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Christine-After we finished our tea I turned to M. D'Aubigne and asked if anyone was using Dressing Room number two.
"Oh, yes," he replied. "Our leading soprano, Signora Maria Guidicelli."
My heart leapt into my throat when I heard the name. "Beg your pardon, but did you say Maria Guidicelli?" I asked.
M. D'Aubigne smiled benevolently. "Yes."
"I-is she any relation to La Carlotta Guidicelli?" I asked. I knew my face had paled and I tried to cover my distress.
"Ah, yes. La Carlotta, the famous soprano. Yes, Signora Guidicelli is La Carlotta's younger sister. Many would disagree, but I believe Maria's voice is far superior to her sister's. La Carlotta sang at this Opera House many years ago, before she moved back to Italy. Did you know la Carlotta?"
"No, no," I quickly. "I have just heard of her." I saw that Bethie was looking at me curiously, so I simply smiled. "I used that dressing room for a while and I was hoping to show it to my daughter."
"You were lead soprano?" M. Deniaud asked, his eyebrows raised.
"For a time," I said.
"Why, that is fascinating," M. D'Aubigne said. "What was your name before you married? Perhaps I saw you perform."
Bethie, M. D'Aubigne and M. Deniaud were all looking at me curiously and I suddenly felt trapped, suffocated, by a past that was long buried.
I briefly considered making up a name, but I could not bring myself to do it. So I sent up a brief prayer that neither of the men knew the story of the Phantom of the Opera and said, "My name was Christine Daae," I said.
Blank looks greeted my statement and I felt an incredible rush of relief. "I am sorry, but I do not recognise the name," M. D'Aubigne said apologetically. "But I have only lived in Paris a brief time and only took over the management of the Opera four years ago."
"Oh, that is fine," I said. "I performed for many years, but was only the lead for a brief time before I married."
"Why did you not continue to perform after you married? Did your husband not approve?" M. Deniaud asked.
"No, that is not it at all," Bethie interrupted, scowling at the chorus master. "Papa is an amazing musician, he was my mother's tutor."
"Bethie," I scolded her. Then I turned to M. Deniaud, desperate to change the subject, to get away from the dangerous territory we were treading on. "I wished to live in the country and raise a family," I said. "I was done with the stage."
M. Deniaud looked satisfied, but Bethie had a look on her face, one that I recognised well. It was a look of stubbornness that was so much like Erik. Though she said nothing more, I could easily see her curiosity.
"Well, Signora Guidicelli as not here today, I do not suppose it would be a problem to let you show your daughter," M. D'Aubigne said. "I will take you."
With that, M. Deniaud excused himself and M. D'Aubigne led Beth and I down the hall to Dressing Room number two. He unlocked the door with a master key and went inside, gesturing us to follow. I went inside and was once again swept up in a million memories.
I closed my eyes briefly and it was almost as though I could hear Erik's voice in my mind, as I had heard it so many times as he had come to me as my Angel of Music. "I am your Angel. Come to me."
I opened my eyes and walked towards the ornate, gilt framed mirror that took up part of the wall. I stood before it, staring at my pale reflection.
My reflection had changed much since the last time I had looked at my face in the mirror. I was older, more mature. No longer the weak child I had been. So much had changed, and yet, as I stood there it was strangely as if I had never left. For a brief moment I wished that I was alone, that I could open the hidden mirror and go down through the catacombs to the lake below. I wondered if Erik's gondola was still there, if I went across the lake if his rooms were still intact or if the police had destroyed it when they went to find Erik the second time.
"This was your dressing room, Mother? It is magnificent!"
I was startled out of my reverie by the sound of Bethie's voice. My daughter, Erik's and my child. I looked over at her and smiled gently. "Yes. It is, is it not?"
Bethie looked around the room, wide eyed. Not much had changed since I had left. There was still the same furniture, the same dressing screen, the same wardrobe. I glanced down at the dressing table, half expecting to find one of Erik's red roses.
I smiled faintly, lost in memories, until I saw a framed daguerreotype sitting on the dressing table. I looked at it and recognised a young Carlotta, standing with a much younger girl, whom I assumed was her sister, Marie. She was very pretty, much prettier than Carlotta. Maria's young face held none of the coldness that her sister's did. I felt a cold chill rush through me as I thought of the possible repercussions of Carlotta's sister and Beth being in the same Opera House. But perhaps Maria knew nothing of the Opera Ghost. After all, if she did, why would she be performing at the same place where her sister's lover had died?
The thought of Ubaldo Piangi's death made me feel slightly ill. Erik had not murdered him in cold blood, but he was responsible for the heart attack that had taken his life.
I had the horrible feeling of things spinning out of my control and I wished Erik were there, that I could talk to him about what was happening. I did not know what to do, and after so many years of feeling strong and confident, I did not like the feeling of weakness and fear that had come over me since I had stepped through the doors of the Paris Opera House.
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Beth-
I watched my Mother's face carefully as we entered the dressing room. I could see the conflicting emotions of excitement and trepidation clearly on her face. I had not for an instant believed her dismissal of Maria and Carlotta Guidicelli, that she did not know Carlotta. I had seen her face pale when M. D'Aubigne mentioned her name. And then, she knew Maria's sisters name. I did not think it was coincidence. It was just one more mystery to add to my growing list.
As we walked through the door I watched my mother's face transform. The fear melted away, leaving her looking sad and wistful as she stood in the centre of the room. She closed her eyes briefly and when she opened them again she walked slowly towards the large, gilt framed mirror took up half of the wall by the dressing table.
She stood in front of the mirror, gazing into its depths as if she were not just looking at her reflection, but looking inside of the mirror…
I wondered what she was thinking. Was she thinking of her time on the stage? Of the time when she occupied this very dressing room? Was she thinking about Papa and Stephan and me and regretting all she had given up for us? I could not read the expression in her eyes.
"This was your dressing room, Mother? It is magnificent!" I said and she turned from the mirror at the sound of my voice.
"Yes. It is, is it not?" she said softly. Then she walked over to the dressing table and studied a framed portrait that sat upon it. She stared at it silently for several moments and I watched her face fall and there was a flicker of fear in her eyes as she turned to face me. I had not missed her flicker of recognition when she saw the picture.
"That must be Maria," I said, watching mother. "Is that her sister, Carlotta?"
"It must be," she said quickly. "You will have to tell me all about her after you meet her."
"Yes," I said. "I will write."
"Oh, Bethie, you must. You must write often! We will all miss you so much!" mother said, pulling me into her arms in a tight hug.
xxx
Mother and I had dined in a small café not too far from the Opera House. After supper we talked with Messer's D'Aubigne and Deniaud about the upcoming performance, Tristan and Isolde. I had heard of the story, but I had never seen the opera. In fact, both men were quite astounded to find that I had never been to a theatre performance before. There were no theatre's in the small town where we lived, and Paris was too far, or so I had always been told.
"We are thinking that Elizabeth should have the part of Lady Brangane, who is Isolde's attendant," M. Deniaud said.
"Lady Brangane?" Mother repeated. "That is a huge part, one of the leads!"
I glanced between Mother and M. Deniaud.
"Yes, but frankly we do not have another Soprano who can sing half as well as Elizabeth," M. Deniaud said, and M. D'Aubigne nodded his agreement.
"A-a lead?" I asked, eyes wide. "But I have never even performed before!" I protested.
"You will have plenty of time to rehearse and practise," M. D'Aubigne said soothingly. "But, if you wish to not do it, we will put you in the chorus."
I thought about it for a few moments. No, it was not the lead, but from what mother had said, it was a large part, an important one.
"I would like to try it," I said firmly, a minute later.
M. D'Aubigne beamed at me and my mother gave a gentle, supportive smile.
"Should I not audition for the part?" I asked.
"No, no. Once you are under contract we assign the parts as we see fit. We knew, after hearing you sing, that you would be perfect for the part," M. Deniaud said.
I flushed at his praise, as he did not seem the type to give praise unless he truly meant it. I thought briefly of Papa, and wondered what he would think when he knew. Would he be proud? I liked to think he would, but I was not certain.
xxx
That night was my first night away from home, in a strange bed, in a strange place. I had not seen any of the other chorus girls. It seemed that everyone was on holiday while the Opera House was in between productions, and neither of my roommates was there, so M. D'Aubigne had offered a bed to Mother so she did not have to stay at the hotel.
The next morning we went to an early breakfast, then went back to the Opera House to pack up her bags so she could leave for home.
"I will never find my way," I told Mother as I took yet another wrong turn, trying to get back to the dormitory.
Mother laughed softly. "You will learn, and the other girls will show you around."
"But what if they do not? What if they tease me?" I asked.
We had finally reached the dormitory and we went inside. Mother sat on the edge of my bed and patted the mattress next to her so I would sit down.
I sat down next to her and she put an arm around my shoulders. "I cannot say that there will not be any girls who are mean spirited," she said. "There were those types when I sang here. You just have to have faith in yourself, and you will be fine."
I sighed. "Thank you, Mama," I said, slipping back into my childhood name for her.
"Oh, Bethie, I am so proud of you," she said softly.
I helped her pack, and all too soon one of the young men with the ballet corps took her bags out side, where her carriage waited.
We stood outside the Opera House. My mother's eyes were shimmering with tears as she hugged me. "I love you, Beth. You will be wonderful, I know you will."
"Thanks Mama," I whispered as I hugged her tightly.
With one last, almost longing glance at the Opera House, Mother climbed into the carriage. With a jolt, the carriage rumbled away, and I stood and waved until it disappeared from view.
With a sigh, I turned and faced the building that was now my home.
I was terrified.
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