Chapter 7

Marianne's breath caught in her throat. This was the man who had written such music! She felt privileged and intimidated to be in the presence of such a talent.
"It is an honour sir. Of course, I know your work."
"Thank you" he replied, briefly." Are you planning to audition for the part of Lolita?" She coloured violently.
"No! Of course not. I can't - I - I am no Christine Daae."
The words seemed to hang in the air like the sound of a pistol. After what seemed like an eternity, the man she now knew to be the composer spoke again.
"Oh Christine" he sighed, half out loud and half to himself. He then continued aloud, "The part of Lolita was meant for her. It was written in her honour."
"Do you know her then Monsieur?" she inquired, in a whisper. She realised it was an impertinent question for a small-time dancer to ask to this enigmatic musical genius but the soft yet forceful sorrow which pulsed through his soft voice emboldened her, and piqued her curiosity.
"We...have met, indeed. But it has been many months since we last spoke. However, the memory of her voice acted as my muse in the composition of this Opera. It saddens me to think that she will not be the first woman to play its heroine."
"I imagine that you will be given the task of finding another Lolita then, since you are the composer" she suggested. He laughed derisively.
"I doubt it. The managers and I have not met, but I feel sure that if we did, they would not be willing for my work to be performed in their establishment."

Although she burned to know more, Marianne perceived a dangerous note in the laugh which echoed around the hall, so plush and luxuriant by candle-light, so haunting and desolate in darkness.
"I must leave sir. I will be missed by the ballet mistress," she faltered.
"Very well. But, I must ask you to grant me a favour."
"Certainly" she replied, but not without another thrill of foreboding.
"I want you to audition for the part of Lolita. I want you to play it."
"But sir! I have had no coaching! I cannot sing the part! I simply cannot! Please do not ask me to!"
"I am sorry. I have no right to ask you to do this. But I know that you can become Lolita. I heard it in your voice...I heard..." Although his words trailed off she knew what he wanted to say. She knew because she remembered the way she had felt when she had first heard his music. In his Opera she had heard the expression of her own sorrow, and she felt instinctively that in her voice, in her song of despair, he had heard his own.