Disclaimer Well I own Meg's history and her audition, her and Christine's
past together, stuff like that. Don't worry, Erik will come in, I just
wanted to get the past straightened out. It helps to understand the
characters when you know what has happened to them. Anyways. that's about
all I own. Except my kitty pets Sara that's it, we will sit here, lonely,
until our angel comes to us.
Chapter 2
I Remember
Needless to say, I survived my first day in the corps de ballet, and several others that followed. Since some of us were new members, we had to wait a month or so before we could rehearse with the rest of the opera. We waited anxiously with baited breath. After what seemed like an eternity or more, the previous opera season ended. That day my mother (whom I shall refer to as Mme. Giry when at the opera) entered out class with a strange smile on her face. We knew it was time.
That happy season, we rehearsed and performed Faust. Though we were unimportant ballet girls, Christine and I were even more thrilled than the Prima Donna was, so we said. Every performance was new and exciting, and afterwards we would go out, walk, and sometimes go to a café.
We felt very elegant and grown up, and eagerly awaited our next performance. We danced out hearts out in front of the audience, and because we loved what we did, we greatly improved. I was pleased to find myself one of the best dancers, though it seems very conceited to say so. The truth was, I had been extremely afraid that on account of how young I was, I would not be able to hold my own. You can imagine my relief when I not only held my won, but also was chosen to for a special pax de quatre.
Almost every evening Christine and I returned to her house to play and discuss our future. I insisted on being Ballerina Prima of the opera, while Christine decided on a Prima Donna. We teasingly imitated the Primas of our opera, until we ended practice in giggles. This continued for two more seasons.
On our last day, Christine and I held each other and sobbed, even though we knew that we would be back after the summer was over. No matter how hard we had begged out parents, neither would consent to let us stay for a full year at the opera; each insisted we needed a vacation. Christine was off to England and the shore, while Mamma and I were returning to Italy. Tearfully we parted, promising to write. That summer, I received several postscripts and a few letters from Christine; faithfully I returned with epistles full of descriptions of Italy and my time there. The end of the summer could not come soon enough, but eventually it did. Upon arriving in Paris, we met each other at the station. Frantically we rushed to hug each other, then began chattering about our vacation.
I spent the night at Christine's home. We talked late into the night. Christine had met a friend in England, a boy called Raoul. She had met him the previous summer at the same shore, when he had rescued her mother's scarf from the ocean. Throughout the year, he had written her letters, and they had had a glorious summer together, running about, swimming, and listening to her papa's stories.
Her fifteenth birthday was spent out at a luxurious restaurant, where she had dressed up and had a wonderful time. I told her of my time in Italy, visiting hundreds of cousins, or so it seemed. I danced in an old villa, all alone and spent hours in Rome being a tourist. My favorite part was seeing an opera in Milan, and she agreed that was the best over all.
We admitted the summer had not been as horrible as suspected. However, we were very glad the next season was approaching, and we ardently awaited the next morning. Before we fell asleep, we performed a sacred rite to keep us from ever parting; we became blood sisters.
Chapter 2
I Remember
Needless to say, I survived my first day in the corps de ballet, and several others that followed. Since some of us were new members, we had to wait a month or so before we could rehearse with the rest of the opera. We waited anxiously with baited breath. After what seemed like an eternity or more, the previous opera season ended. That day my mother (whom I shall refer to as Mme. Giry when at the opera) entered out class with a strange smile on her face. We knew it was time.
That happy season, we rehearsed and performed Faust. Though we were unimportant ballet girls, Christine and I were even more thrilled than the Prima Donna was, so we said. Every performance was new and exciting, and afterwards we would go out, walk, and sometimes go to a café.
We felt very elegant and grown up, and eagerly awaited our next performance. We danced out hearts out in front of the audience, and because we loved what we did, we greatly improved. I was pleased to find myself one of the best dancers, though it seems very conceited to say so. The truth was, I had been extremely afraid that on account of how young I was, I would not be able to hold my own. You can imagine my relief when I not only held my won, but also was chosen to for a special pax de quatre.
Almost every evening Christine and I returned to her house to play and discuss our future. I insisted on being Ballerina Prima of the opera, while Christine decided on a Prima Donna. We teasingly imitated the Primas of our opera, until we ended practice in giggles. This continued for two more seasons.
On our last day, Christine and I held each other and sobbed, even though we knew that we would be back after the summer was over. No matter how hard we had begged out parents, neither would consent to let us stay for a full year at the opera; each insisted we needed a vacation. Christine was off to England and the shore, while Mamma and I were returning to Italy. Tearfully we parted, promising to write. That summer, I received several postscripts and a few letters from Christine; faithfully I returned with epistles full of descriptions of Italy and my time there. The end of the summer could not come soon enough, but eventually it did. Upon arriving in Paris, we met each other at the station. Frantically we rushed to hug each other, then began chattering about our vacation.
I spent the night at Christine's home. We talked late into the night. Christine had met a friend in England, a boy called Raoul. She had met him the previous summer at the same shore, when he had rescued her mother's scarf from the ocean. Throughout the year, he had written her letters, and they had had a glorious summer together, running about, swimming, and listening to her papa's stories.
Her fifteenth birthday was spent out at a luxurious restaurant, where she had dressed up and had a wonderful time. I told her of my time in Italy, visiting hundreds of cousins, or so it seemed. I danced in an old villa, all alone and spent hours in Rome being a tourist. My favorite part was seeing an opera in Milan, and she agreed that was the best over all.
We admitted the summer had not been as horrible as suspected. However, we were very glad the next season was approaching, and we ardently awaited the next morning. Before we fell asleep, we performed a sacred rite to keep us from ever parting; we became blood sisters.