:A/N: I wonder where all my reviewers went. I guess my story's getting mush.
:Disclaimer: Don't own a single thing. It's all Leroux's.
:Claimer: Maxime, Tatjana, Jacques and the cook belong to me. Still. Plus, get to know the cheerful Monsieur Piaf!
:Thanks to: Robika and L-M-V-T!
:Beta-Reader: Lady-Miranda-Van-Tassel
:Far Cry:
: Chapter 17 : Broken :
Antoinette turned around in bed. The cold winter's sunlight mildly fell into the room through a round window and fell onto the wooden floor. Madame watched the light play with the wood, showing different facets of it. Closing her eyes, she still saw the light. It was useless. She wouldn't be able to sleep. Slowly, she sat up, carefully sensing every pain that crept up in her
chest. She had felt very weak after the performance, though she didn't take part in it, and couldn't sleep half the night. Her chest felt tight and a dull pain put her in comfort. But since she could not locate the pain she didn't give it too many thoughts. The day had already begun
and she would need to train her students. The audience wouldn't worry about her health, too. It was the world of ballet, and the show had to go on.
She heaved her feet out of bed and her bare toes touched the cold floor. 'Maybe I should wear warmer clothes?' she thought and hoped that was the cause of her pain. She decided to wear her shawl and to act as if everything was normal. An almost 38-year-old woman didn't want any pity, especially not in her high position. She had to be strong and a role model, no matter what. The show must go on... After she got dressed, she combed her hair and felt that the pain decreased a little. Relieved, she formed a bun with her hair and stared into the mirror, finally giving something a thought that had been suppressed in her mind for ages.'Where is he?' she wondered. 'Did he leave?' Nobody was able to give her any information where Raoul had been in the last days, not even his servant wanted to speak to her. After the Versailles performance yesterday, she had gone straight to bed without talking to Meg. 'Maybe she
found out?' Antoinette nodded to herself and stood up, ready to have breakfast with the other girls. She sensed something was wrong.
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Meg leaned over, grabbing a glass of marmalade to put on her croissant although she didn't feel any hunger. The night had been horrible for her, and with the moon shining into her room she couldn't fall asleep at all. Tears had been running down her cheeks half the night, sinking into her pillow. She had read the poem in the book again and again, thinking about death. And she had pitied herself. But that, not even half as much as she pitied her mother. She wouldn't be able to tell her; even the thought of Raoul to be dead would kill her. The other girls had advised her not to talk to her mother, and it was what would be best.
A moment later, speaking of the devil, Madame entered the room and stopped to look around. When the other girls noticed her presence, they immediately stopped their whispers and stared at her. Madame felt a heat rise up to her cheeks, wondering what was wrong.
"What is it?", she asked, her fingers clenching to her skirt. The girls started to talk again, all turning away from her, trying to avoid her eyes. She swallowed, feeling an emotion she hadn't in years. It was embarrassment. "It is pathetic", her voice rose again, "to stare at your ballet master like this. Don't do it again unless you have reasons for it. And I cannot imagine such a reason." She immediately turned around and went out of the room, her chest aching.
Coming to a halt some halls further away, Madame leaned against a wall, seeing black spots in front of her eyes. She tried to reach out for them but failed, only touching the air. Finally, she admitted to herself she couldn't stand and sat down on the cold floor, feeling a light but cold breeze. What had happened? Why did she leave? What was it that made her heart freeze like the air outside? Why had they all stared at her?
Oh, it was this embarrassement she hadn't felt in years. It was like a burned child who came in touch with flames again. How bitter the past had been, how much her ballet master had shouted at her in class, causing all other girls to giggle – and all of it only because she had to work harder than the others to achieve more in her life. She had always been the best, and had never had friends. There it was again, she felt it, and again, there was nobody to talk to about it – not even her only love. It was gone, it had vanished, and what had vanished, too, was the sense of her life. It seemed like she'd be in pain until the last day of her life.
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Christine sat down in the chair and looked up to Monsieur Piaf. She had been called to talk to him.
"Mademoiselle... What is your full name?"
"Mademoiselle Daae," Christine nervously gave back.
"So, Christine. I need to talk to you about your abilities as a ballerina." Monsieur Piaf put away his quill and coughed, leaning forward and putting his elbows on the big wooden desk. "As you know, the Opera Populaire is one of the best operas in Europe. Probably the best, if you ask me. And we cannot allow ourselves the luxury of having an average quality of dance here."
Christine frowned, feeling a little sick. She didn't undestand his words, but did not know whether she'd want to.
"The teachers have observed your performances and find that there is no more work for you to do at the Opera. Your extensions are barely good, your feet have shown no improvement at all but rather the contrary. You have become what can not even be useful in the Corps de Ballet." He thought she would answer something, at least excuse her inabilities as a ballet dancer – but Christine's face didn't change.
"Since I know about your past, I do see there cannot be any other job for you than to dance. Maybe sing. You don't have any other qualities that could be of any value. See, Mademoiselle, there are a lot of options for unmarried young women. They can teach, they can work in hospitals, maybe even in church. But you have difficulties reading advanced books, and I daresay you are emotionally too young to face any serious problems as you would while working in a hospital." She nodded.
"Therefore, Mademoiselle, I have written several letters to other companies in France and Paris. You have been invited to dance with the Ballet Classique de Paris, and it's a great company. You wouldn't even have to move far away, it's just half across the town. You may …"
Christine stared at him. "Are you firing me?"
"I may not call it firing, but yes."
Christine burst out in desperate tears, sobbing into her hands, sinking back into the chair. Monsieur Piaf shook his head, feeling pity for her. But she was too bad to remain at the Opera, not even in the Corps she could dance. It was all a matter
of technique.
"You need to leave today, though; otherwise you won't be accepted at the company. I need to ask you to pack your things," he paused, "…now. The carriage will be here in an hour, I reckon you do not have many clothes."
Christine did not answer, she barely heard him through her sobs.
:A/N: Guess what to do! Yay! Right! Click on it!
