva.

"Did you have any say as to its design?" he asked politely, indicating her attire.

Carlotta smiled coyly. "Why do you ask? You…like it?" she said as she modeled it for him.

"The color suits you to perfection. And those flowers? Why, the whole effect is enchanting. I doubt there will be a Philistine in the audience whose head you won't turn."

Carlotta giggled like a school girl. "Anatole, you are too kind," she purred. "It is a shame I must seduce Signor Sospenzo. If only Samson were written for a baritone instead of a tenor." Stepping closer, she wound a curl around her index finger as she tilted her head to one side. "It would be much more pleasant seducing you," she said, her voice husky. "Don't you agree?" She leaned closer, ensnaring one of his arms in hers.

At that moment, loud voices disrupted the dancers and caught everyone's attention. "Can't you watch where you're going?" someone shouted. Garron and Carlotta looked at each other, then towards the stage. Meg and Justine appeared to be having a tiff.

"What's going on between those two?" he asked the diva. "La Sorelli looks awfully upset."

"It's the box keeper's daughter who is the cause of all this turmoil. She was bad enough before, the little chit, but now? Meg has been unbearable ever since returning from Nice with the vicomte."

Anatole was amused to hear Carlotta calling Meg "unbearable," those words coming as they did from a woman who, in the past, had perfected the art of being unbearable. He kept his thoughts to himself.

"She wants to supplant La Sorelli as the lead dancer, and is focusing all her effort towards that end. That Giry girl, she lets her 'position' with the vicomte go to her head. She thinks she is something special, but she's nothing more than a common puta." Carlotta spat out the last word, her animosity towards the ballerina quite evident.

Anatole's eyebrows went up at her tirade. "Such language," he chastised playfully, wagging a finger at her.

"It is no more than she deserves to be called. She has been going out of her way of late to make life difficult for La Sorelli. You would think they'd be friends. After all, they're sleeping with brothers."

Anatole scratched his chin as if in deep thought. "Hmm…I never thought of it that way. I guess I need to pay more attention to what's going on around here."

"No, no need to pay attention to them." She struck her most seductive pose. "I am sure I can offer you much better entertainment."

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The dancers finished their rehearsal, and the groups of women broke up into their various cliques. Many were eager to learn more about what was taking place between Meg and Justine, but were disappointed when Sorelli scurried off to her dressing room, hurt and angered, while Meg said nothing but stood with a smug look upon her face.

Looking off into the wings, Meg saw Raoul. Smiling, she went over to greet him. "I wasn't expecting you here so soon," she cooed.

If she was expecting an affectionate greeting from her lover, she was soon dispelled of that notion. Since returning from Nice, Raoul had been in a foul mood. It all had something to do with that trip he made to Delacroix's sanitarium. Meg smiled to herself. He thought she had no idea what was going on, underestimating her – as usual.

The fact of the matter was, all Raoul could think about these days was Erik's disappearance, and the fact that no one seemed to know where the man had been spirited off to. According to Delacroix, their 'patient' had been in no condition to leave under his own power. In fact, he had been so weak that he had to be taken out on a stretcher. Upon learning this, Raoul had tried enlisting his brother's aid, but all Philippe had done was laugh at his predicament.

The more Raoul thought about it, the more positive he was that Christine had engineered Erik's disappearance, and that only fueled his anger. Who else would give a damn about a deformed loner who hung around the opera house? It rankled Raoul every time he thought of how Christine had spurned him. After everything he had tried to do for her, after everything he had offered her, this was how the ungrateful bitch repaid him. He looked up at Meg, and saw that she was waiting for some kind of answer. What he had to say, though, was not what she wanted to hear. "Does anyone know Christine Daaé's whereabouts?"

A huge sigh came out as Meg shook her head in disbelief. "You know, I'm weary of your fixation with Miss Prim and Proper. She's gone. Her lover's gone. Good riddance to them both, I say. I have other problems. That cow, Sorelli, needs to be booted out, but that will not happen as long as she is under your brother's 'protection'. What good is it to be a patron here if you don't use your influence? You need to make him understand that Sorelli is over the hill."

Raoul glared at Meg menacingly. "Mlle Sorelli is the least of our problems. For your information, the opera ghost has escaped."

She snorted. "And I'm supposed to be worried?"

"You should be. Who knows what manner of mayhem he will wreak upon this place. He's a lunatic! A homicidal maniac!"

"If he decides to come after someone, it will be you, not me."

"Perhaps you underestimate your position, Mademoiselle," he said, his voice cold as ice.

Meg laughed sarcastically. "Are you trying to intimidate me? This has nothing to do with any opera ghost and you know it. It has everything to do with Christine turning you down. She never wanted anything to do with you, yet you've continued pursuing her as if she were the Holy Grail. And if you're thinking of getting rid of me, think about this. You will not be setting me aside just because you need a new thrill."

"I…I don't know what you're talking about," he sputtered. This was not going as he had planned. Meg should be cowering at the thought of him leaving her. Instead, she was practically threatening him, was being no more helpful than his brother had been.

"Remember that letter you've been carrying around with you? You know, the one from the sanitarium?" she said with saccharine sweetness. "The one you accidentally left at my apartment a couple of weeks ago?"

Raoul's eyes widened. "Did you…did you read it? Do you have it?"

She barked out a laugh. "You mean, you never noticed that it was gone? Of course, I have it – and read it. Let me elucidate. I know what you've been up to, Raoul de Chagny, and I'm sure that scrawny little witch you've been chasing would appreciate a copy of this letter, to know that you are responsible for whatever happened to her fiancé. And that's not all I know. You see, Christine isn't the only person I've spied on."

"If you know what's good for you…" he started to say, but she interrupted him.

"You'll what?" she spat out, mocking him, enjoying the sight of the great Vicomte de Chagny squirming like a worm on a hook. It was time he learned that Meg Giry was not a woman to be taken lightly. "What will you do? Have me committed? I don't think so. If anything happens to me…," she paused to allow the impact of her words to sink in. "Let's just say I have evidence of assorted nefarious activities committed by a patron of this establishment. Said evidence is in a very safe place, with instructions to be delivered to certain persons of influence should anything happen to me."

Raoul tried to regain the upper hand, to retake control of the situation, which was spiraling out of control. "You misunderstood me, Meg. I was not threatening you. However, perhaps it would be best if I took my leave and left further discussion of the matter for another day when both of us are in better control of our…feelings," he said, pointedly suggesting that it was Meg who needed to rein in her emotions. "It is obvious that we both need to reevaluate our…situation."

"And where do you think you are going? Do you imagine that you're going to walk out of my life that easily?"

"Where I'm going is no concern of yours," he spat back angrily.

"You're wrong there, Raoul. Everything you do concerns me."

"For your information, I have an errand to run. Good day." And with that, he strode off the stage and out of the building, rushing off to Le Coq d'or. He needed to meet with Fournier – and fast.

Meg fumed as she turned to go to her dressing room, weighing her options, not realizing that Anatole and Carlotta had overheard their entire conversation. Like Raoul, Anatole also thought of an errand that needed to be performed. Excusing himself, he hurried past a stunned Carlotta and rushed to his dressing room. There, he quickly changed out of his costume and headed off to see Reynard.

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Saturday, April 16, 1881
Paris – Le coq d'or

"You left word to see me, good monsieur?"

Raoul sat at one of the grimy tables in Le Coq d'or, across from Jean-Claude Fournier. The interior of the place was as dark and dank as it was the first time he'd been here. His stomach tightened when Fournier spoke, a feeling of unease coming over his at having to be indebted to the scoundrel – again.

"It seems our bird has flown," Raoul said, attempting to project an aura of insouciance.

An unpleasant chuckle came from Fournier. "So it seems. The Sûreté's got 'im now. Guess he won't be troublin' you anymore. You think it'll be a public execution? Haven't seen one of them in a long time."

"No, he's not in the custody of the Sûreté. Someone else has him."

Puzzlement showed on Fournier's face. "Whadya mean, someone else? I was told a police inspector came and snatched Monsieur Freak from the loony bin. That's why me an' my associates decided it was time to hightail it from the place."

"Whoever they were, they deliberately misrepresented themselves. They were not sent by the Sûreté. I suspect they were private inquiry agents working for Mlle Daaé."

"Ah," said Fournier, stroking his chin as understanding came to him. "The singer you're in love with, eh?" He laughed mirthlessly. "It looks like it would be to both our benefits to eliminate Monsieur Freak – you, so's you can have your woman, and me, so's I don't have to worry about him makin' trouble for me. Now tell me, exactly what do you want done?" Fournier's eyes took on a hard glint as he considered the various ways in which he would make the other man suffer. Yes, he would gladly dispatch Monsieur Freak to the afterlife, but he would have some fun before administering the final, lethal blow.

"I suspect that they are staying with Mlle Daaé's foster mother near Perros-Guirec. I don't want any witnesses, do you understand? Get rid of the freak and the old woman in whatever manner pleases you, but I do not want the young lady harmed. Do you understand? Mlle Daaé is to be brought back to me."

Fournier grinned cruelly. "How's about if I check out the wares first? You know, make sure everything's in workin' order? Chances are she's probably already had a romp or two with the freak."

Raoul bristled at the brute's uncouth suggestions. "I said she is not to be touched!"

"Ah…I understand it now," Fournier replied thoughtfully. "You're the nobleman; you're wantin' to have your way with her first. Don't want her all dirtied up by the likes of me. Don't worry, I'll deliver her to you unharmed – if possible," he said, pretending to agree to the vicomte's directive. After all, anything could happen in the heat of the moment. If the lady struggled, if he had to subdue her...who knows what he might have to resort to so as to make her come back with him…willingly. Besides, what the vicomte didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

Raoul proceeded to give Fournier directions to the Valérius house, as well as an ample sum to take care of the job properly. As the two men talked, neither noticed a third who was sitting in a booth behind them – close enough to eavesdrop, yet hidden in the shadows.

Lady Luck was smiling on Fournier's former collaborator, Alphonse Barbier, this evening. A couple weeks ago, Barbier had been contacted by a detective named Reynard d'Aubert. He had been given the choice of either helping the former police inspector or finding himself behind bars. Being a practical man, Barbier had opted for the former, feeling no loyalty to anyone. Tonight, he had simply come to Le Coq d'or for a few drinks, but when he had seen Fournier enter the building, he had made a point of sitting where he could hear without being seen. The money promised in exchange for information would be a welcome addition to his favorite charity – Alphonse Barbier's Empty Pockets. Quietly making his way out of the building, Barbier headed for the detective's house.

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Author's Note

I played a little fast and loose with musical history in this chapter. Samson et Dalila, by Camille St. Saëns, was originally conceived as an oratorio. His librettist however, convinced him that the dramatic situations of the plot were far better exploited in a staged opera. Unfortunately, Biblical settings as subjects for diversion in an opera house were frowned upon, and consequently the finished opera found no takers among French impresarios. Even the Dalila of Pauline Viardot (to whom the work is dedicated), who staged the second act in 1874 in a garden at Croissy, failed to persuade the director of the Paris Opéra - one of the guests at this event - to perform the opera at his house.

Franz Liszt, a friend and mentor, had encouraged Saint-Saëns before the completion of the work, and through his intervention, the opera was premiered, in German, at the Hoftheater in Weimar in December 1877. However, it took another 13 years before Samson et Dalila was produced in France, at Rouen, and later that same year, 1890, in Paris at one of the smaller opera houses. The success of these performances finally led the Paris Opéra to bring out its own production in November 1892. New York saw a concert performance, in French, also in 1892, and a single concert performance was given in 1893, in English, at London's Covent Garden. The opera was subsequently banned by the Lord Chamberlain, on religious grounds. Thus, the first actual staging at Covent Garden took place after the ban was lifted in 1909 - on order of King Edward VII who, it is said, rather enjoyed the Bacchanale.

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