I said goodbye to Christine and set down the hall, making my way to where
Mamma was teaching a class. Knocking on the door, I entered the dimly lit
room. The dancers continued their exercises as I rushed over to Mamma to
tell her the good news. She smiled, then gave me a small hug before gently
shoving me towards the door. On the way out, I nearly ran into Christine
Daae. Her startled look turned into a friendly smile as she recognized me.
"Meg Giry!" she said. "Giry, is your mother Madame Giry, the new ballet mistress?" "Yes," I replied. I was worried she might think that I would get special treatment from my mother, as she would be teaching our class of the company. If Christine thought it, she did not say anything about it. Opening the back door of the Opera House, we stepped out into the warm sunshine.
"We are having wonderful weather," I lamely remarked, trying to fill in the silence. Christine simply nodded. I racked my brain, trying to think of something to say.
"You mentioned you moved here with your father, what about your mother?" Immediately I felt guilty for treading on private business.
"My mother is dead," Christine quietly remarked. My eyes widened in horror. Glancing up, she saw my face and said quickly, " Oh, do not feel bad. I cannot even remember her. That's partially the problem," she added more to herself than to me.
"I.I am sorry," I faltered. Truly I was. "I know how it is, to not know." My voice trailed off.
Christine nodded knowingly. "Of course, your father."
Startled, I asked, "How did you know?"
Smiling, Christine answered, "Oh, gossip travels quickly in the opera. Especially if its about an important someone, like the new ballet mistress."
I stopped walking. We had reached our flat. Unknowingly I sighed as I thought of the lonely afternoon that stretched before me.
Glancing at me, then the large clock above us, Christine asked, "Would you like to come home with me and meet Papa? He would love to meet you." At my hesitation, she laid her hand on my arm and coaxed, "Oh, please do. Its dreadfully lonely without someone my age to talk to."
Gratefully I accepted the invitation. "I must leave a note for mamma, so she doesn't worry." The deed done, Christine and I made our way to her house, only a few blocks from my own. On the way, we exchanged pasts. I told her of Italy, the few memories of my father, and my intense ballet training.
Christine returned the favor with talk of Sweden, her mother, and her devout love of ballet and singing. I also found out she was fourteen "Or near enough," she laughed. Within the short time frame we walked the three blocks to her house, we were firm friends.
Upon reaching her residence, Christine opened the door. I noticed it was a quaint, cottage looking abode. White, with green trim, and surrounded by colorful, thriving flowers of various kinds. Inside was the most beautiful house I had ever seen. It was not grand, but it held a quality of elegance in an odd way. Christine led me down a hall to a door made of oak. From the room behind the door floated the most amazing music I had ever hear in my life. Full of light, yet sorrowful, it was filled with humanly passion.
As it echoed through the house, I listened in awe. Christine quietly opened the door and entered the room, beckoning for me to follow. It was a large sunny room, obviously a study. Large shelves of books towered towards the ceiling, and in between, huge arched windows were placed, allowing warm air sunlight to flood in. A dark green, lush carpet stretched across the glossy wood floor, and an official looking desk was placed at one end of the room. At the other was a large fireplace with several padded chairs around it.
At this end a man stood, playing an instrument. He looked in his fifties, with graying hair. He stood tall and straight, with strong hands and a handsome face. His eyes were closed beneath slightly bushy eyebrows, a large nose above a smiling mouth, partially hidden by a beard mustache. He was so intent in the music; he failed to notice our entrance. I looked at the magnificent instrument in his hands. The violin, made out of dark wood and covered with intricate designs, produced the smoothest, most crystalline sound We waited until the song was finished, then applauded for the musician, whom I assumed was Christine's father.
"Meg Giry!" she said. "Giry, is your mother Madame Giry, the new ballet mistress?" "Yes," I replied. I was worried she might think that I would get special treatment from my mother, as she would be teaching our class of the company. If Christine thought it, she did not say anything about it. Opening the back door of the Opera House, we stepped out into the warm sunshine.
"We are having wonderful weather," I lamely remarked, trying to fill in the silence. Christine simply nodded. I racked my brain, trying to think of something to say.
"You mentioned you moved here with your father, what about your mother?" Immediately I felt guilty for treading on private business.
"My mother is dead," Christine quietly remarked. My eyes widened in horror. Glancing up, she saw my face and said quickly, " Oh, do not feel bad. I cannot even remember her. That's partially the problem," she added more to herself than to me.
"I.I am sorry," I faltered. Truly I was. "I know how it is, to not know." My voice trailed off.
Christine nodded knowingly. "Of course, your father."
Startled, I asked, "How did you know?"
Smiling, Christine answered, "Oh, gossip travels quickly in the opera. Especially if its about an important someone, like the new ballet mistress."
I stopped walking. We had reached our flat. Unknowingly I sighed as I thought of the lonely afternoon that stretched before me.
Glancing at me, then the large clock above us, Christine asked, "Would you like to come home with me and meet Papa? He would love to meet you." At my hesitation, she laid her hand on my arm and coaxed, "Oh, please do. Its dreadfully lonely without someone my age to talk to."
Gratefully I accepted the invitation. "I must leave a note for mamma, so she doesn't worry." The deed done, Christine and I made our way to her house, only a few blocks from my own. On the way, we exchanged pasts. I told her of Italy, the few memories of my father, and my intense ballet training.
Christine returned the favor with talk of Sweden, her mother, and her devout love of ballet and singing. I also found out she was fourteen "Or near enough," she laughed. Within the short time frame we walked the three blocks to her house, we were firm friends.
Upon reaching her residence, Christine opened the door. I noticed it was a quaint, cottage looking abode. White, with green trim, and surrounded by colorful, thriving flowers of various kinds. Inside was the most beautiful house I had ever seen. It was not grand, but it held a quality of elegance in an odd way. Christine led me down a hall to a door made of oak. From the room behind the door floated the most amazing music I had ever hear in my life. Full of light, yet sorrowful, it was filled with humanly passion.
As it echoed through the house, I listened in awe. Christine quietly opened the door and entered the room, beckoning for me to follow. It was a large sunny room, obviously a study. Large shelves of books towered towards the ceiling, and in between, huge arched windows were placed, allowing warm air sunlight to flood in. A dark green, lush carpet stretched across the glossy wood floor, and an official looking desk was placed at one end of the room. At the other was a large fireplace with several padded chairs around it.
At this end a man stood, playing an instrument. He looked in his fifties, with graying hair. He stood tall and straight, with strong hands and a handsome face. His eyes were closed beneath slightly bushy eyebrows, a large nose above a smiling mouth, partially hidden by a beard mustache. He was so intent in the music; he failed to notice our entrance. I looked at the magnificent instrument in his hands. The violin, made out of dark wood and covered with intricate designs, produced the smoothest, most crystalline sound We waited until the song was finished, then applauded for the musician, whom I assumed was Christine's father.