Here is another chapter for my wonderful readers! Thank you all so much for the great reviews! I appreciate them a whole lot. Hope you enjoy the next installment.
Christine could not stop the tapping in her toes that came with her nerves. The soft patters echoed through the hallway. Her stomach was a scrambled mess.
She drummed her finger on her dress as she waited outside the study on a conveniently placed bench. It was almost seven, but she had been waiting there for the better part of five minutes. It was always better to be early than late.
A tiny squeak echoed through the hallway. Christine looked around nervously and clenched her hands. Her nerves were going to give her a heart attack one of these days.
Her focus was on the second hand of a clock opposite to her, which ticked by at an altogether steady rate. It was either that she couldn't wait to get this over with and wanted to get out as fast as humanly possible, or that she was dreading the conversation in terror and couldn't stand to be there one more minute. All that she knew was that it was only getting near and nearer to when that study door opened.
The tapping of her toes, ticking of the clock, the inhales and exhales were all leading up to her deciding moment.
M. Laurent opened the door swiftly, drawing her attention. The squeaky hinges seemed about ready to come off after the force that he pulled it open with. She stood up just as quickly, alert. He was looking at anything but her and kept holding the door open.
"Mlle. Daae? Aren't, you going to come in? I haven't got all day." He looked towards the open door with an air of annoyance and tapped his foot on the tiled floor. She rushed past him, into the study, as not to show her embarrassment. The room was once again as dark as dawn.
Christine stood behind her chair, not knowing if she should sit or stand. All of the fashionable ladies were invited to sit by another in the room. She didn't count herself as one of those ladies but found it a necessary thing to emulate.
M. Laurent moved in haste to shut the door and go to his desk. He looked over some papers, mostly ignoring her. He then looked up with a hint of confusion.
"Arent you going to sit down?" He was more exasperated this time. She sat down in the chair across from his desk as primly as she could, and tucked one ankle under the other.
The curtains were drawn, making it hard to see with her poor vision. Dim lighting, though some might find it alluring and enticing, she found it annoying.
"I was just watin' for ya to invite me." M. Laurent looked at her appraisingly. He was always evaluating, seeing how much something was worth. Christine was always taught to be nice to others. It came easily to her, as it was in her nature. But, she was having quite a difficult time tolerating this prideful, egotistical man. She had never seen something quite like it.
"Mlle. Daae," He glanced at her chair, "Would you be so kind as to grace the chair with your presence?" 's tone was dripping with sarcasm. He stacked the papers he was holding, clearing his throat.
"Also, M. Laurent, if it isn't too much trouble, can ya draw open the curtains?" Christine hated asking anyone, especially M. Laurent to do anything for her. She had earned her independence, a thing she came to cherish and loved dearly. She didn't want it to slip away from her now that she was living in this fancy house. It just didn't sit right with her.
"Whatever for?"
"I can't see very well." She rubbed her eyes and squinted to further prove her point.
"I'm afraid this room has no windows." Her hands clasped tightly around the armrests, a feature for comfort. She was anything but comfortable. Maybe she had completely misjudged the situation.
"Why 'ould the room 'ave no windows?" Her voice was timid, faint to her ears. Maybe he had built this room to murder his victims without the passerby noticing! The screams would be drowned out when he played the piano.
Her mind spiraled into all the details of these imagined horrors. She couldn't help but think that she was the latest in the line of victims, unsuspecting flower sellers swept up by the grandeur. Maybe M. Ahmadi and M. Giry were in on it and were just waiting to pounce.
Christine's thoughts were interrupted by M. Laurent's smooth voice.
"It's my private study. I don't particularly care for others seeing me, and I can go without seeing others." That was a perfectly plausible explanation. Perfectly plausible. She looked down and stopped squeezing the armrests so tightly, slightly ashamed at her imagination running away with her.
He was just an eccentric, pesky man with no ulterior motive, save pride. She had no idea why she had gone down her latest spree of conclusions, but something about the darkened room and barely burning lightbulbs was reminding her of the ghost stories her fellow street mates used to pass the time. Naturally, a man in a mask was adding to the mystery.
"Now," he handed her a list of letters that she could recognize as the french vowels, "Recite these vowels to me one at a time when I ask you to." She inclined her head. He got up out of his desk and went over to a gramophone, a funny little contraption capable of recording sound.
She had seen many models in the shop windows, and records and the accessories that allowed them to play songs. They had strange bumps and groves in the discs that, to her bemusement, were amplified to create the sound of human voices and various instruments.
Christine had never gotten the opportunity to see one up close. Maybe later, he would allow her to get closer to it.
Her eyes followed his moments closely, observing in wide-eyed interest. He took an unmarked record out of a case of many, running his hand over the edge in a leisurely fashion.
"I will you this to record you, and your abominable speech patterns." Christine was confused about only one thing. How exactly did they record the impressions in just the right way? She knew that all those other records had to made somehow. It just seemed rather improbable that they were so easy to make.
"Fascinatin'." He adjusted the needle on the vinyl surface, moving it even so slightly a few times. She couldn't help but feel slightly peeved that he was paying more attention to it than her.
"Very." he said, deep in concentration, "Now, Mlle. Daae, on the count of three you will speak those vowels in alphabetical order." He clasped his hands together.
"One..," he flipped a few switches and turned a few dials, "two… three!" She breathed in. This was quite the production to say five syllables.
"Ai, Eeh, Iho, ow, yew." She enunciated with all her might.
"What was that?" Christine scratched her head. He crossed his arms in his aversion.
"Ma vowels." It was plain to see.
"No! That was the sound of a dying cat! Please, again." She grimaced at his harsh tone. Christine didn't qualify herself as a dying cat.
"Ai, Eeh, Iho, ow, yew," Christine said them again, but this time with a different tone and inflection. Maybe that would show him.
"Is it possible for you to get worse? How must I suffer?" He rubbed the top of his head, "Again."
"Ai, Eeh, Iho, o- ." He made an arm-cutting motion.
"Stop! Stop! Terrible! Simply terrible." He was impatient, circling around her like a shark around a drop of blood.
"Ya expect me to get better in a day?" She raised her voice.
"Yes, by George! I expect you to get better in a day." He slumped down in the chair. She slumped too. It was tiring to get yelled at. "And I still have to evaluate her singing." He mumbled to himself.
"Fine, fine. Mlle. Daae, stand up." She did as he asked. He shoved another sheet of paper into her hand. It had the treble clef with a simple note pattern scribed on it. He crossed the room over to his piano. "I don't expect you to understand at all what you see before you-"
"-I do." He did a double-take.
"You do?"
"The first note is middle C, 'hen goes B, 'hen back down to F, 'hen-"
"What clef is this in?"
"Treble."
"Yes, you do understand it. I am now aware," He stared at her for quite a long time. He seemed astonished, in awe that a lowly guttersnipe could hold a modicum of information concerning music. It seemed more likely that he was attempting to intimidate her by staring straight into her soul. It seemed more likely. It also was working very well.
"Ya want me to sing this?"
"Yes." He played the run on his piano. She sang it back to him, her voice slightly weak. She couldn't remember the last time she sang.
He couldn't stop staring at her. Christine looked down, extremely worried. He hadn't said a word, uttered a noise, made a suggestion of a gesture. He was utterly frozen. Any moment now, he would send her back onto the streets and kill her hopes and dreams.
"Sorry if that wasn't good 'nough. I can leave now." She turned around, holding pathetic hope in her heart that he wouldn't send her away, but began trudging out when he didn't object. So it was over… he didn't want her anymore.
What surprised her more than anything was what he did next.
M. Laurent rushed between her and the door, quick as a fox. She stopped in her tracks.
"You were fine. I need to know your aptitude a bit more before I can properly call it a day." He was as calm as could be. She looked at him puzzlingly. What was he trying to get at? She was quite sure that would send her out the room in lew of her terrible vocal performance.
"Mlle. Daae, would you care to sing another run I have chosen for you?" He looked at her as curiously as she looked at him.
She nodded slightly and he rushed to his papers. He kept his eye on her as though she was an illusion about to disappear. Or if she were about to leave through the door. The papers were placed precariously on his piano. They were stacked so high that at the slightest provocation it would tumble to a collapse.
He grabbed one from the lowest pile and promptly sat down on the piano bench, playing the small pattern.
"Now, repeat." he looked at her intently the entire time.
She repeated the phrase.
"I was even better this time!" He was giddy. M. Laurent was excited by something, "I was sure the first was a fluke, but…" his voice trailed off.
"But?"
"That was one of the most beautiful things I have heard, Mlle. Daae."
"What?" Her first was that he had lost his mind. Maybe he had. She was not expecting anything close to the comment that he just uttered. Christine looked at him as though he were senile.
'You were marvelous, Christine, simply marvelous. Your voice is angelic, even with those deplorable vowel sounds." He leaned forward slightly, as though to brush her shoulder, but he lost his nerve at the last second. She blinked, unseeing. What was going on?
"But, why? I wasn't 'hat good." She pinched her arm to make sure this wasn't some fever dream that she having. It wasn't- the pinch hurt a lot.
"Under my careful tutelage, you will be a star." He kept looking at her with increased interest, unable to focus on anything else in the room. His eyes took a glazed-over quality.
"I still don't understand." she really didn't. She heard the words, but they seemed to fly straight over her head.
"Blast it, Mlle. Daae. Must you get your ears checked?" He yelled into her face. If he weren't wearing the mask, she was sure she would have been spit on. "You are going to be a star! Be adored by the audiences of the world. People will flock from Milan, from Rome, from any place you can name." He said this gently.
"'hat sounds wonderful." Christine sat back down in her chair. She had a most dreamy expression plastered on her face. She would perform on stage. In her wildest fantasies, she had always been attending the show, safely from the audience.
The idea that she could plausibly perform on stage was like a dream. Though she had not known him for long, she believed that he was very much the perfectionist. So if he thought she could do it- then maybe she really could.
"Yes, Mlle. Daae, it will be." he settled himself back at his desk. "But that doesn't mean you will slack off with your vowels. You must practice them for three consecutive hours before you will attempt to sing," back to business once again, "After all, what use is a singer who can not sing the words properly, no matter how in tune?" His logic did make sense.
"You will report to my study every day at 7 o'clock am sharp, spend your three hours speaking into the machine, take lunch, and send the rest of your day till three singing. After that, you will go back to speaking," the regimen seemed like a tough challenge, but one she would be up to, "I must make some adjustments later, as this is just a loose guideline system."
"Alright then." She stuck out her hand over the desk. M. Laurent glanced at it warily.
"What is that?"
"Isn't 'hat what any business deal does? Shake hands?" She was feeling a bit awkward holding out her arm over the desk for so long. "I'm jus' tryin' to be nice."
Finally, he took it gingerly and shook her hand. He pulled away and cleared his throat. She smiled at him ever so slightly. Maybe he really wasn't as cold-hearted as he painted himself to be.
"I believe I have gotten all that I need from you today, Mlle. Daae. You are dismissed." He resumed looking through his papers. Christine didn't miss the little look he gave her as she exited, even when his eyes shot back down to the various things he was completing.
She left M. Laurent in the windowless room.
.
.
.
Erik was panicking. Alarm bells were going off inside his normally rational brain. She had touched his hand! Not his hand exactly, but she touched the gloves that were touching his hands! He couldn't remember the last time anyone had dared to touch him or offer him a handshake. Like any normal man.
She had shaken his hand willingly! It was a glorious, shining moment. He looked at her again, but his eyes darted back to the page when he noticed her making eye contact.
Erik was positively jittery.
He hadn't known what to think of her boisterous ways, distracting timbre, and other nuances of her being. Now, she seemed more an enigma than he would have ever guessed.
He would have to pay closer attention to her if he wanted to understand what was ticking in her once grime-encrusted head.
She would be a tough nut to crack, that was for certain, but once he knew, he would know all about Mlle. Daae. He felt a great bit of zeal at the possibility.
It was an exciting prospect- to teach someone who has the greatest amount of potential that he has ever beheld! And she entrusted her gift into his hands.
Nothing had given him quite the confusion than the pure notes of her singing. He couldn't connect what was coming out of her mouth to anything about her. So, when she sang the second phrase, he thought he was losing his mind. More than he had already lost it, anyway.
Now, Erik was languishing at his desk, attempting to get his mind off Mlle. Daae and her extraordinary voice. He rang the tea bell that connected to the servant's quarters. He found it very necessary to have such a thing. A separate lever connected for all his other needs.
A nice cup of tea would help get him through the night, and a haphazardly laid out collection of paperwork.
Why didn't he have an assistant to help him with all his harrowing paperwork? Ah yes, because they all quit. Even Amir's young nephew, Darius couldn't hold the position for longer than three months. And he was the longest in the job. He coudlnt help but wonder if Mlle. Daae would handle any better, even if she wasn't his personal assistant.
The maid came in, with a strong pot of the bitter tea he had this morning. And, much to his amusement, a pot of sugar as well. The maid left just as fast, which was understandable. It was nearing a late hour. He dumped the pot of sugar into the trashcan.
Erik got up out of his seat, prompt locking the door so that no one would walk in on him in a less favorable state. He leisurely removed his mask and wig. The latter was terribly itchy, but he could stand the opposite case. If he didn't wear it at all.
Only in the dead of night, he could completely let his guard down.
After many, many more rounds of torturous paperwork, he collapsed on his desk. He didn't even attempt to make it to his coffin.
.
.
.
Meanwhile…
Christine was already exhausted, and could hardly keep her eyes open. The only thing that saved her was the prospect of the fluffiest bed she had ever lain on.
When she reached her room, a lone maid was waiting for her, antsy to leave.
"Mlle. Daae, my instructions were to help you get ready for bed." She gestured to the flowered sleeping gown laid prettily on the bed.
"I don't need assistance." The maid shrugged her shoulders, itching to get out.
"I'll leave you to it."
She exited. Christine could complete the task just as easily without the maid and wanted to spare the woman her tired babblings and possible nosedives into the carpet.
She finished primping and dressing, nicely laying out the pieces of the dress on the vanity chair. She switched off the lights using a handy nob that was about a hundred times easier than using a candle.
It was then that Christine felt grateful that her room had windows and did not resemble a dungeon in the slightest. She couldn't imagine what M. Laurent's room resembled if it kept to the interior design of "dark and gloomy". She supposed his room would have to be a morgue. The thought made her laugh.
After that, she did take a nosedive, but one straight into her lovely feathered bed that could have been a cloud.
She was snoring within minutes.