Chapter 37

Madame Julia Lefevre was sixty-three years old when she passed.

For several days, she had made passing comments about her left arm going numb at points during the day, but none of us, including her I'm sure, expected her heart to fail in the middle of the night while she slept. It was a blow to us, especially to the twins and I.

Marie had found her. She'd knocked upon her door several times that morning and had received no answer. Madam was a light sleeper and usually woke at the drop of a hat, but Marie had not heard any movement inside her room, and grew worried. She'd found a member of the cleaning staff to unlock the door.

She'd appeared as if she was simply dreaming, her face formed into a soft smile, her hands clasped over middle, her head turned to the side.

I stood against the wall, my hands twisting in my robe as she was covered, tears falling silently down my cheeks as I whispered a prayer for this dear woman who had become a bit of a mother to me. The twins leaned on either one of my shoulders, sobbing quietly. I let go of my nervous gesture and put an arm about their small shoulders. Madame Lefevre had practically mothered these girls since the age of 14, and they were now like orphans. From the way they clung to me, I knew I had now taken on the role of surrogate mother.

Monsieur Andre walked into the room, shaking his head at the still form of the small woman under the blankets. He cleared his throat and turned to me, clasping his hands behind his back.

"Mademoiselle Devereaux, I know right now is a difficult time, but later this afternoon could you meet Firmin and I in our office? I think we need to discuss your employment here and the changes that will have to be made."

I nodded, looking at the floor. With a condolence, he left awkwardly.

Two hours later, after returning numbly to my room and changing and dressing my hair, I sat in a wing chair of the manager's office, staring at my hands in my lap. They had not come in yet, and I was left alone with my thoughts.

Everything had changed in one moment.

The twins were too young to take over the Opera's costuming department and not experienced enough in seamstressing. The task would fall to me. I knew I was more than capable, but I had not expected to have to take on the reins of the department quite so soon. Madame Lefevre had been in the process of training me to understand the full concept of a design and the final execution of an idea. Costuming was very different from the role of a modiste. Every detail from the original sketching of a possible idea to the end product would now have to be learned and mastered and as quickly as possible. The costumes for Aida were to have been my creation alone, but I had fully expected Madame to be there at my shoulder, guiding me. I would have to procure copies of the liberettos of the characters and maybe even the musical scores to understand how the costumes should reflect the feelings of the piece.

It was a daunting prospect but one I would not be able to shy away from. There would be hardly time to grieve for my friend. I did not expect that the managers would delay the designs to begin today for Aida. The opening was only four weeks away. And the costume requests for the Grecian inspired Bal Masque would soon be flooding in. Madame Lefevre had been a permanent fixture of the Opera Populaire, but the work would not wait for us to mourn her passing into her eternal reward.

The door behind me opened and Monsieur Firmin poked his head in.

"We'll be with you in a bit, my dear. We're just having a quick meeting with the patrons to discuss the change in the costuming department. Ten minutes, mademoiselle."

I nodded, smiling slightly and sighed as the door once again closed.

I fingered the black cotton of my skirts, thoughtfully.

At least I would have no time to think about Erik over the next several days and this strange relationship of ours which had been put under horrible strain yesterday. I missed him horribly already.

I stilled my thoughts and let myself remember the dream I'd had. The little comfortable cottage, my child putting his small arms about me, the throb of life within me, the touch of Erik behind me kissing my throat. The overwhelming feeling of love and contentment. The image made me incredibly sorrowful, but at the same time made me smile softly. At least I could have a happy future in my dreams.

In the deep shadows of the office, I heard a soft shush of fabric.

I lifted my head and watched as the object of my thoughts and dreams walked toward me slowly, running his gloved hand over the desk. He stopped, raising a hip to sit casually against the side.

He said nothing, only gazed at me quietly, his expression unfathomable.

I stared up at him over me and my lips finally formed a trembling smile for him. The sight of him, so elegant, but relaxed and languid as he rarely was, was a comforting sight. I had worried before I fell asleep last night that he would never come to me again, despite the fact that it would be better if he would not.

"I am very sorry for your loss, Genevieve. You have been put in an unenviable position. A great deal of unexpected duties and no time to mourn or prepare yourself." His voice was quiet, and unexpectedly soft and gentle.

I lowered my eyes.

"I'm frightened, but I hope I please Madame. She put so much store in her duties."

"You're very capable, Genevieve."

"I do hope you are right. If I cannot do this well, I'll lose my posistion." And that was unacceptable.

Erik was quiet for a few moments, but then he stood and came to stand before me. He held out a gloved hand and I stared at it uncertainly, but finally put my fingers in his. He pulled me up gently and took me in his arms, pressing a soft kiss to my forehead.

I sighed with the familiar embrace and what it meant, he was not furious with me, and slipped my arms about his waist under his cloak, leaning my head upon his chest, listening to the slow throb of his heart. He slid a hand comfortingly down my spine.

"Erik...I.."

"Hush. We will discuss it another time. I can be patient, Genevieve. I do not believe a line of women are at this moment beating upon my door for my attentions. I can be...what you need me to be." He chuckled softly against my hair. "I have found that human companionship is to my liking. I shouldn't want to give up the friendship of my little seamstress. You are useful to me yet, my dear." His words were sarcastic, but gentle and I found myself pulling away, laughing up at him.

"Oh, you." I stroked the unmasked side of his face, loving him despite myself. "I suppose you do need me. Afterall," I grinned, straightening his cravat, "who would fetch your fine cheeses and chocolates and critique your music?"

He firmly set me back from him, taking on a schoolmaster's demeanor that had me laughing.

"Fine indeed, coming from a woman who can't carry a tune in a bucket. And you shall have to have someone explain the various operas and scores to you, since you will be handling all the concepts of the costumes from now on. You'll need some help with the visualization."

I smiled and turned back to my chair, sinking into my seat and arranging my skirts. "Acting as my assistant, are you now? I believe Madam Lefevre did not go home to her Lord quite envisioning that. We shall have to fit you up with some proper garments won't we? I can see you in a conservative high collared gown with measuring tape about your neck. Quite the diamond of the first water you'd be."

With a growl, he pulled me from the chair again and hauled me against him, lowering his forehead to mine and baring his teeth. "Quite the cheeky little piece you are! We'll see how clever you'll be when I force you to sit for hours and listen to me lecture you on the history of Aida and all its various hidden meanings."

I giggled like a girl half my age and wound my arms around his neck, unquestionably grateful for the return of our easy banter that we'd shared yesterday morning in his home. As much as I'd inwardly railed for ever letting myself love him and get so close to him, I could not fool myself into believing that I could ever do without him now. I would never be to him what I wanted and yearned for, but I couldn't give him up completely. My life would be gray and empty without his thrilling presence, his droll humor, the rare glimpses of the very human and loving man underneath the pain he carried on his shoulders.

And I knew that he not only offered his continuing friendship and admitted his need for my services just for my gratification, but also for himself. He needed to feel accepted and to have that precious human contact that everyone but I and Christine for a short time had denied him.

When he lowered his head, his lips parting, I didn't shy away from him but turned my mouth up to his and let him give me a soft, chaste kiss that had much more to do with affection than passion. I returned the kiss, and when he lifted his head, I pressed my lips once to his chin, then stepped away.

Outside the door we heard the voices of the approaching managers. He raised a finger to his lips, then kissed my forehead one last time and silently disappeared into the shadows. I heard the barely audible sound of paneling sliding shut, and he was gone.

I sat back into my chair, unable to stop smiling.

The managers came in, apologizing for my wait, their hands filled with leather folders of papers, which would be my new contract of employment.

I smiled up at them, and edged forward in my seat, ready to do my best to make my dear late friend pleased.

Two hours later I sat in the auditorium, a sketchbook in my hand, a pencil being thoughtfully chewed between my lips. The very first rehearsals for Aida were being done upon the stage, a simple reading of the liberetto and a rough vocal performance of the arias and choruses.

I listened carefully to the music and the various principals reading and singing their roles. Ideas had already begun to form in my mind for the main costumes. Amneris, the Princess of Egypt, played by Madame Antoinette Jean, the lead mezzo, would wear a dyed crepe muslim gown of deep violet, off set by a thick gold chain about her collarbone and an elaborate headpiece. Golden snakelike bracelets would wrap about her arms and a pair of sandals died gold would rest on her feet. My pencil began to fly over the paper again, sketching the arching cobra on her headpiece. The faux gold pieces would actually be commisioned by the prop department, and I and the twins would add the deep shimmering paint and the jewels made of paste.

I looked over at Carlotta, who would play Aida, the slave of Amneris and the princess of Ethopia. Her gown would have to be a much simpler, coarser gown and I envisioned dark green, almost a deep forest color, with a golden collar signifying her slavery and thick gold bands about her wrists. She would not wear a headpiece but a scarf tied about her hair to hide her beauty from Radames, the soldier of the Egyptian Army who was in love with her.

Radames was to be played by Monsieur Erique Louroux, a rather round and balding fellow with a lavicious eye that I couldn't help but notice often fell on I and the twins when we were about. The man made me ill, but I set to designing his costume, a dark tunic, overlaid with a gold breastplate and a gold helmet with the arching cobra, and sandals with knee high laces. It would be rather difficult to make such a heavy man look graceful in such a costume, but I was hardly a miracle worker.

Monsieur Devre DeLuc, an obscenely handsome man with roving eyes and hands was to play Amonasro, Aida's father, the King of Ethopia. His costume would be a deep gold muslim robe, with intesecting colors of emerald and sapphire passing through it, his head piece, a tall narrow crown, high and elaborate. A wide belt of gold would go across his waist. The baritone would have no problem looking well in his ensemble; he was exceedingly tall and muscular, sleek and toned. He was constantly prodding at Monsieur Louroux, insulting his sexuality as a tenor. The two hated each other with a passion, ironic in that Amonasro condemns Radames to death.

The corps de ballet would be slave girls, much like Aida herself, and the twins had informed me that there were rather elaborate manacles and chains in the prop room from the production of Hannibal that the Opera had performed two years ago. The cuffs were especially made to fit the slender wrists of the dancers and would serve very well in this production. Their costumes would be coarse, thin cotton, died various shades of jewel colors, scarfs about their heads and golden collars around their necks. The chorus members would also be done in similiar costumes, depending upon if their characters were royalty or slaves.

Now that I had the general idea for each costume, and the overall look and feel of the production, I could sit down and begin the long task of designing each specific piece. After each costume was completed on paper, I would start the rigourous tasks of measuring each and every performer for each costume. Then I and the twins would have to make several trips to the fabric shops to ensure we had every last yard we would need. Then the truly difficult work would begin, cutting each seperate piece out and forming the costumes and fitting them to the performers until they were perfect, then afixing the appropriate closures. Dress rehearsals would reveal if each individual's costume would work for them, and if not, changes would be made.

I closed my sketchbook with a snap and laid it aside, leaning my head back and staring at the massive chandelier above my head, the thousands of crystals twinkling in the gas flames of the bulbs set into its interior. I lifted a hand to my temple and closed my eyes, sinking very unladylike into my seat.

It was only eleven o'clock in the morning and already I was ready to crawl into my little bed and sleep like a child.

Madame Lefevre's body had been removed from her room and taken to Perros Guirec to prepare for her funeral. She'd had no surviving family, her only child dead at a very young age and her husband passed on, so the Opera Populaire was fitting the cost of her final expenses. Marie, Jeanette and I had spoke to the messenger from the cemetery, letting him know what flowers to set in the small chapel for her funeral, which would be tommorow, and what kind of memorial to carve for her. A simple stone bench, with an eternally praying cherub on one end would mark her grave, with the words "Beloved Friend and Creative Soul" etched into the surface. The cemetery was within a good distance by carriage or horseback from the Opera, but it was a small one, with beautiful sculptures and a quiet sense of peace about it.

In my meeting with the managers, they had informed me, as I had already guessed, that I would be assuming the role of Head Costumer. The posistion came with a generous padding of my salary and complete control over the costuming department. After signing my contract and goggling at the numbers for my salary, which admittedly wasn't much compared to my former allowance that Armand had allowed me, but was quite more than what I had been earning.

I had also been informed that Madame Lefevre's room, which was in a different wing and substancially larger and far more elegant than mine, was available to me and that my things could be moved to it at anytime.

But I had suprised them when I'd declined and stated that I would prefer to remain in my much smaller room. I had quickly explained that I had grown very comfortable in the small space and enjoyed the privacy that the seclusion from the rest of the rooms allowed me. They'd simply shrugged and said they would offer the larger room to somebody else. I'd assured them that would be fine.

My real reason for wanting to stay in my little room was the mirror on the wall, Erik's means of visiting me. Madame Lefevre's former room had not contained such a mirror. I did not want to cut off Erik's access to me and the distance of my room from all the others kept our visits private. It would be too risky for him to travel down the hallway unseen to my new room.

And then the fleeting minutes we'd spent this morning together, the quiet affection and easy companionship that had infused our interactions since the moment I'd waken in his bed until Armand once again come to knock on my door and remind me of my past. It had been comforting to be held by him again, to feel that connection of touch and warmth. He had made the offer to be my friend only, and I knew how much it cost him to extend that olive branch. He had never known the act of physical love and he was in the prime of his life, only five to ten years older than myself. What agony he must have gone through, wanting and lusting after Christine so badly, only to have to quell his desire again and again. Then I had come along with my inexperience and my acceptance of his face, responding to his touches, freely letting him kiss me and kissing him back, letting him hold me and sleep beside me. He had probably believed that I would become his lover and finally quench his need for what Christine hadn't been able to give him. And then as we were getting so close to one another, I had had to confess to him my fear of physical intimacy and my reluctance, my incapability, to allow another that close again, and had dashed his hopes of ever making love to a woman. For him to accept my friendship with the promise of nothing more was a sacrifice on his part that I would not take for granted.

From the back of the auditorium, my name was called. I turned and saw Madame Giry beckoning me. I stood and followed her onto the Grand Staircase.

"I heard about Madame Lefevre, my dear. I'm very sorry to lose her. She was a good woman to know." She turned toward me, resting on her cane.

I nodded, holding my sketchbook close to my chest. "Yes, I'm going to miss her terribly." We began to walk down the stairs, her leading, heading toward the cafe. It was nearing lunch.

"I had meant to ask you." She looked over her shoulder at me. "The...things we discussed yesterday. Was Madame Lefevre the only other besides I who knew that you are...in your situation?"

I cleared my throat and entered the cafe with her, the aroma of bread and some savory soup reaching me. My stomach growled with hunger; I had not eaten since yesterday afternoon while I had been out on my errands.

"There is one other who knows of my...situation and of my...circumstances that I spoke to you of yesterday." I did not mention who the one other was, but I knew from her slow nod that she knew who I spoke of.

"Yes, I hazarded that he knew. He seems to know all that goes on in this opera house. I would not be suprised if he overheard our conversation in the box." She didn't turn to look at me and I raised my head, a suspicion growing.

"What box did you lead me to yesterday, Madame? In my state of distraught I did not even notice." I caught up with her, looking down at her.

She smiled to herself and her expression contained a bit of shame.

"I took you to Box Five, my dear."

I stared at her, my mouth open as she sat. I slowly sank down in the seat across from her and laid my sketch book upon the table.

"You knew he would hear, didn't you?" I felt anger begin to rise in me.

She raised pleading eyes to mine and took my hand.

"Genevieve, I have known Erik for many, many years. I remember before Christine came that he would play his music all the time. I would stand in the corridors behind the mirrors that he built, which only I knew the secret of, and listen to him. While he had Christine with him, his music contained so much dark passion and violence that it frightened me at times. But after that night when he took her off the stage during their song, and she left him in the cellars to die of a broken heart, he stopped playing. I never heard his music again. Only empty silence." She grew quiet, her face reflecting the depth of sorrow. "But one day I stood in that same corridor thinking of him and I heard it. A song played in the depths of his home. A soft haunting melody that contained so much quiet longing in it and so much innocent joy. I could hear his voice lifted over it, singing wordlessly and I knew that Erik had found happiness again. That was yesterday dear, only moments before your former husband accosted me in the foyer and I saw you in the shadows."

She grew still and watched me quietly. I stared down at the glossy wooden tabletop, my eyes misting over with tears. I remembered the song that Erik had played for me yesterday morning. He must have played it again while I was out purchasing his supplies. He must have felt hope for once in his life. Maybe not hope that I would love him or love for me, but the promise of someone to share his life with. And then I'd been reminded of what I was running from and had extinguished that hope.

"My dear, I wanted him to hear what had happened to you. To understand who you were and what exactly he was setting his heart or at least his desires on. I had expected him to learn that you had divorced because of a lover or feeling shunned and jealous of your husband's mistresses. I never expected the truth behind your divorce. And once you'd told me, I knew that you would never willingly hurt Erik or betray him..."

"But I did hurt him. I can't give him the one thing he wants most. I can't be a lover to a man ever again. There's too much fear, too many memories..."

She took my hand tightly again.

"What is broken can be fixed, Genevieve. It may take months, even years to trust again, but it can be done. You could wake up tommorow and know that you could love again. You could wait years and one day realize that you are ready. But do not sell yourself and Erik short, my dear. You and him deserve better than that."

I stared at her, until I had to look down. I found myself smiling slightly, then finally laughing softly.

"Do you think he would be patient? And wait for me?"

"My dear, you have seen his face, no?" I nodded. "Then you know that on that front there are few options open to him except for a prostitue, which he is much too proud for, and an anomymous encounter, which would be rare, if it would ever happen. Be his friend, his companion. Do not give up on yourself. And when you finally are ready, do not waste your trust upon someone else who will not cherish your gift as Erik will."

I looked away, my face turning pink. "I can assure you that would never happen."

She leaned across the table, and whispered low and soft.

"Do you love him, Genevieve?"

I simply stared at my hands for a several moments, and then raised my eyes to hers, giving her a nervous smile.

"Very much."

She smiled, tears glistening in her eyes.

"When the time comes, and you will know when it does, you will make him very happy."

"I will try."