A/N: Well, uh, hello! Or, as someone else more elegantly put it, fondest greetings to you all - did you think that I had left you for good? I know nobody really believed that I would continue this story, 8 years(!) after stopping, but I was quite serious when I said the characters remained alive to me and one day I would be able to write again. Somewhat incredibly, that day has come.
Huge thanks to every person who has taken the time over the years to write a review, send a message or otherwise read, think, and let me know that it's not just me who cares about this story.
Chapter 35 — Entr'acte
The first days of autumn came unnoticed. The old trees in the cemetery still stood tranquil and green, and the Angels' Garden was a welcome respite from the dust of the city, untouched by traffic or newspapers or fears of the war. Christine cleared the few leaves and twigs that had blown onto the steps of her father's tomb, and touched her hand to the sun-warmed stone wall, in brief prayer. It was so different, she reflected, to pray without expecting an answer, knowing that no answer was possible. Perhaps she would learn to like it, this certainty. But the words did not come, and at length she gave up and pressed instead a quick kiss to the stone, apologetically, before descending the steps and heading out. There were no rehearsals on Sunday, nor errands, and that meant she could afford a few precious hours at the piano with her music. The opening notes of the second movement teased the edges of her mind, begging to be set free.
She heard the distant shouting as soon as she left the Angels' Garden; by the time she reached the foot of the stairs that led up to the cemetery gates, the noise had grown to a roar. Another riot? No; the shouting was not angry, it sounded more like a theatre on a wildly successful opening night. Cautiously, Christine went up to the open gate and peered into rue Rachel. The motley crowd gathering there was bigger than she had imagined and growing fast as more people spilled from the side streets. All along the façades, every door and window had been thrown open, people jostling for a better view. Someone called out, "Vive la Révolution! Vive la République!"
The rest was lost in the clamour, but the flags and fists and faces all around her threw the same fierce joy through the air, and Christine had no moment to catch her breath before being swept into the midst of it. "At last! A Republic! It's done, it's done!" And on all sides, the same reprise, "Revolution! Vive la Révolution!"
"Revolution?" she repeated, staggering as people pushed past her. "What's happened?"
"You haven't heard?" came a shout in her ear, and she turned to see a young man in a cheap suit, with long scraggly blonde hair escaping from under his cap, and fiery eyes. She did not know his name but he was a local, one of the students who always sat talking in the little bar across from the cemetery. He beamed at her. "It's done, it's finished! The Empress has fled, the empire is history. The war is history!" His friends pulled him back into their group, but others filled his place at once, and Christine knew she would have to move with the crowd if she did not want to be crushed against the cemetery walls.
"You mean victory?" she shouted after him, "are the Prussians gone?"
The student shook his head violently, trying to make himself heard above the noise. "No such thing! Forget about victory! Peace! We'll have peace, thanks to the goddamn Prussians, peace for the new Republic!"
What did that mean? Christine could make no sense of the slogans, but the jubilation was immense and palpable, and her heart quickened with it despite the confusion. Could the war truly be over? She craned her neck, trying to see how to get through the crowd to the corner where she knew Meg would be waiting, but it was hopeless. She concentrated on keeping her footing as the flow of people carried her out towards the boulevard. A tricolour flag was raised above her, unexpectedly majestic, flowing free in the afternoon sun.
Peace. It was a word she had not heard for a while, with the city awash in furious preparations to meet the Prussians head on, should they break through the north and march for Paris. Was it possible it was really over? Raoul's letter had made her think the war was only beginning: he had sounded calm and determined, but he had not yet seen the Prussian forces, let alone been in battle. She had hoped he might stay safe. Could so much have changed in less than a week?
The crowd thinned a little once they reached the boulevard, making it easier to breathe. Christine squinted into the light, holding her hair out of her eyes to get her bearings.
"Well! Mam'zelle Skin-and-Bones, if I don't mistake you?"
Christine whirled sharply, coming face to face with the woman she recognised as Erik's landlady. Her kerchief was askew, her broad face glistening with sweat. She looked years younger than Christine remembered, lit up with a wild joy. Losing patience, the woman said, "Louise! Remember. Your—"
"My... friend's landlady, of course," Christine said hurriedly, cursing her white skin for burning an obvious shade of pink.
Louise gave a great bark of laughter, "Your friend! All right then, your friend - your friend who's gone off adventuring, the devil knows where." She looked Christine up and down in friendly inspection, then nodded back uphill: "Come join us for a bit to eat then, mam'zelle, since you're here. Store's near enough."
"That is kind of you, madame," Christine began, "but I promised my friend - uh, Meg, my friend Meg, that I'd meet her here…" And my music, she thought in dismay. The second movement.
"Pah, you'll be searching for each other for hours, in this," Louise tipped her chin at the chaos of celebration around them. "Best have a quiet sit-down till the roads clear a mite. Heard what Gambetta said at the Hotel de Ville? We've got rid of the parasites, for now anyway. Know what a Republic is, mademoiselle?"
Christine nodded, but Louise only laughed, without much humour this time. "Ah, you're all the same, you lot. You think you don't need to know."
Christine opened her mouth to protest, but Louise had already started uphill, and there was nothing for it but to follow, up into the tangle of little streets that led deeper into Montmartre. All right, Christine decided, perhaps this was not such a bad idea. She could at least find out what all this talk of a Republic was all about. And a landlady might have news, another part of her mind put in treacherously. Rent had to paid in advance, letters written. She might know.
The narrow footpaths teemed with people of all ages, laughing, chatting, gleeful boys climbing lamp-posts to oversee this sudden party in the middle of the day. A girl on the corner was handing out green branches to passersby, freshly broken and smelling of tree sap. Louise was right, it would have taken her hours to get through this. Christine didn't recognise the route they were taking, but the direction was familiar enough. A spark of unwanted curiosity spurred her on, stronger than propriety.
"I've seen you around," Louise said, glancing back over her shoulder inquiringly.
Christine did not deny it. "My father is buried at the cemetery here. And Meg works-"
Louise made a rude noise at that. "And you, my girl, walk a mile out of your way to the wrong side of town, past my store. Twice a week. You think your friend might come back?"
"Yes," Christine admitted, acutely embarrassed. She had not thought her occasional detour had been noticed. Louise stopped suddenly, and it took Christine a moment to realise they were here, standing at the back door of the store. She remembered this door, and the storeroom beyond. She looked up, and found Louise watching her.
"Oh those eyes," Louise lamented, apparently to herself. She wiped her forehead and reached inside her voluminous skirt for a key. The door opened with the exact same creak, and then they were inside, in that busy dusty space that smelled of soap and ink, wending between boxes and crates and rolls of paper, to the back of the store. Yes, there were the stairs leading up.
"Come in then, come and sit. Phew, it's warm out there… There's bread and cheese."
"Coffee, too!" came a man's voice from the dim interior of the store, "in a minute."
"My husband," Louise said, nodding in that direction. Christine heard the note of pride in her tone. Louise indicated a scuffed table in the corner, with a couple of old chairs. There was a basket of fresh bread, a hunk of hard yellow cheese and an almost empty wine bottle. The delicious savoury smell of food momentarily made Christine forget her reservations about being; she had not eaten since breakfast.
"Thank you, madame, this is good of you."
Louise broke the bread apart and handed her a lump of cheese on a fork, taking another for herself. Christine bit into hers; it was sharp and creamy, much better than anything they had recently had at home.
"Grab another seat, would you," Louise motioned to her husband as he emerged with a pot of steaming coffee. "Found this one wandering over the Committee way."
Christine winced at this introduction, but he regarded her warmly enough over his spectacles. He set down the coffee and pushed an empty crate over with one boot, settling himself on it with practiced ease.
"Jean Gandon."
"Christine Daaé," Christine inclined her head politely, feeling a bit ridiculous at making introductions with her mouth full, being fed like a stray in this man's own house.
"Ahh," Jean said, exchanging a glance with Louise. "From the Opéra."
Christine bit her lip. "I'm at the Variétés now, Monsieur Gandon."
"Still singing, are you?"
"Dancing," Christine said, "In the ballet."
Jean unclipped his spectacles, cleaned them on a shirt-tail, and put them on again. To Louise he said, "I've a bad feeling about this. Only eleven of them in our new government and all elected on the spot."
"Fair's fair," Louise countered. "The people chose them."
"Based on what, that's the question. You, mademoiselle," he directed his shrewd gaze to Christine, "do you know Henri Rochefort?" He did not wait for Christine to confess her ignorance, but picked up a well thumbed magazine from a nearby stack and showed it to her. On the cover was a caricature of a drunken soldier, and the title, "La Lanterne".
"He's the editor. A clever chap, and good at what he does, but tell me, what does he know about getting France out of this mess?"
"Not that again," Louise grumbled, "got to start somewhere, haven't we? Better him than what we had before."
"Excuse us," Jean said to Christine, "it's an exciting time. What does Andersson say then? He was heading to Sedan, he must know what happened—"
Louise glared at him fiercely. "Let her be! What does she know?"
"Ah, I'm sorry, mademoiselle, I'd thought he might have written…"
He quelled under the weight of Louise's stare. Christine knew her own dismay must be plain on her face.
"That's why it happened, isn't it," she said, understanding at last. "The revolution… because there was a defeat."
"A rout, more like," Louise said. "Ruddy waste. All that posturing."
Last night it had seemed yet another rumour: a battle in Sedan, where Erik had gone to work on his courthouse. She tried not to imagine it, or to wonder where he was, whether his courthouse had been damaged... whether he might return. And Raoul... Christine gripped her bread, digging fingernails into her palm.
Jean gulped the rest of his coffee as he stood to go. "I've left a sign upstairs," he said to Louise. "Better stopper the ink at least, back in a minute. Excuse me, mademoiselle."
Christine watched him go up.
"A good man," Louise said quietly, making Christine turn back to her. Her eyes were dark with warning, "A very good man."
Now Christine understood her meaning. "Unlike — my friend."
Louise shook her head. "When we heard about the Opéra… We thought he might've been one of Blanqui's men, wanting to set the world on fire. But he was just another self-absorbed bourgeois—"
"Is," Christine said. "He is alive."
"Oh?" Louise said in surprise. "You've had news, letters?"
Christine hesitated. "Not exactly…"
"You think me old and dull," Louise said after a moment, "but you open those big sad eyes and look around you, mam'zelle. You see them every day here, the poor pretty rabbits, waiting, hoping. It's the oldest, dullest story in the world. Our men know it too, don't you think they don't, and our girls, the clever ones, they play that same game. It's the silly ones listen to their shit: My angel this, my saviour that, my only pure one. Then they fall, Mademoiselle Christine, all those angels fall by the wayside sure as the story's old. Your lover, there's thousands like him — going as he pleases, Empire, Republic, Paris, the provinces, it's all the same to them. I don't know what he is, but don't you go thinking you can save him, pet. Don't you fill your heart with his troubles."
Christine looked down at the crumbs on the table, at her fork. "I don't want to save him."
"Of course not," Louise sighed. "Of course." She removed the kerchief from her damp hair and tipped her head back, re-tying it neatly. "Suffer if you will, but don't you be stupid about it. He's gone and good riddance."
"May I… see the room?" Christine asked, surprising herself with her boldness.
Louise groaned, "For fuck's sake. Please yourself. We got Jean's signwriting things in there now, need the space, what with things heating up." She rose to her feet, "Up you go then."
Christine walked slowly upstairs, unsure of what she wanted here. Nothing, perhaps. Just to see it empty. On the landing they passed Jean coming the other way; he raised his eyebrows at Louise but she just shrugged and continued up.
The room had not really changed at all. Instead of Erik's sketches on the table lay a large banner, half-inked, and a few more by the wall. The bed was empty, bare stripped mattress almost hidden by stacks of books and leaflets.
Christine went to the centre of it, floorboards creaking beneath her steps, then stopped. Her heart was full of something she did not understand. Not sadness.
"What is it you're after, pet?" Louise asked from the doorway. "He didn't leave anything, not as I saw."
"It isn't…" Christine began - then shook her head, curls flying. "You think me seduced and abandoned, madame."
Louise spread her arms at the obvious empty room. "And no?"
Christine looked around, at the washstand, the window. She thought of Erik on stage with her, the duel they sang, flaying each other naked before the horrified audience in a vile parody of seduction, so frightened of being abandoned. She did not think it was what Louise meant.
"What is it?" Louise probed more gently, with sympathy. "True love?"
Christine turned back to her, pulling a folded letter from her pocket. "You wanted to know what he is, madame. Here." She unfolded the sheet of music and held it up for Louise to see.
The woman accepted it uncertainly, turning the thin paper to peer at the scribbled notes. It took a moment for Christine to realise she could not read it.
"Music? A code?" Louise frowned, and now Christine felt for her. She really could not hear it. But it was there, right there, how could anybody not hear...
And perhaps it was that moment of longing that broke the wall inside her - because she felt herself open all over, split from her lungs to her mouth, and the music came forth unbidden, as easily as if she was a child in a chapel, the notes rising light as smoke. His vocal line, the line she had heard the moment she had opened this letter. And beyond it, their old song, ancient, from the chapel. And beyond that, further still, her own music entwining with it, shaping sound…
She fell silent. The music remained in the air, carried on just out of hearing, like the ribbon of a river sparkling beyond the horizon. The second movement.
A quiet curse startled Christine. Louise Gandon stood very still, her calloused fingers at her mouth, her body frozen. She looked as though she had seen a ghost, or heard an angel.
"Forgive me, madame," Christine whispered. "I don't know what he is. What I am. I will go now - thank you for the meal. And… this."
She turned and flitted down the stairs, quick-footed, running out, out into the light.
The crowd engulfed her and carried her along, and Christine let herself float within it, hearing nothing of the slogans and celebration but only the music that pulsed again in her body and thrilled her with the magic of its return. Her voice, so long silenced, had come alive at last.
"Long live the Republic!" sang the streets around her, and "Live!" sang her heart. Live!
It took a long time for the crowd to clear enough that she could find Meg, and the afternoon had dwindled to evening before they at last succeeded in getting a seat on the omnibus home.
The defeat at Sedan seemed to have bypassed news and become history all at once, accepted as the pediment upon which the new Republic now stood. On the omnibus, as darkening streets fell away behind them, all anyone talked of were the eleven members of the new government, and how long it would take to negotiate peace with Prussia. Someone had decorated the inside with green branches, in celebration. A posse of National Guard soldiers passed outside under the streetlight, with branches in the muzzles of their guns.
"I wonder if Helena is really leaving," Meg said with a frown. Her bag of ballet gear was in her lap, she had done another sitting in Helena's place. "They're registering all Prussians, you know, she had to sign something yesterday and now her family is to leave Paris. It's crazy, the war might be over now anyway... Monsieur de Gas has family in New Orleans, in America. He'd promised her a letter of introduction, but it is such a long way." Meg sighed and rubbed a muscle in her shoulder. "Either way, maman is not going to like it, but I'll be doing extra sittings."
"Meg," Christine said, catching her eyes. "I sang."
Meg blinked, "What? When?"
Christine put her fingertips to her own throat, to where her voice buzzed when she spoke. "I sang," she repeated. "I can sing."
"Christine!" Meg looked at her in astonishment, then laughed and reached over to squeeze her hands, her bag sliding to the floor with a thump. "I told you. I told you it would come!"
"You were right," Christine agreed, smiling at Meg's enthusiasm. She handed the bag back to her. "Thank you."
"What for?"
"I don't know. For not caring either way. "
"Hey!" Meg protested, "of course I care!"
"No, I mean that it doesn't matter. That it never did matter to you, if I could. You're a good friend, Meg. Better than I deserve."
"Pffft," Meg gave her a mock glare. "Don't go all maudlin now. We're supposed to be celebrating." She pointed up to the omnibus roof, looking mischievous. "How about a Marseillaise then? They might let you up on the top deck if you're loud enough!"
"I take it back!" Christine laughed, chasing Meg off the omnibus as it trundled to halt, both of them tumbling into the evening. The air was still warm, smelling of greenery and smoke, and war seemed impossible.
They had a quiet private celebration at home with Madame Giry, sharing sweet wine and talking late into night. It was good, so very good, to feel hope.
o o o
Two days later, news came through that negotiations with Prussia had failed. Empire or Republic, it was all the same to them - inexorable and unswayed by beautiful rhetoric, more certain than ever of the strength of the German alliance, the Prussians were closing on Paris.
All around the city, the suburbs of Paris had been demolished to make way for a vast construction zone of fortifications. Huge trees and old houses came down one after another in a rustle of leaves and rumble of stone, leaving behind only a wasteland beneath a choking pall of grey dust. In that dust, hastily outfitted National Guard volunteers in their red trousers were drilling in ragged formation, civilians trying to become instant soldiers of the Republic. It was not going well.
"They're still coming, the people," Madame Giry said, passing the spyglass to Monsieur Duchamp. With other onlookers, they had come up on the wall to see the progress on the fort. Through the distant Neuilly gate, the ant-trail of refugees from the razed suburbs continued in endless procession: the elderly and the children upon rickety carriages, the women with scarves and handkerchiefs held to their faces in a futile attempt to keep out the dust. Men leading horses, the occasional Red Cross wagon loaded with ambulance men and supplies.
"I need to thank you again for the loan," she said. "We could not have managed this month. Monsieur Gaillard informs me he cannot help raising the rent, not with all these people coming in; it seems we are to count ourselves fortunate to have kept all three rooms. But it cannot last like this. They will need to reopen the theatres soon."
Monsieur Duchamp blinked against the dust, his eyes watering in the shadow of his hat-brim. "Agathe, I implore you, stop this madness. Look at this place! You must get the girls out. It won't be long now, they will close the city. It will be too late. You know I must leave myself, it would give me the greatest pleasure to take all of you with me. Think of the country, the air you can actually see through. And the sea! You have not seen Perros-Guirec in years. My sister asks daily when you will come."
Madame Giry sighed. "I cannot." She held up a hand, forestalling his objections. "You are right, of course you are right. But this is all they know, this city. It is their home. You know Meg has it in her head to learn Jules' art and will not hear of leaving now, and Christine is as obstinate as she is. They are young, Monsieur Duchamp, too young to be afraid. And you must remember, they are theatre-bred. This is pure theatre, entirely irresistible. They will not go."
Monsieur Duchamp folded the spyglass away in the inside pocket of his jacket. "It is a grave mistake," he tried again, his eyes searching hers. "The girls are young, yes, and they will go where you take them."
"I will not force them."
"No," he agreed, shoulders sagging in defeat. "You will not. And that is why you are the most frustrating, disagreeable and remarkable woman I have ever had the misfortune to know. " He tugged at his grey moustaches. "I would say you know what you're doing, but with all this," - he indicated the people and carriages coming into the city, "even you may find it too much."
Madame Giry smiled. "I thank you for the compliment. I daresay we shall all find out soon enough."
He surprised her by leaning over and pressing a bristly kiss to her forehead. "I shall expect letters. Every week! Or so help me God, I will come back and fetch you myself."
"Every week," she promised fondly. "You have my word."
Away from the gates and fortifications, Madame Giry made her way slowly through the military confusion of the city, barely recognising the streets she had known most of her life. The gigantic span of Avenue l'Impératrice, which used to carry the most fashionable carriages to their promenades in the Bois de Boulogne, had been turned into a vast field hospital, with rows of orderly hospital tents of the American Ambulance. Flags of the Red Cross flapped above in the dusty breeze, their newly sewn edges crisp and clean, awaiting the inevitable first patients. Men with armbands proclaiming their Red Cross status zipped busily in and out of canvas doorways, or stood smoking outside, conversing in an incomprehensible mixture of French and English. Madame Giry took one of the footpaths that ran alongside this shadow of things to come, leaving the tents to one side.
"Hey!" someone exclaimed behind her. She turned instinctively, but the man with the armband was addressing someone inside a large tent. His exclamation was followed by a rapid-fire exchange in English that she could not follow, but it obviously caused a stir. Several other medics came running up, stamping out their cigarettes on the way.
Madame Giry stood aside as they passed, crowding into the tent. She saw their distorted shadows within, but could not work out the source of the commotion until another onlooker stopped beside her:
"What chaos!" the woman remarked disapprovingly, eyeing the tent. She pointed an elegant gloved finger at the medical officers now rushing in. "The Americans are supposed to be the organised ones, if you can believe it, but there they go - did you hear what they said? Unbelievable."
"What is it?" Madame Giry prompted.
"They're saying there's a wounded army officer in a bed over there, and they have no idea who he is. Or how he got there." She laughed conspiratorially, the charming musical laugh of the entertained Parisienne. "Do you think it was a ghost?"
Theatre, Madame Giry thought. They could close every theatre in Paris, but the play would still go on.