Author's Note: Thanks again for the lovely reviews! I'm so pleased you enjoyed the last chapter. I hope you enjoy this new one. Thanks for reading.
Chapter Eleven: Your Public Needs You
Meg had saved Christine a slice of cake. She presented it to her two days after the party, at the beginning of the first rehearsal for Il Muto. The cake – a once magnificent chocolate sponge - had been carefully wrapped in a napkin, but nevertheless it was squashed and crumbling. A shower of crumbs fell onto the stage as Christine un-wrapped it. Meg beamed proudly.
"I smuggled it out," she whispered. "It was an enormous cake, but we were only allowed one slice each. I took three, but I saved one for you."
Christine stared at the cake and felt as if she would burst into tears.
"Thank you, Meg," she said, wrapping the cake again and placing it carefully inside the worn leather bag which she used for rehearsals.
"I wish you had been there." Meg was apparently undeterred by Christine's sombre mood. "It was such fun! And I actually danced with a duke! Not a particularly handsome duke, I have to admit – he had a rather unpleasant moustache which curled up at the ends – but a duke all the same! Can you believe it?"
"It sounds wonderful," said Christine absently.
Meg suddenly looked concerned. "What's the matter? You've been so quiet ever since we got here. Where were you the other night? Did something happen?"
Christine shook her head. "I was just tired. I suppose it was all the excitement after the gala…"
The mention of the gala caused Meg 's mood to brighten again. "You were wonderful, Christine. Do you realise that Carlotta isn't back? That means you'll be singing the part of the Countess, doesn't it?"
"I suppose it does."
"You don't sound very happy about it. I would give anything to play a leading role."
Christine sighed. "I know, Meg. I'm sorry. I have something on my mind, that's all."
"Tell me." The little ballerina was looking at her with wide, worried eyes, and Christine could not help smiling. Meg could be as gossipy and giddy as anyone she had ever met, but she was always eager to listen.
"I can't. Not at the moment. There are too many people here. Later, perhaps."
Meg shrugged. "You know where to find me."
They waited. More members of the company arrived in the auditorium, still looking pale and tired after the revelries of two days ago. Christine studied her score, trying to concentrate on the Countess's music, but it was like reading some unknown language. She could not focus on the notes, could not turn them into music in her head. Her mind kept returning to Erik. Over and over again she saw his face, and it was not the distortions she remembered, but the terrible look of shame and grief which twisted his features more than any accident of nature ever could.
It had not escaped her attention that Erik was not yet here.
They waited. Christine began to hear mutterings: "Where is he? It's not like him to be late."
This was true; with the exception of the morning of the gala, Erik was normally on time, or indeed early for rehearsals. The company was becoming restless and impatient.
Meg nudged Christine playfully. "Look! The Vicomte's here."
Christine glanced up from her score in time to see Raoul and Philippe take their seats in the front row of the stalls. Raoul caught her eye and gave an apologetic half-smile. Christine looked away guiltily; she had not forgotten Raoul's downcast expression as Erik evicted him from her dressing room.
They waited another five minutes, and Erik still did not appear.
"Where do you suppose Monsieur Carriere is?" Anatole Garron whispered.
Christine had her suspicions, but did not reply, and Meg looked oddly evasive.
"Perhaps he's slept in," someone suggested, earning a few titters from the corps de ballet.
Eventually, when the stage was filled with a cacophony of complaint, a tall, darkly clad figure entered the auditorium and strode down the centre aisle. It was Madame Giry, and she looked pale and worried. Christine noted the dark shadows under her eyes.
The ballet mistress mounted the steps at the side of the stage. Then she brought her rehearsal cane down hard upon the wooden floor. The resulting noise caused most of the company to jump, instantly putting an end to the multiple conversations.
"I apologise for keeping you waiting, ladies and gentlemen," said Madame Giry. "I'm sorry to have to tell you that Monsieur Carriere is unwell. He sends his sincere apologies, and has asked me to lead the rehearsal today."
There were concerned murmurs amongst the company. Christine's heart began to race with worry. She knew at once that Erik was not absent because of any illness.
He was absent because of her.
Count Philippe leapt to his feet.
"But this is unacceptable! It's the first day of rehearsal."
Madame Giry regarded him coldly.
"Monsieur Carriere is aware of that. As I said, he sends his apologies."
"He's the artistic director. He should be here."
"He's given me a detailed rehearsal plan. I know what I'm doing, Monsieur le Comte."
"Ah, so he's not well enough to honour us with his presence, but he's still capable of writing a rehearsal plan. It sounds like a very severe illness to me."
"Do sit down, Philippe," said Raoul, reaching for his brother's arm.
"I mean to have serious words with him," grumbled Philippe.
"The man's ill, for heaven's sake!" snapped Raoul. He glanced up at the ballet mistress. "I'm sorry, Madame. Please proceed."
Under happier circumstances, Christine would have smiled at Raoul's outburst. He had always been a shy young man, and yet he possessed a keen dislike of injustice, and had a tendency to stick up for those who were unable to defend themselves. It was one of the things Christine had always admired about him.
"Thank you, Monsieur le Vicomte," said Madame Giry. Chastened but still grumbling, Philippe sank moodily into his chair. "Now, ladies and gentlemen, I would like to turn your attention to page four of your scores. We begin in the Countess's boudoir. Miss Daae?"
And so they began. Christine sang her way competently through the score, but her heart was not in the rehearsal. She kept thinking of Erik, alone and miserable in his apartment. The company, meanwhile, seemed curiously disengaged. Madame Giry was a firm but fair leader, and she ensured that discipline was maintained and everyone had clear instructions. But without Erik, there was something important missing. Christine remembered the excited atmosphere at the first rehearsal for Hannibal, when he had managed to instil into his performers the feeling that they were going to create something special. Erik had a valuable gift; he could make even the most ridiculous opera seem sublime, in its own way.
The Count also seemed to realise that something was wrong. As they rehearsed, Christine was aware of him growing increasingly frustrated with the proceedings. Finally, after a particularly tedious piece of pantomime featuring La Sorelli, the prima ballerina, he leapt to his feet and marched onto the stage.
"No, no, no!" he said. "My dear, we talked about this. You can't wave your arms about in that ridiculous manner."
Sorelli passed a hand over her forehead and gave a tired sigh. "I'm sorry, Philippe. I don't quite understand what you want me to do…"
"I want you to mime the role, not dance it. What you're doing is too close to dancing."
"She is a dancer, Monsieur le Comte," said Madame Giry.
The Count threw her an annoyed glance. "I think I know what I'm talking about, thank you, Madame Giry."
Madame Giry raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
"I just need more time to practice," said Sorelli. "I'll get it right next time, I promise."
Apparently satisfied, Philippe whirled around to face Christine.
"And as for you…You need to act more like a Countess. You need to move with more poise, more grace…if you're capable of such a thing, of course."
"Philippe!"
The shout had come from Raoul. Christine looked down into the auditorium to see that he was on his feet, with his hands clenched into fists by his sides, and an outraged expression on his face.
Count Philippe stared at him. His lips drew back in a sneer. "What do you want?"
"Please, Philippe. Do sit down. This isn't helping matters."
Philippe looked ready to protest. But instead he gave a great sigh, and stomped off the stage.
Fortunately, they managed to reach the end of the morning's rehearsal without further incident. Occasionally, Christine would glance at the front row and see the Count glaring at her. She could not imagine what she had done to offend him. She was relieved when Madame Giry finally announced a break for lunch.
The company broke up into small groups of friends. Philippe took Raoul and Madame Giry to one side, and the three began to converse in low, urgent voices.
Meg tapped Christine on the shoulder.
"So, are you going to tell me what happened on Saturday?"
"Oh, Meg…" The tears which had been gathering in Christine's eyes since the beginning of the rehearsal finally began to spill down her cheeks. "I think I've made a terrible mistake."
Meg put her arm around Christine's shoulders. "Come on, let's go to the dressing room. You can tell me all about it."
The little apartment was quiet, and the heavy curtains were drawn over the windows, shutting out the unforgiving sunlight.
Erik knew that he should get out of bed. But he felt so safe with his face hidden beneath the covers that he could not quite summon the will to leave the comforting, artificial twilight.
It had been nearly a week since the night of the gala, and the days had fallen into a pattern. Each morning, Madame Giry had turned up on his doorstep with a concerned expression on her face. Each morning, she had begged him to return to the Opera, and each morning, he had refused, sending her away with an even more worried expression on her face and a detailed rehearsal plan tucked under her arm.
Alone again, Erik would then spend several hours wandering forlornly around his apartment. This morning he had taken a bath, but the warm water had done nothing to soothe his aching heart, which felt as heavy as a rock in his chest. He had eaten breakfast – two slightly stale chocolate croissants and a cup of very strong coffee – but had derived no pleasure from it. He had even sat down at the piano and tried to compose, hoping to occupy his troubled mind with something pleasurable, but it was no good. The music simply wasn't there.
He went to his desk. Taking a piece of Opera House notepaper from a drawer, he began to draft a letter of resignation.
I regret to inform you that it is no longer possible for me to continue in my role as artistic director…
He had stared at the dreadful sentence for several long, painful minutes. His hand shook, and ink dripped from the quill, spoiling the paper. He couldn't bring himself to sign the document, and had flung paper and quill down upon the desk in frustration.
Finally, he had slunk off to his bedroom, where he had now been ensconced for more than two hours.
He kept picturing her face. He remembered her pallor, heard the gasp escape her lips, and shuddered in the darkness.
He could not believe he had been so foolish. Hadn't he seen that expression before, on so many other disapproving faces? And that gasp was just an echo of a thousand exclamations, a thousand hissed whisperings in the street: Did you see that man's face?
There was absolutely no reason why Christine should be any different.
The silence was suddenly broken by the jangling of the doorbell. Erik sighed heavily, rolled over onto his side, and endeavoured to ignore it.
The bell rang a second time, the sound jarring inside his aching head. Muttering a curse, he hauled himself out of bed and dragged himself downstairs.
He flung the door open and blinked in the harsh sunlight.
Once again, the visitor was Madame Giry. And once again, she looked angry, but her eyes were sad.
"What can I do for you, Madame?"
Madame Giry looked him up and down critically. "I hope I haven't got you out of bed?" Her tone was disapproving.
Erik looked down at the dressing gown which he had thrown unceremoniously over his wrinkled clothing. He suddenly felt embarrassed that Antoinette should see him in such a dishevelled state.
"Not at all," he said, abashed. "Do come in."
Madame Giry followed him up the stairs. She took the armchair in Erik's sitting room while he hurried about, opening the curtains and trying to make the place look presentable.
"Would you like some tea?" He had always pretended to be a gentleman. Why stop now?
"No thank you, Erik."
"Coffee?"
"No, thank you."
"I have croissants." His voice sounded rather desperate; he needed some task, something which would distract him from Antoinette's knowing stare. "We could have something stronger, if you wish. Do you like brandy? But it's only a little after three, is it not?"
"Erik."
"May I take your coat?"
"Erik."
He stopped pacing and stared at Antoinette. He felt his bottom lip tremble. His eyes were so tired from crying, and he was convinced that he would weep again. She smiled at him.
"Sit down, Erik."
He obeyed her, sitting stiffly on the edge of the other armchair, his hands clasped tightly together.
Antoinette leaned forward. "How are you feeling?"
He shrugged, but said nothing.
"We missed you at the rehearsal again today," she said. "Everyone's worried about you."
Erik gave a snort of laughter. "I very much doubt that."
"Oh, Erik! I do wish you would stop wallowing in self-pity!"
Erik stared at the ballet mistress in shock. "I beg your pardon?"
"What do you intend to do? Hide yourself away in your apartment forever? Forget about the opera company and abandon us all just because Christine saw your face? I thought such behaviour was beneath you."
"Excuse me?" Erik leapt to his feet and stalked over to the window. "Do you think I enjoy hiding here in the dark? I didn't choose to look like this, Madame. If you had this face, perhaps you would be better qualified to judge whether this behaviour is, in fact, beneath me." His voice was trembling; he swallowed the tears. "Sometimes, when I'm out on the street, I hear people whispering things about me. I hear laughter. You have no idea what that feels like. How can you? Quite frankly, Madame, it often takes a huge effort of will for me simply to leave the house."
Antoinette was silent for a very long time. When she finally spoke, her tone was one of disbelief. "You run an opera company."
Erik closed his eyes. "I get on with things. It doesn't mean that being out in public doesn't terrify me sometimes." He sighed. "I'm sorry, Antoinette. I know it sounds ridiculous."
She shook her head. "I had no idea. I thought you were happy at the Opera."
He sighed again. "I am. Or I was…before Saturday night."
"It was only one night, Erik."
"I know. But if you had seen her face… she went pale. She gasped. She was horrified. She denied it, but I could tell. I can always tell. I actually thought she might be different…stupid, naïve fool that I am! But it's not her fault, and perhaps, after all, she has done me a favour. She has made me realise I'm just pretending. I'm pretending to be something I'm not."
Madame Giry's eyes grew wide. Under happier circumstances, Erik might have been amused by her sudden resemblance to Meg at her most curious. "What are you talking about?"
Erik turned towards the window and gazed down at the street below.
"When I was a child, I had a toy theatre," he said softly. "It was made out of paper and cardboard. My father bought it for me when he was in London. It was supposed to be the Royal Opera House in Covent Garden. It had backdrops you could change and a little stage curtain, and little figures, all made out of card. I loved that theatre so much. I would play with it for hours. I even composed some dreadful, childish operas for it. I would play every character, supply all the voices and sing. That theatre made me want to be on the stage."
"I really don't see what this has to do with anything…"
Erik whirled around to face her, scowling with impatience.
"The Opera House is just another version of that theatre. It's real, of course. But I have no more power and influence over it than I did back then, when I was a boy. All the pieces are in place, but I can't really change anything. I helped Christine triumph, but nobody cares…"
"That's not true."
"…Nobody cares, and now we've started work on a ridiculous, substandard opera just because Count Philippe has decided he wants to play at being a composer! And I can't do anything about it. After all, I wouldn't even be at the Opera if it wasn't for Count Philippe."
"That's ridiculous, Erik. And you know it."
Erik sank down into the armchair. He suddenly felt very tired. When he spoke again, his voice was quiet and broken.
"Do you really think the Minister of Fine Arts would have given the artistic directorship to a man in a mask, if the head of one of the most powerful families in France hadn't had a word in his ear? You know he spoke up for me. You encouraged him to do so. Sometimes, I think it would have been better if you had both left well alone."
"And watch a man of your talents waste his life in such an appalling manner? I can't believe you're actually serious, Erik." In a spontaneous gesture which was unusual for her, Antoinette reached out and grasped his hand. "Please. We need you."
Erik knew she was sincere; Madame Giry had always been honest with him, brutally so at times. The Opera House was his life; the thought of leaving it was unimaginable. And yet the thought of returning, of looking Christine in the face and knowing that things could never be the same between them…he could not imagine that either.
He stared at his clasped hands, ashamed of his cowardice and his inability to give Antoinette an answer.
"I just need some time," he said softly, after a moment. "A few more days to myself, to think things over."
Madame Giry pursed her lips, but then nodded.
"I hope you'll make the right decision," she said, getting to her feet. "In the meantime, I've brought something to show you. I thought you might have neglected to read the papers again."
She handed him a folded newspaper clipping.
He looked at her questioningly. "What is this?"
"It's a review of Saturday's gala."
Erik shuddered. He wasn't sure he wanted to relive the gala. It had been a moment of triumph, before everything had gone so terribly wrong. To read the review would surely be a form of self-torture.
He looked up at Madame Giry. "I'm not sure I want to read it."
Madame Giry frowned. "That's your decision, of course. But I think it might help. I need to go now. I have an opera company to rehearse."
Erik heard the disappointment in her voice. Ashamed, he turned away. "Good afternoon, Madame."
With a sigh, Madame Giry left the room and closed the door behind her. He heard her heavy footsteps on the stairs, and then the sound of the front door being slammed shut.
Erik stared into the fire for several minutes. Then, with trembling fingers, he unfolded the review.
His heart lurched; it was by O.G., of course. Reluctantly, he began to read.
Sometimes, I forget the power of music, its capacity to move me. On Saturday evening, I was reminded of that power.
I arrived at the Palais Garnier with low expectations. I was previously in attendance for the opening night of Hector Chalumeau's Hannibal. That overblown production did little to impress me, and I had no reason to suspect that this grand gala evening, in celebration of the birthday of the Vicomte de Chagny, would be any sort of improvement.
How wrong I was. For you see, dear reader, there was one thing which I had not bargained for, and that is the sublime talent of Christine Daae.
Miss Daae, a mere chorus girl, was obliged to stand in for the great Carlotta, who was indisposed. When the stage manager made the announcement, there were audible groans of disappointment from the audience.
But then we heard Miss Daae sing.
She is nothing short of a revelation. She has a voice which I have never heard equalled on any stage in Europe, a glorious soprano of such purity that it brings tears to the eyes and joy to the heart. And that is, perhaps, the greatest achievement of Miss Daae: she has a true emotional connection with the music.
I'm told that it is Monsieur Erik Carriere himself who discovered Miss Daae, who recognised her potential and promoted her to a principal. If this is indeed the case, it would seem that there is hope for the Paris Opera under his directorship after all. I applaud him for discovering such a sublime talent.
Erik stopped reading. Tears slid down his cheeks and fell onto the paper, smudging the newsprint. With a deep sigh, he walked over to his desk, picked up the letter of resignation, and threw it onto the fire.