I now recall why I despise rehearsals so much, Madame Giry thought, just as she did every time La Carlotta showed up for the theatre's daily practice sessions.
As Madame Giry hustled her ballet girls down the wrought iron spiral staircase and to the warm-up bar, the prima donna's notes reached a mind-numbingly high pitch. Carlotta's voice quavered, warbled, and trilled, making a general mockery of what should have been a good piece of music.
Madame Giry observed the Diva while the ballet corps warmed up and stretched. Carlotta was in full costume; a billowing crimson shirt and a gold bodice were the main part of the costume, though Giry noticed that Carlotta sported full stage makeup, which for this production was outrageous blue eye shadow and gold glitter everywhere. In her left hand, she held a dummy's severed head.
Carlotta drew a huge breath for her next line. "This trophy from our saviors, from our saviors, from the enslaving force of Rome!"
Madame Giry hid a smile when she saw that a few of the opera house cleaning staff stuffed cotton in their ears to mute the Diva's shrill voice.
The chorus came onto the stage and mercifully took over singing. "With feasting and dancing and song, tonight in celebration, we greet the victorious throng, returned to bring salvation."
Madame Giry had a quick ear for music, and though they had been practicing this particular work for only a few weeks, she already knew every note by heart.
The men's chorus came on next, dressed supposedly like Carthinian soldiers, but Madame Giry doubted the authenticity of their costumes, which were gaudy and frivolous for the production. "The trumpets of Carthage resound, hear Romans, now and tremble. Hark to our step on the ground! Hear the drums-Hannibal comes!"
The chorus died away, and a male voice took prominence. "Sad to return to find the land we love, threatened by Roma's far-reaching grasp."
Ah, Monsieur Piangi, Madame Giry thought, bending down to grasp the toes of her slippers in a fluid stretch. While his voice was not perfect, it was bearable, much more so than his wife's, at least. How the man abided being married to Carlotta, Madame Giry never knew.
Suddenly, the orchestra fell out of sync, and Madame Giry straightened to see Monsieur Lefevre leading three strange men onto the stage.
Monsieur Reyer, the conductor, attempted to settle the orchestra. "Er, gentlemen, gentlemen, er…"
Monsieur Lefevre's voice cut in over his. "This way. Rehearsals as you see are underway for a new production of Chalumeau's Hannibal."
Flicking her braid over her shoulder, Madame Giry smiled as she heard Reyer's exasperated cry. "Monsieur Lefevre, I am rehearsing!"
She always appreciated the conductor's bluntness, so much like her own. They had both been at the opera house for years, outlasting patrons, managers, and performers all. Rank certainly had its privileges, and in this case, it allowed them to speak a bit more freely than those beneath them.
Lefevre made a placating gesture. "Monsieur Reyer, Madame Giry, ladies and gentlemen, thank you. May I have your attention please? As you know, for some weeks there have been rumors of my imminent retirement. I can now tell you that these were all true."
Carlotta, who had been absently fanning herself while she waited for her next cue, snapped her fan shut and slapped it against her palm. "Ah-ha!" she cried triumphantly.
Lefevre, used to her dramatics, talked over her. "It is my pleasure to introduce to you the two gentlemen who now own the Opera Populaire; Monsieur Richard Firmin, and Monsieur Gilles Andre."
Firmin, a tall man, dipped his head a bit, while Andre, who seemed more relaxed, ventured a small wave towards the chorus. "I'm sure you've read of their recent fortune amassed in the junk business," Lefevre intoned.
Andre assumed an injured air and sniffed a bit. "Scrap metal, actually," he said indignantly.
Despite the humor of the moment, a shiver ran through Madame Giry, and she glanced up to see a shadow flicker past in the flies. What are you up to now, Monsieur? She thought.
Firmin took up the introductions. "And we are deeply honored to introduce our new patron-"
"-the Vicomte de Changy!" Andre cut in enthusiastically.
The performers and stage hands burst into spontaneous applause. The Vicomte stepped forward, and Madame Giry heard a gasp behind her.
She turned to see Christine whisper excitedly to Meg. "It's Raoul!" Meg pulled her gaze from the Vicomte to focus on Christine.
"Before my father died, at the house by the sea. I guess you could say we were childhood sweethearts…he called me 'Little Lotte'."
Meg squeezed Christine's hand. "Oh, Christine, he's so handsome!"
Mon poire, must you always be drawn to the boys? Madame Giry thought, and shushed both of the girls.
"My parents and I are honored to support all the arts, especially the world renowned Opera Populaire." The Vicomte's speech, though smooth, was betrayed by the discomfort displayed in the young man's movements. Obviously, he was not used to being around Paris' entertainers, who were cut from a rougher sort of cloth.
We are a strange lot… Madame Giry thought. Carlotta pushed to the front to curtsy deeply before the Vicomte. Some of us, however, are stranger than others.
"Vicomte, Signora Carlotta Giudicelli, our leading soprano for five seasons now," Lefevre introduced, as Raoul took Carlotta's hand.
The Diva's maid and seamstress applauded rather obtrusively. Carlotta basked in the attention, but Madame Giry detected more than a drop of mockery in the praise.
A slight cough broke in, and Lefevre gestured towards its owner. "Signore Ubaldo Piangi."
Piangi bowed deeply, and Raoul dipped his head. "An honor, Signore…I believe I'm keeping you from your rehearsal," he said with a glance at Reyer. "I will be here tonight to share in your great triumph. My apologies, Monsieur," he added to the conductor. He turned and started off the stage with Lefevre.
Reyer shook his head. "Thank you, Monsieur La Vicomte." With a raise of his brow and baton, he looked to Piangi. "Once more, if you please, Signore." The orchestra picked up as Piangi found his spot on the stage.
Internalizing many saucy comments about the inter-theatre politics that were swamping the house, Madame Giry turned back to her ballet corps. Raoul pushed past the group, without so much as a glance toward Christine.
Christine swallowed hard. "He wouldn't recognize me," she said. Madame Giry, though, saw the hurt that Christine couldn't rationalize rising as tears.
"He didn't see you," Meg quickly agreed.
Madame Giry's heart ached over the interlude, but their cue had just come. "If you please…" she said, driving the girls of the ballet corps onto the stage.
While she could not comfort them, perhaps dancing could. It was the only thing that had gotten her over her dear husband's death, just a few short months after Meg had been born. She tucked away the thoughts of Claude to be brought out tonight when she could have some privacy. She felt a presence behind her, and glanced over her shoulder. Firmin studied the ballet being performed.
"Monsieur," she acknowledged. "We take particular pride in the excellence of our ballet, Messieurs," she said, noticing Andre had joined them.
He nodded toward Meg. "I can see why-especially that little blonde angel."
"My daughter, Meg Giry," she said mater-of-factly, though it always bothered her to have men leer at Meg.
Meg's honey-gold locks and sweet face, along with her shapely body in provocative ballet costumes attracted fellows of every walk. Madame Giry knew that she could not prevent the stares-such was the life of someone in Paris' entertainment business. Still, she desired to protect her daughter as much as possible.
Firmin spoke now, tentatively, as though he sensed Madame Giry's mother hen instinct was growing every second. "And that exceptional beauty? No relation, I trust?"
Giry look to the girl he indicated. Ah, of course, she thought, realizing he was speaking of Christine. "Christine Daaé. Promising talent, Monsieur Firmin, very promising."
A sharp contrast to Meg's fair head, Christine had thick, luscious curls and a sort of unconscious grace and placid beauty about her. Madame Giry supposed that it was both of the girls' air of innocence that attracted men-they had not the hardened look of others in the ballet corps.
"Daaé, you say?" Andre remarked. "No relation to the famous Swedish violinist?"
"His only daughter, orphaned at seven when she came here to live and train in the ballet dormitories," Giry explained succinctly. The ballerinas were beginning to succumb to distraction, thought they knew Giry demanded perfection. How could she, though, when these new managers were badgering her and forcing her to split her own concentration?
"An orphan, you say?" Firmin's comment was colored with an ugly shade of lust. Giry had enough-mangers or no, she was the ballet mistress, and they were disrupting her ballet.
"I think of her as a daughter also. Gentlemen, if you would kindly stand to one side?" She all but shoved them into the wings of the stage.
Madame Giry locked her mind onto the ballet, and studied the dancers. She noted the girls who where slacking, so as to work with them later. Her concentration was once again broken when the cart bearing a mechanical replica of an elephant rolled on. It was at this point that Piangi was suppose to climb aboard it and sing the closing chorus triumphantly, but the rotund singer was experiencing some difficulties with the mounting.
Perhaps he should lean some agility form my ballet girls, she thought wryly.
The fiasco was only worsened by the fact that Carlotta was in her perpetual mood of discontent and was stomping about on the stage. Fortunately, her temper tantrum was for the most part drowned out by the chorus.
"The trumpeting elephants sound, her Romans now, and tremble. Hark to our step on the ground-hear the drums! Hannibal comes!"
Madame Giry breathed a sigh of satisfaction as the ballet girls pulled off their final steps in perfect unison, despite Carlotta's evil glares in their direction.