The moment Christine entered the deserted theatre that morning, she knew this practice would be unlike any other. For one thing, the stage curtains were drawn open. Erik was seated in the first row, tapping his fingers on the rail of the orchestra pit. Christine walked slowly, contemplating the derby hat, which he never removed. It was the height of incivility for a man to leave his hat on in the presence of a lady, but Christine could not believe that her angel was consciously slighting her. He must have some other reason…
"Angel, I am here." she said, listening to her voice fill the acoustically perfect room.
He rose and bowed to her. "Welcome to your stage. I heard you warming up earlier this evening, so we will dispense with that and move straight to the point. Please go up on stage as though you were auditioning. Imagine that I am the managers and M. Reyeurre. They will all be there. Go on."
The lip of the stage seemed very high to her, as she stood there alone. They went through the basics of introducing oneself before an audition, and then she opened her mouth to sing and realized why Erik had opened the curtains. Volume that was perfect for the shrouded stage was lost when directed to the open theatre. The empty chairs absorbed the sound, and would do so even more when they were filled with well-dressed patrons. She instantly understood the need for increased power, increased volume, and increased clarity. Erik stared up at her; she could see the catlike green of his eyes behind his mask. The judges will stare at me just so, she thought.
After her first run through, Erik stood and applauded. It was the first time he had ever complimented one of her performances so openly. Normally, he would gruffly mutter, "That was passable," or "Well done." She blushed and looked down. He stopped applauding.
"No NO, Christine. When the audience applauds you - and they will once they catch their breath - you look up not down. Smile! Don't look as though the audience wanted to eat you." She thought he was smiling; it was hard to tell. He made her smile, curtsy, and exit the stage. "You are ready Christine. I do not think we could bring this piece any closer to perfection. When you go to sing this morning, remember that. You are as near perfection as an earthbound creature can be. If they compliment you, it is because you are great. If they insult you," his eyes flashed with premeditated anger, "it is because they know you are greater than they could ever dream of being."
"Thank you, Erik. Your praise means more to me than succeeding in the audition." It was a true enough statement. Why, then, did her cheeks begin to glow a warm pink?
His hand rose as though he would touch her, but continued its arc to fussily straighten his hat. "Good day, Christine. Rest until the audition and let no one intimidate you, no mater how hard she might try. I will be there, though you may not see me," and he was gone.
Christine floated back to her rooms. She did not feel the floor beneath her feet or the lifting chill of the night air. Her Angel had applauded her. She lay back in her father's chair, sipping warm tea and smiling to herself. When it was time to audition, she felt no fear.
The audition did not deviate one whit from the way Erik said it would be. The two managers and M Reyeurre were seated in the front row, each holding pen and paper. Carlotta stood rigidly in the wings, massaging her throat. Luciana sat at the piano, eyeing the music with a distinctly bored look on her swarthy face. This piece was old hat, repeated ad nauseam.
M Poligny stood and cleared his throat. As though there were dozens of candidates, he spoke loudly and slowly. "We are ready to begin. Would the first candidate please come downstage?"
La Carlotta brushed past Christine with a haughty sniff. She took her place proudly, and gestured to Luciana to begin playing without so much as a curtsy to the judges. Every person in the room had cause to wince more than once; Carlotta had clearly not rehearsed or warmed up. Her range was restricted, causing her to rasp the higher notes. Her delivery was harsh and pretentious.
She is not laughing in the mirror, thought Christine, she is sneering at it.
When she had finished, M. Debienne applauded dutifully. M. Poligny appeared to be absorbed in the relief carvings of cherubs above the stage. Christine wondered if he had heard a single note. M. Reyeurre was trying to look as though he had not just been brutalized musically.
Determined to change the thinly veiled sour looks on all three faces, Christine waited until M. Poligny called for, "The next candidate, please." She walked downstage, imagining that she was back in her parlor, draped in costume jewelry, wearing the satiny gown. She introduced herself in mild tones.
"The Jewel Song, please, Luciana." she requested, and Luciana began playing.
Christine blocked out the sound and imagined her Angel's rendering of the same piece. A smile bloomed on her face, and she began to sing. By the time she finished with, "La, ce n'est plus ton visage; Qu'on salut au passage!" Luciana's playing had become lively, almost performance-worthy.
She surveyed the judges with satisfaction. M. Poligny was staring at her with the same blank wonder of a decade before. M. Debienne was grinning like a mad monkey and M. Reyeurre was muttering to himself and taking notes as fast as he could scribble. Her eyes caught the slightest movement from the box seats and she knew her Angel was there. The only look of displeasure was Carlotta's dangerous glower.
M. Debienne stood, looking terribly nervous. Christine almost pitied the poor man.
"We… the judges, that is, have come to a decision. The lead role of Margeurite will be played by…" he licked his lips and cleared his throat, 'Mlle Daae." Carlotta emitted a high pitched sound of disgust and got up to stalk from the room. M. Debienne watched her go, his eyes widening as he imagined the temper tantrum brewing, and then continued, "and the understudy will be la Carlotta."
Christine graciously thanked the judges. Now the great work of rehearsal, memorization, blocking, and more rehearsal would begin. Her days would be filled with tedious repetitions and curt commands from the director and the Maestro. She would doubtless be shown up repeatedly as a novice to the stage. She was deliriously happy.
