Trivia for this week: Oppenord's sketches for "The Opera of Mount Olympus" really exist, and really are spectacular. He insisted that it should be built somewhere where it can stand all by itself, without other buildings around. Predictably, this did not happen, and the theatre was never built at all.
Chapter 12 – The Wallflowers
Madame Giry had intended to catch a cab to the architects' office, knowing that she was due at the Théâtre Français before the matinee, but it was clear from the moment she stepped outside the apartment building that she would have to walk. The boulevards were packed with people, not only the pavements but the roads themselves, bringing wheeled traffic to a standstill. The very air seemed charged with political fervour the likes of which she had not seen since her early years in Paris, during Napoleon III's coup d'état. This time the madness was of a different sort, however – there was a theatrical, dangerous quality to the riotous fun of patriotic singing and the lines of men combing the boulevards with their arms linked, shouting ribald slogans about taking Berlin by storm. It seemed closer to a rehearsal of Hannibal than to a real nation prepared for a real war, although Madame Giry had to concede that she had scant notion of what a nation prepared for a real war ought to look like.
Clots of people congregating by the news-stands spoke of the war having been officially declared, and of the Emperor's unexpected avowal to lead the army himself. Madame Giry heard the same words again and again as she passed each of these groups, vague terms like 'honour', 'demands' and 'insolence'. Fed up with being accosted by newspaper boys, she finally bought a paper in self-defence, and struggled grimly through the worst of the mayhem.
The walk to the office building seemed to take hours. By the time she reached the right address, she felt fairly baked in her dark dress under the scalding July sun. A passerby with a watch confirmed her suspicions: it was well after midday, which left little more than an hour until she would be missed at the threatre. Belatedly Madame Giry thought she should have stopped an errand boy and sent him with a message, but she was well out of the crowd now and returning would only waste more time.
Hot, painfully thirsty and harried was not how she had hoped to arrive at this confrontation. She dismissed the cowardice at once and went on to the office building.
As she had expected, the street entrance was unlocked; Monsieur Duchamp had never been one to shut shop because of a minor incident like the declaration of a war while there was work to be done. Madame Giry respected that.
The portier, on the other hand, was evidently a man more easily tempted by the activity outside, because the lobby was empty, and she encountered nobody else on her way up the marble stairs.
It was pleasantly cool inside the building. Madame Giry felt her composure slowly returning, but there was no helping the anxiety that had accompanied her all the way here. Old stage habits told her to control her breathing, straighten her spine and ignore the trickle of perspiration from her shoulder blades to the small of her back. She did all this, but the anxiety remained. Disciplining the body was a simple matter. The greater difficulty was disciplining the mind.
She paused on the first landing to check that the faded envelope with the note was still in her purse. In the subdued daylight of the stairwell, the fine paper stolen from the managers of the Opéra Populaire seemed less impressive, and the old seal was a crumbling blob of wax. The delicate lacework of the card, however, retained all its impossible intricacy – and it seemed monstrously unfair that the same hands that could create something like this should also be the hands that could strangle the life from a human being, or tear the seam of a girl's night-dress.
Madame Giry hid the envelope away. She felt a sick, desperate pity for him, almost fondness; it was like a vice in her chest. She was glad, shamefully, that Christine had never called her 'mother', because no mother's heart would bleed for her child's tormentor even as it bled for her child. Somehow, in this mess that had become their existence, she had managed to fail them both. No more, Madame Giry decided. She had to set it right. This resolve was a knife in her grip; it gave her strength. She fastened her purse and ascended the rest of the way up the stairs.
Monsieur Duchamp's draughting atelier occupied one half of the second floor, the other side of which was shared between the offices of a lawyer and an individual of some unspecified profession identified as 'M. Aguirre, by appointment only'. Madame Giry pushed the first door and walked in.
A chime announced her entrance. The brass plaque outside had proclaimed only "M. Duchamp and Associates", no other names, but a single look around the antechamber was sufficient to confirm to Madame Giry that the man she was after had indeed installed himself here. On the walls were plans of buildings, one of which stood out as plainly to her eye as a familiar face in a crowd. His handwriting had not changed. She had almost expected to see 'O.G.' under that drawing. Instead, the signature read, "Andersson".
"Can I be of assistance, madame?" asked the secretary at his desk by the door. He was a pleasant young man in a neatly pressed suit, with carefully combed dark hair that gleamed in the sunlight from the window behind him.
Madame Giry approached the desk.
"I am here to see Monsieur Andersson. Immediately, if I may; it is a matter of some urgency."
"Ah. I regret that isn't possible, madame. He left this morning to inspect a building site. If you could leave your name, he shall be sure to contact you directly on his return."
Madame Giry cursed her luck.
"That will not be necessary. I'll wait here."
"There would be no point, madame – he is not due back in Paris until..." The secretary folded over a page in his ledger, then another.
"He is gone from Paris?" Madame Giry asked, taken aback.
"Oh yes, madame." He finally located the right entry. "Until the first of August, I believe."
"Two weeks! I ... had not expected it."
"I really am very sorry. Would you perhaps like to talk to one of—"
"Well, well!" came a deep voice from the other side of the room, and Madame Giry turned slowly, still reeling, to see Monsieur Duchamp standing in the doorway of his adjoining office.
He looked unchanged since she had last seen him: a grey-haired gentleman with his waxed moustaches and the genial, friendly manner that could soothe even the most intractable of clients. He had clearly been working; he was dressed in his waistcoat and had the stub of a pencil wedged behind his ear.
"If it isn't young Agathe Giry! I had wondered when you might pay me a visit."
Madame Giry shook her head, finding a smile in response to his genuine warmth. "Not so young these days, monsieur. I had hoped to have a word with – my friend, but it appears I have missed him. I am sorry to interrupt your work."
"Not at all, I'm delighted! Please, come inside."
"With pleasure, Monsieur Duchamp, but I fear I only have a minute. I am expected at the theatre."
"Oh yes, you wrote, the Théâtre Français – I shall not keep you long, you have my word. I say, what is all the commotion on the boulevards? It was frightful this morning, quite impossible to get anywhere at all."
"It is no better now," she assured him. "Perhaps worse. It seems there is to be a war with Prussia; more than that I cannot tell. One would think from the celebrations that we have won already."
"So it's done at last, is it?" He sighed. "Politics is the curse of our day. After you, Madame Giry."
He held the door and she preceded him into the office.
There were two chairs at a large desk; behind it was a glorious drawing of a theatre in red and white chalk and charcoal: Oppenord's 18th century plan for the non-existent Opera of Mount Olympus, done in breathtaking detail. The beauty of it made Madame Giry pause as always – every line spoke of an instinct for the marriage of grace and precision, the endless search for perfection.
Monsieur Duchamp saw her admire the sketch. "Still has pride of place, Oppenord. Art and technique, hmm? Nothing like an unattainable dream to inspire one."
She had to smile at that.
"Yes; in ballet also. I have always loved this drawing."
She took a seat across from him, while Monsieur Duchamp deftly rolled up the plans that had been opened on his desk.
"Your young friend Andersson was quite taken with the sketch as well," he said, as he stashed the tall rolls in a corner. "I cannot thank you enough for sending him my way – truly, my dear girl, you know some remarkable people! Remarkable! He has the eye of an artist, but his calculations are faultless; even the most quarrelsome engineer could find nothing to quibble about. I don't believe I have ever seen anything like it. Watching him draw is quite the experience; it is as though nothing else exists. I fear that if we did not lock up the office at night he would remain in his place and keep working until he died of hunger. As it is, he works every night at home."
"Does he," Madame Giry remarked noncommittally.
She released a breath, and resigned herself to the thwarted confrontation. "It really is a pleasure to see you, Monsieur Duchamp." She smiled wistfully. "I hope your sister's family are all well?"
"Very well – thank you. And little Marguerite? Still dancing, I gather?"
"Yes, with the Variétés until November." She was relieved he did not ask after Christine.
Monsieur Duchamp moved to the cabinet by the window and took out a heavy bottle and two glasses.
"Brandy," he indicated, hefting the bottle slightly. He poured out the two measures and passed hers across.
Madame Giry acquiesced, taking the offered glass. It was a greeting they shared as a solemn ritual. Jean-Marie Duchamp was a man of the old, disappearing world, one who greeted women with a bow and polite words rather than with brandy – indeed, he had greeted her in the regular manner for a long time after they met, all through the difficult months of her pregnancy when she had relied on his assistance. It was only when she had been ready to return to the ballet and had come to thank him for his help, that he had taken out the brandy. He had poured it equally between them and, coming from this man, she had understood it then for what it was: a gesture of his highest regard, a recognition of courage. She took it as it was offered, simply and without words.
They lifted their glasses in a brief, silent toast, and drank.
"I am sorry you missed Andersson this morning," Monsieur Duchamp resumed, setting his empty glass aside. "All the same, I am glad he has taken the opportunity to leave the city. It is not good for a young man to be so consumed in his work that he forgets daylight."
Madame Giry made a harsh sound. "He never lacked focus."
"Precisely," Monsieur Duchamp picked up the word, "focus! Absolute focus. Quite, quite remarkable – I daresay with some little experience he could be giving old Oppenord's ghost serious cause to fear for his status."
"I am pleased to hear he is doing so well. May I inquire, monsieur, where precisely he has gone?"
"Sedan. A little place on the Belgian border; we have a commission for a new courthouse there. Andersson flatly refused to put his signature to the plans until he has seen the site. And very commendable of him, too – it isn't every architect nowadays has the humility to fit his work to what's built already."
"Thank you," Madame Giry said, thoughtfully. "I shall have to consider this."
She stood up, apologising. "Forgive me, please, but I really must go; I am very late. Still, I am glad we have met once again, even so briefly. I hope I have not been too much trouble."
"Too little trouble, as usual," Monsieur Duchamp grumbled. "Agathe, please my dear, allow me to help you in some small way. I cannot help but worry for you now the Opéra is gone. The Daaé child, she is getting married, no? At least accept a small gift for her, ease my old heart. Come, you cannot deny the girl a frilly dress and all the trimmings."
"You are good, monsieur – but Christine's fiancé is a wealthy young man, and much in love. I have no doubt that should this marriage proceed as planned he would consider it his personal obligation to dress her in all the finery she could wish."
"Agathe, what's all this rubbish? You cannot mean for the girl to owe her husband her own wedding, and every last thread on her back!"
Madame Giry raised her shoulders in a resigned gesture. "If she is to spend a lifetime on an income not her own, then neither you nor I can change that with the price of a bridal veil. I believe Christine's fiancé is a good man; he would not hold such a thing against her."
"Even so..."
"Even so."
Monsieur Duchamp rose also to get the door for her. He paused as she came up, and spoke more quietly.
"I want you to promise that you will not hesitate to contact me if things become too difficult. If not for your own sake then at least for the young ones."
Madame Giry placed a hand on his in gratitude and affection, but shook her head.
"You have already helped more than you know, Monsieur Duchamp. As regards money, surely you know me better than to believe I would let Meg or Christine suffer privation, marriage or no. They are well enough off for the present."
Monsieur Duchamp tugged at his moustache in frustration. "I do not believe I have ever known a woman more obstinate than you, Agathe Giry, but I daresay you know best. A moment please, allow me to see you out."
He opened the door for her and reached for his hat and cane. Madame Giry gave him a wry smile.
"Monsieur, if I could not hail a cab at my age, I should be in a sorry state indeed. Please convey my best regards to your sister – good day!"
Monsieur Duchamp grunted in defeat. "Good day, Madame Giry."
o o o
"No, I do not believe she is expecting me, but if could wait—"
The concierge, a stocky middle-aged woman, gave Raoul a harassed look from behind her table. "I'm sorry, monsieur, but I really can't say when Mademoiselle Daaé will be back, and I will not permit you to loiter in my lobby for hours on end."
"Madame, you may have my word that I shall not inconvenience you," Raoul tried not to sound exasperated. He motioned with the rolled-up newspaper he was holding towards a wooden chair by the door:
"I shall simply sit here and read until Mademoiselle Daaé returns."
"I cannot allow it, young man. If you have leisure to spend the entire day waiting, then by all means wait outside. Heaven knows there's enough vagabonds and louts out there today!"
This was true; the streets had been jammed since morning, and early afternoon had brought little improvement.
Raoul let his breath out through his nostrils, determined not to be baited.
"Fine," he said. "I thank you for your kind assistance."
He put his hat back on and was halfway to the door when the concierge spoke up again, sounding somewhat mollified, and more than a little curious:
"Why do you not simply leave the lady a letter, monsieur?"
Raoul looked back. "Forgive me, but that is none of your concern."
"Certainly it is my concern," the woman bristled, "if it is a question of strangers lingering here to accost the tenants!"
"I am not a stranger, madame, as I'm certain you are perfectly aware. You have seen me here many a time with my fiancée."
"You are Mademoiselle Daaé's – but gracious, I had no idea she was to be wed!"
The nosy woman looked genuinely startled; the revelation that there was something about one of the tenants she had known was clearly a new experience for her.
Raoul found he could not reply. Her words had stung him with a pang of something like jealousy, though he could not say of what. The concierge had seen him with Christine a dozen times, kept tabs on every tenant, knew all the gossip – and yet had not even guessed at their marriage plans. He had the painful sense that this entire engagement had been a figment of his imagination, an illusion that was real to nobody but him.
The concierge recovered at once, clasping her hands and beaming at him, quite melted by the idea of marriage:
"Of course you must stay here and wait for her, if you so wish! Why, it would be a sad thing indeed to keep two young lovers from meeting. And may I ask when the happy day is to be?"
Raoul cleared his throat uncomfortably. "I'm afraid I cannot say."
The woman's expression softened still further, into benevolent sympathy. "Had a tiff, did you? I do see why you wouldn't wish to leave a letter. Well! Then you had better find her and talk to her!"
"That was my intention in coming here, madame. I do not know where else I may find her."
She gave him a little wink, "I believe I heard her say something on the way out about a walk in the Bois de Boulogne."