MADAME O.G.

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Chapter 6: Bal Masqué

Christmas came and went with little fuss. Il Muto's run was unusually long, with La Daaé in the leading female role: there was a novelty in a ballet girl who dared depose the reigning diva, and everyone in Paris had to see her for themselves, it seemed. MM. André and Firmin were in raptures, though that might have been more from the esteem and social invitations that the sudden popularity of the Opera Populaire brought in than anything else. They were seen in the best known salons. M. Firmin paid his addresses to the spinster daughter of a family with old money, a family that would never have smiled upon him before he became the manager of 'Paris' brightest jewel.'

But with Il Muto's run over there would be no more productions until the new year, which would begin with Faust, and either Carlotta or Christine singing Margarita's part; the future was as yet unplanned, but it was sure to be bright. Without productions Christine saw Erik less that usual, always enough to reassure him that she would not shun him but little more than that. He was exceedingly formal after the night Carlotta's voice gave out, always stepping away, always treating her with the utmost courtesy, never letting her in for a moment. She half-wondered why, but it certainly made it easier to ignore the butterflies that persisted whenever he came too near.

Now, on one of those rare days when she was not expected at ballet practice (she had not yet been released from it, though Mme. Giry had intimated she would be, if she played Margarita in the next production) she sat in a new room that M. André had ordered be given to her – her! – as living-quarters. She was not to live in the dormitories any more. He had wanted her to take a flat, but she refused, claiming that her life was in the opera-house and she had no friends outside it to entertain. Her reasons were perhaps more complicated than that in reality, but she could hardly describe her lessons, could hardly explain that her voice tutor was none other than the Opera Ghost.

In Christine's hands lay a small invitation of creamy, heavy paper, tipped in gold. It was the sort of card that ladies received, that she had seen Carlotta receive, that her father had occasionally garnered when he was still alive. She had never had one herself. She knew the contents quite well, having memorized them: her managers invited her to a bal masqué to ring in the new year.

There was a second note, too. It had been given to her shortly after the first, nearly a month ago, when she was still back in the dormitories. She knew its contents also, and knew that it was from the Vicomte de Chagny. He requested the honor of escorting her.

To the first note she had replied Thank you, I shall certainly come. To the second she had said nothing, hoping the matter would resolve itself; the Vicomte, however, was not so easily rebuffed. Finally she had given in, saying nothing of her decision to Erik. He would know, yes, but she could not bring herself to discuss it with him. There would surely be an unpleasant scene.

Now, sitting in her chamber, Christine felt all the awkwardness of her situation. She was in a new room, a room that bore no traces of home on its white walls: she had never had walls to decorate before. She had a new dress to put on, and she would be helping Meg Giry with a dress of her own, but she was still unsure of its fit and the way the fabric would lie. She was to be escorted by Raoul (the name was strange on her tongue: it had been a long time since they were children together) and she still felt awkward around him. The other girls of the opera-house had been irritating her for days now, dropping ungraceful hints about little girls who became entwined with the aristocracy. The insinuation was that she would end up no better than a prostitute – although some of them thought the opposite, that she would be more like Cinderella.

Oh, yes, she knew the awkwardness of her situation. No one could possibly blame her for wanting to keep Erik out of it! He would make things even worse. She would never in a million years be able to glide gracefully through the evening if she knew he was waiting, ill-tempered, to ask her what she was doing on Raoul's arm.

Meg came and rescued her from her thoughts for a little while, as she laced stays and Christine buttoned her into a costume representing an ice queen - but when they were both dressed and masked, she knew she had to venture out to meet her escort. Preparing herself for anything, either a terribly uncomfortable or a wonderful night, she stepped out her door in Meg's tow.

"Exquisite" was Raoul's first word to her, obviously referring to her costume – a gauzy confection of palest pink, accented only by a gold locket holding her father's miniature (the only truly fine piece of jewelry she owned, from back when she was not just a ballet girl but the daughter of the virtuoso M. Daaé) and her beaded mask. The mask was not tied with ribbons but only suspended on a stick. It would have been foolish for her to try and hide her identity, after all: she was too well-known, and a mask one could easily set down was more comfortable.

For his part, Raoul was dressed in his own navy uniform, his dark-blue mask tied firmly on and his golden-brown hair in a neat queue down his back. "Hiding in plain sight," he said, seeing her appraise him; he was well-pleased with his idea. "No one would expect a man to go to a masked ball as himself!"

If that was all the conversation he intended to make, Christine supposed it would be a pleasant evening. It did begin pleasantly, too, as she greeted those people she could recognize (the managers Firmin and André fondly, Piangi cordially, Carlotta perfunctorily). The orchestra was already playing, and soon enough the floor was filled with dancing couples.

Raoul, who had taken care not to be recognized, came to claim her hand as soon as there were enough people dancing that they would not be obvious. At first it was pleasant enough: he had learned to dance from good teachers, as fine as any that might tutor a young nobleman, and was tolerant of her missteps. She had not ever properly danced, only practiced with other girls and whirled about in a ballet interpretation of a waltz. She found she enjoyed it.

Then she made the mistake of saying "Come, Raoul, we must have some conversation if we are to dance."

He broke his oh-so-proper dance frame to glance at her. She could not read his eyes. "I have tried to understand something about you for some time now," he said, measuring his words carefully. "I have wanted to know why you never seem to have time for me, or for any one except Meg Giry on occasion. But more than that, for anyone can be busy –" he swept her into a spin, then arrested it just when he ought. "I have wanted to know who this Erik is, and why you hold secret assignations with him on the rooftops when you say you must be sleeping."

Christine nearly stopped dancing; indeed, she would have had Raoul been a weaker leader. Suddenly the golden head in Box Five made sense to her: who else would MM. André and Firmin give it to but their new patron? But then she had thought she saw things again backstage, again at Apollo's Lyre. That must have been Raoul as well. "You followed me!" she accused him.

"Only when I saw you speak, to yourself I thought! I was curious. But this man, Christine. Who is he?"

"You haven't any right to question me," she said, hearing an unpleasant note of petulance in her voice. "I shall meet with whoever I choose! I'm sorry if I caused you worry, but clearly no damage has been done, then or in the month that's followed."

Raoul was clearly unconvinced. Christine did not even need to see his face to know it. If it had been any other man, she would not be concerned, but le Vicomte de Chagny! The patron of the Opera Populaire! And she knew that there was jealousy in his voice, in his questions. Why else would he remember it, so long after the fact?

But he nodded and let it pass. "My apologies, Lotte. I only was thinking of your safety. You must know that."

She did not respond, and he seemed to take her silence as assent, for which she was grateful.

After that dance Christine escaped into Piangi's hands, then danced with a succession of opera-lovers, some of them monetary supporters of the Opera Populaire and others not. The excitement of the masks began to wear off as she realized that no one's identity was truly secret. It was all an elaborate ruse, a pretense to allow people to do exactly as they wished. After all, any gossiper could be silenced with a simple "O! But it could not have been me, for I was not dressed like that!"

Just as she settled into the simple routine of the ball, chatting with people and avoiding Raoul's glances, she was upset again. The doors flew open – not the doors to the outside of the opera-house, but the doors to the inside, the doors that opened on nothing but the theater itself. Standing in them was a man dressed all in red, affecting a death's head mask. The mask, however, did not hide his identity either. She knew all too well that it was Erik.

There was something compelling about him, about the dramatic manner of his entrance. The room watched as he descended the staircase and threw down a leather folio, crammed with papers, like a gauntlet before M. André. There was absolute silence for a moment, as the orchestra realized no one was dancing.

"I have written you an opera," he said. "Don Juan Triumphant is its title. Enclosed in the folio also are my instructions on how it is to be cast and produced. You have not followed my orders with regards to the running of my opera very closely. I hope that you shall mend your ways."

André's eyes grew as large as dinner plates when he realized that this was the Opera Ghost in the flesh. The room was silent no longer: rather, it was filled with murmurs of people who had caught on whispering the truth to those who had not.

"Mlle. Daaé, mon ange," he said, dismissing André with a simple turn of his head. "I shall offer you this now, so these foolish men may not rescind it: you shall play the prima donna role in any music I write, including this." Slowly, he made her a courtly bow and caught up her hand to kiss.

Seeing the room's eyes turn to her, she nervously smiled and nodded. This was different again from any Erik she had seen before. He was in public now. More than that, however, he was performing a role – a dashing role fit to belong in one of their operas. Even his costume, though he ostensibly was dressed as 'Red Death,' was fit for a dandy. "I shall do my best not to disappoint," she responded softly.

Then she made the mistake of looking closely at his face. His eyes were possessive, not quite angry but serious. "Dance with me," he ordered.

And in a twisted version of Cinderella's story, they did dance, the orchestra shaken into playing once more by his words. No one else joined them on the floor for what seemed like an interminable amount of time. Erik was not as effortlessly excellent a dancer as Raoul, but he knew enough, no doubt another of Mme. Giry's legacies. The music behind them was incongruous, a playful tune, but the dance itself...

"I will hold to our pact," he said abruptly, speaking in a low voice so no one else could hear, "but you will be singing Aminta's part. There will be no 'accidents' for Carlotta. I have another role for her."

"This is an excellent way to convince them."

He was silent, then, almost until the dance ended. As the violinists finished the last few lines, he bent his head to whisper in her ear just as he had that night upon Apollo's Lyre (Christine tried not to think of it, tainted as it was now with the idea of an invisible spy: she was shamed, shamed!). "The Vicomte ought to know better than to escort you anywhere. One of my instructions was that he was to leave you alone. You ought to intimate as much to him. You bound yourself to me the moment you took off my mask, little Delilah."

With that the music rested, and he led her off the floor to be deposited with Meg Giry. As he let her hand go, Christine felt something small and heavy slip into it. "Remember that this is my opera-house," he warned the crowd, speaking softly but audibly as he re-ascended the staircase. "You shall produce my opera, and you shall follow my instructions. I do not ask too much of you."

A burst of flame sprang suddenly up beneath his feet and engulfed him. The Phantom was gone.

The room burst into conversation. Christine glanced up, and her eyes lit on a familiar figure in navy blue. Raoul was looking right at her, his mouth set in an unhappy line, his brows knit. The moment their eyes locked she looked down again – but that inscrutable stare bothered her even when she could no longer see him.

There was one more thing. She opened the hand that had Erik had held, that he had palmed something into.

It was a simple gold ring.

End Chapter 6.

Notes: I hope you all will forgive me for that oh-so-cliché 'mon ange.' In this chapter Erik plays his role of Phantom to the hilt, and such things are part of that role – that is, it seemed a good signifier that here is the masterful, frighteningly seductive Webber Phantom. At this point, it might be good for me to mention that I only have the vaguest grasp of French (mostly picked up from studying Latin and reading a few phrase-books when I was small). If I make any blatant errors, please do review and tell me; I know that at least one native French speaker is reading this story!