Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed this story so far. Once again, I'm very sorry for the long delay. This chapter took longer to write than I had anticipated, so I hope it's worth the wait. The next chapter is nearly finished and should hopefully be posted within the next couple of weeks.
Thanks again for your wonderful support, and I hope you're still enjoying the story.
Chapter Seven: A New Elissa
Erik awoke with the last chords of a gentle waltz echoing through his mind. Smiling drowsily, he wondered how many musicians had the ability to compose music while in a state of sleep.
The results varied: sometimes he would merely dream a few chords repeated in sequence, and at other times he would awake and find an entire song already formed in his mind. This morning was one of those delightful occasions, when the music was there and all he had to do was transcribe it so others could hear.
Donning a black velvet dressing gown, Erik hurried into his living room, pausing to throw open the thick red drapes which hid the outside world from view. Not so long ago, Erik had been in the habit of keeping the drapes closed during the day, thus concealing himself from the curious eyes of any Parisians who had heard rumours that the first floor apartment was the home of the famous Erik Carriere.
These past few mornings, however, he had awoken with a desire to see the sun, a need as natural as it was inexplicable.
He lingered for a moment by the window, enjoying the warmth of the sunlight as it played upon his one unmasked cheek. It was a beautiful morning; it had rained during the night but now the sky was a clear, vibrant blue, reflected in the puddles which had pooled among the uneven cobblestones, so it looked as if the ground was scattered with patches of sky torn from a painted stage set. And there was music everywhere; Erik could hear the melody of birdsong, the percussion of feet upon cobbles, the woodwind of a gentle breeze, the dissonance of voices.
It was extraordinary, to find his music again. It filled his heart, his mind and his soul. And Erik knew that Christine was the cause. Ever since his first lesson with her, the whole world was an Opera House, and he was an enraptured listener.
Two months. Was it even possible for two months to transform a life? It had been so many years since he had longed for the sunlight, and so long since he had heard music in his sleep, or sat down at a piano to compose. He had not even made a conscious decision to start composing again; arriving home one evening after giving Christine her daily lesson, he had simply sat down at the piano, wiped the dust from the keys, and begun to play. And that night, the music in his dreams was louder than ever.
Turning away from the window, Erik took his place at the piano. He scribbled the music down with a swift, inelegant hand. Only when he emerged from the half-trance of creativity and played the music on the piano, listening to it with a critical ear, did he begin to have doubts about its quality. It was sentimental music, romantic music, the sort he had written as a young man. Embarrassed, he tucked it inside a portfolio and placed it in a drawer. As he dressed himself for the day ahead, he wondered why he was suddenly writing such music, and what would become of it. Shrugging and smiling, he left the apartment and set off through the streets of Paris.
Erik was halfway to the Opera House when he realised that he had forgotten something vitally important, and he immediately cursed himself for his absent-mindedness. He had been so preoccupied with thoughts of music and of Christine that the evening's gala performance had completely slipped his mind.
Erik paused in the middle of the crowded street and uttered an audible groan. Ah, yes. The gala night. Today was a day like no other. At the stroke of midnight, Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny would officially turn twenty-one years of age. And to celebrate, Count Philippe had organised a charity gala performance of Hannibal at the theatre, followed by a grand party in the public foyers.
Like all birthdays, Erik considered the Viscount's to be a rather trivial event, unworthy of such an elaborate fanfare. In truth, he had barely given the grand occasion any thought, beyond calling into a gentlemen's clothing emporium one evening to order the young man a tediously tasteful present: a white silk monogrammed evening scarf and a matching set of white silk monogrammed handkerchiefs. Not quite a gift fit for a Viscount, perhaps, but it would have to do.
No, the Viscount's birthday present was all prepared and ready to be united with its new and indifferent owner. It was the gala performance itself which caused Erik to break into a run.
Although the company had been performing Hannibal for eight weeks and could feasibly sing the opera backwards if called upon to do so, the perfectionist in Erik had been rather daunted by the thought of a gala performance. Consequently, he had decided it would be wise to call the entire company in for an early morning rehearsal. He had spent several moments lecturing his performers about the urgent need to be punctual. And now, because of his confounded composing and daydreaming, Erik himself was late.
Reaching the Opera House at long last, Erik dashed up the Grand Staircase with a speed which surprised him. The staircase was already bedecked with swathes of gold silk and garlands of flowers in celebration of the Viscount's birthday. The garlands wormed their way up the marble banisters like thorns growing up the walls of an enchanted castle, and Erik had the unsettling feeling that these prolific decorations would eventually engulf the entire building.
Reaching the top of the staircase, he rounded a sharp corner and collided with Madame Giry. The ballet mistress uttered a startled cry and almost dropped her rehearsal cane.
"Antoinette, forgive me. I didn't see you," Erik spluttered in embarrassment. But the look on Madame Giry's face was not one of anger, but of profound relief.
"Erik, thank goodness you're here!" Seizing him roughly by the arm, Madame Giry proceeded to drag him towards the main door which led to the theatre stalls.
"What's wrong?" Erik gasped, hurrying to keep up with her urgent steps. Panting, he jerked her arm, bringing her to an abrupt halt. "Please stop! What is it?"
Antoinette whirled about to face him.
"It's Carlotta. She's threatening to walk out of the gala tonight. She says she won't sing a note unless you apologise to her at once."
Erik stared at her in bewilderment. "Why? What have I done?"
The ballet mistress gave him a long, searching stare. "So you didn't see the newspaper this morning," she sighed. "Really, Erik. What sort of daydream are you living in at the moment? Here," Antoinette took a newspaper clipping from a pocket in her skirt and held it out to him. "Since it seems you can no longer be relied upon to read the newspapers yourself, I thought I should come prepared."
"Thank you," said Erik, irritably snatching the paper from her hand. He found himself looking at a gossip column penned by none other than the hated critic O.G.
It is now two months since Erik Carriere premiered his mediocre Hannibal at the Paris Opera House, and the city is rife with speculation about the next opera of the season. I can exclusively reveal that the next production will be a comic opera penned by none other than Philippe, Comte de Chagny. Entitled Il Muto, the opera will feature La Sorelli, the Opera's most skilled dancer, in the silent role of the mute, which she will perform entirely through mime. Even more intriguingly, it is rumoured that the principal soprano role of the Countess will be performed by Christine Daae, a newcomer to the Opera who has to date only performed in the chorus of Hannibal.
After five seasons of increasingly stale performances by Carlotta Giudicelli, one can only hope that the casting of Miss Daae is a sign of refreshing changes to come.
O.G.
Erik looked up from the paper in astonishment. The pleasant daydreams and the cosy sense of well-being he had enjoyed over the last few weeks vanished instantly, to be replaced by concern and anger.
"I can't believe this," he said.
"Carlotta isn't happy, and frankly I don't blame her," said Madame Giry with a frown. "Oh, Erik. What on earth were you thinking? To replace Carlotta with Christine Daae, of all people! She has only been with us for a few months."
"But I haven't done anything of the kind!" said Erik. "I promised the role to Carlotta and she should know that I would never break my promise." His eyes went wide with a new and unpleasant realisation. "The Comte de Chagny wanted me to cast Christine. He must have been talking to the papers. I'll kill the damn fool…"
Storming past the ballet mistress, Erik flung open the auditorium door with such force that it hit the wall. The noise rang out like a thunderclap in the silence which filled the vast, windowless room.
He was met by a frozen tableau resembling a scene from some bizarre and silent opera. Indeed, the scene was so exquisitely choreographed that for a moment Erik wondered if he had simply interrupted the rehearsal. A group of ballet girls and chorus singers cowered at stage left. Reyer stood stage right, his arms raised in a pleading gesture towards Carlotta, who stood in her usual position downstage centre, fiercely brandishing something which looked very like a newspaper. Ubaldo Piangi hovered nervously beside her. Behind them stood the Hannibal elephant, regarding the proceedings with something very close to contempt.
Erik took a step down the aisle, and the tableau instantly sprang to life. Carlotta thrust an accusing finger towards him.
"There he is!" she shrieked. "You ugly, ungrateful wretch! After all I've done for you!"
Erik froze halfway down the aisle, stunned by her words. In all the years they had known each other, Carlotta had never passed comment upon his appearance. In his early days at the Opera, when other members of the company had openly mocked him, she had always been kind. She had certainly never called him ugly, and to hear the word from her lips felt like the cruellest insult.
"Cara!" gasped Piangi. "Such strong words!"
Ignoring the well-meaning tenor, Carlotta folded her arms and fixed her furious glare upon Erik. "Well?" she said. "What do you have to say for yourself?"
"Forgive me, Signora," said Erik, the pain of her words a dull ache in his chest. "But I have no idea what you're talking about. You seem to think I've insulted you…"
"You have insulted me!" Carlotta cried, the ostrich feathers quivering upon her hat. "You've grossly insulted me! You promised me the part of the Countess in Il Muto. You promised! And then this morning, when I'm eating my breakfast and thinking how lovely it will be to work with you on a new opera once again, I open the newspaper and find that you've offered the part to that little baggage instead!"
This time she pointed a finger at the corps de ballet, and Erik saw Christine cowering beside Meg, her lovely face wet with tears.
Erik had been ready to apologise to Carlotta, to say that it had all been a dreadful misunderstanding, that the part had always been hers and always would be. But at the sight of Christine's tears, every word of apology died upon his lips. He looked at Carlotta and felt only anger.
"I take it you're referring to Miss Daae," he said, in a voice that sounded deceptively calm, even to his own ears.
"Yes," said Carlotta. "I am."
Erik took a step towards the diva. "Apologise to her."
Carlotta put her hands on her hips. "I will do no such thing!"
"Apologise to Miss Daae at once."
"I refuse to apologise when I've done nothing wrong," said Carlotta, her hands resting defiantly upon her hips, her face a picture of condescension. "This is your doing. You insult me and scoff at my talent. Do you honestly think Christine Daae has the voice to sing such a challenging role as the Countess? It's beyond her limited capabilities. It is you who should be apologising to me, and if you don't say sorry to me at once then I will not sing a note for you tonight."
Erik looked around at the bemused faces of the company and focused on Christine, who met his gaze with tear-filled eyes. And suddenly it struck him that this was no crisis. This was the opportunity he had been waiting for. This was the day that Christine would make her debut. He looked at Christine and imagined her standing upon the stage, dressed as Elissa, bowing to thunderous applause as the entire audience rose to its feet in enchantment. Everyone would hear Christine sing. Everyone in attendance at Count Philippe's gala, the great composers and librettists and artists, the government ministers and patrons of the arts, the men and women of the aristocracy, even Raoul de Chagny himself, would fall in love with Christine's glorious voice just as he had.
He turned to Carlotta.
"Very well," he said softly. "Have it your own way, Signora. Walk out of the gala if you will. It'll give Miss Daae the opportunity to show us all what she can do."
"No!" Christine's voice was shrill with terror, and Erik could see that she was trembling. "Erik, please! I can't do this!"
Carlotta's lips drew upwards in a sneer. "You see? She doesn't even want to sing a leading role. Even now she trembles. Look at her, the pathetic little thing…"
"That's enough!" Erik roared. "Christine will sing your role tonight. And if she succeeds, which she surely will, then don't expect a part in the next production, or any other. Now get out of my theatre!"
There was a horrified silence. Erik stared at Carlotta, and saw the diva's bravado melt away. She looked at him helplessly, as if she didn't believe what she was hearing.
"You're…dismissing me?" she asked in a soft voice.
Erik looked down at the floor, suddenly overcome by remorse at the destruction of a friendship which had lasted over ten years. But he knew it was too late to relent.
"Yes, Signora," he said wearily. "You've left me with no choice."
Carlotta made a noise like a muffled sob. Erik looked up and saw that her face was streaked with tears.
"All I wanted was an apology," she said softly.
"Very well, Signora," said Erik, banishing the guilt from his heart. "I'm sorry it had to come to this. And of course I'll be sorry to lose you."
Carlotta drew herself up to her full height, anger blazing through her tears.
"You ugly toad," she spat.
Erik blinked at her in surprise. "A toad, Madame?"
"Yes, a toad!" shrieked Carlotta. "A toad is exactly what you are! A foul, poisonous, ugly, ungrateful toad! And everyone in this theatre knows it. You'll pay for this. Just you wait! You'll pay!"
Erik tried to fake nonchalance as Carlotta flung her fox fur stole around her shoulders and stormed down the steps onto the auditorium floor. Pausing at the front of the stalls, she looked up at Piangi, who was still standing on the stage, apparently unsure where his loyalties lay.
"Ubaldo!" yelled Carlotta.
The tenor lingered indecisively behind the footlights for a moment longer. Then, throwing an apologetic glance towards the assembled company, he scuttled offstage.
Carlotta stalked down the centre aisle with tremendous dignity, disembodied fox tails flapping demonically about her neck. She did not stop when she reached Erik, nor did she turn her head to look at him. When she reached the auditorium door, she turned back to look at the corps de ballet.
"Miss Daae!" she cried, and Erik saw Christine jump at the sound of the diva's voice. "I wish you luck. My God, you're going to need it."
And with that, she pushed open the door and was gone.
A moment later, Piangi ran up the aisle in pursuit. He paused in front of Erik, who had never seen the amiable tenor look so angry.
"Amateur!" Piangi bellowed the word into Erik's astonished face. Then he, too, was gone.
Erik was left reeling in the aisle, his every limb trembling with anger. Each member of his opera company stared at him with varying degrees of shock, and Erik had the urge to bolt from the auditorium and leave them to get on with it.
Instead he cleared his throat.
"Ladies and gentlemen, we have a gala to rehearse, and I think we should begin."
These words drew gasps of protest from the singers, and Monsieur Reyer, who had been indulging his habit of pacing feverishly around the stage, threw his hands up in the air in a gesture of despair.
"Rehearse?" he said. "You want us to rehearse? Erik, we have no one to rehearse. We've lost both our leads!"
Erik forced a smile. Then he raised his voice so the whole company could hear his words. "I understand that you're all concerned about what has happened here today. But this is a strong company which will thrive on new talent. Carolus Fonta is a fine understudy for Ubaldo Piangi. And Miss Daae will prove marvellous in the role of Elissa. I expect you all to give them your full support and we'll have no further mention of the unpleasantness which occurred here today. Thank you."
Reyer gave a shrug and turned to the bewildered company. "Take your places for act one, please, ladies and gentlemen."
Erik watched as the company organised themselves into their positions. Noticing the empty space downstage centre, he frowned.
"Where is Miss Daae?"