AN: Thank you for all of the love! You're reviews mean so much! The ballet rehearsal was based off of Bourbonville's Conservatoire, a ballet designed to showcase what a late 19th century dance class would look like. It is thought to be extremely authentic. I strongly suggest youtubing "Vaganova Ballet Academy Conservatory (watch?v=v0ACTwmehu8). The part inspiring my Christine's dance begins around 7:00.
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And the stars were shining, And the earth was scented. The gate of the garden creaked And a footstep grazed the sand... Fragrant, she entered And fell into my arms. ~Puccini, Tosca
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Chapter 4
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The next day passed very similar to the last and then the next and the next as well. Before she knew it, a month had flown by. Faust was fully blocked and dress rehearsals were about to begin. Her strange lessons with the disembodied voice continued a couple of times a week and Christine was surprised to find it not only a staple in her regime but one that she couldn't help but look forward too. She knew it was strange - potentially dangerous - but Christine was not accustomed to the normal.
Her tutor on the other side of the walls, was absolutely thrilled with her progress. Things were moving at a lightning pace and he was certain that within the next season she could be heard by the entire world!
Unfortunately, that was all that was going well. The new production was just as stale as ever. The personalities of the singers were flaring up, ever the more volatile. On top it, the phantom's payments had been slow to come..if at all. Something would have to give soon.
The pins pinched under Christine's arms as she half waddled onto the stage for her call.
"Where are your wings, girl?!" the artistic director yelled at her.
She curtsied and responded demurely, "They are still being built, monsieur." She ran to her spot behind a two dimensional cloud, hoping the billowing white linen did not fall from her form.
"Utterly ridiculous!" the staging director growled. "This is the finale! You are an angel! The entire look demands these wings. How am I supposed to space them properly without it!"
The Opera Ghost listened to this with frustration. A lack of organization on the part of the owners was leading to this disaster - and the Opera Ghost was losing his patience.
The rehearsal would be further interrupted by one of the owners, who came in holding a letter; his expression furious. "Which one of you wrote this!?" He growled at the chorus, all assembled for the final moments.
She could only watch as more drama unfolded in front of her. She sighed and a pin pricked her side. This was going to be a long rehearsal.
"What foolishness is this!" the conductor snapped. The artistic director stomped up to Monsieur Andre and grabbed the letter testily. "What foolishness indeed!"
The artistic director read the letter, turning red as he did.
"...the opera was rewritten and presented to be provocative, intriguing, compelling. You have, however, managed to make a story so compelling that it has survived over two hundred years so dull and lifeless that I doubt it will survive this staging..."
"Good sir, please...a letter from a heckler, nothing more." Andre reassured him, which of course did nothing. "You know damned well who wrote this. That specter which haunts this place!" His tone was hushed, angry and paranoid. A collective gasp would run through the cast on stage.
Christine had only a faint idea of what was going on. She could only assume they were talking about the same "phantom" that Meg always went on about, although Christine had always assumed it was Meg's overactive and overly romantic imagination.
After ten minutes of arguing, the stage manager barked out to the cast, "That's all for today. Report back tomorrow after we sort this matter out." He then returned to the argument at hand.
Meg approached Christine, excitedly bouncing up and down in her pointe shoes. "It's the opera ghost, it has to be! He always wants what is best for this theatre, even when it causes such a stir," she said sagely.
"Do you really believe in ghosts, Meg?" Christine chided, even as goosebumps spread over her skin at the thought.
"It IS true! Joseph Bouquet saw the ghost himself! You can ask him yourself- he's always talking about it."
Christine rolled her eyes playfully and hugged her only friend. "Perhaps we shall, since we have the rest of the afternoon off!"
Meg squealed like a kid given candy and began pulling Christine by the hand through the corridors to the entrance of the first cellar.
Sure enough, a rugged aging man with thin, scraggly hair and jagged cheek bones poking through his sallow skin sat alone in the first cellar, sitting on a cart and slowly folding a length of rope.
"Joseph, Joseph!" Meg shouted in joy, "this is Christine! Tell her about the Phantom!"
The man moved slowly, languidly. His eyes were deep set and once they caught Christine's gaze, she seemed trapped, unable to look away. A thin-lipped smile grew slowly and Christine wished he hadn't smiled at all.
"The opera ghost loves to scare little ballet rats, so watch yourself down here," his smile grew, showing hideous teeth. "He is seen only when he wishes to be seen. Usually a darting shadow or a whisper from behind. But if you are unlucky enough to see his face! Girl, you better pray that you never do. For no one who has seen his face survived!"
Oh please. I take little pleasure in frightening others. Truly, I find it an exhausting exercise that I, personally, feel would not be necessary if those who worked in my theatre would follow my very simple wishes.
Those thoughts ran through the Opera Ghost's mind as he listened to the conversations from the shadows. He was enjoying his time training the girl. She showed such promise. And then there was the matter of her beauty. So stunning, so innocent. He would compose masterpieces for her, and her alone; as she alone was worthy for his work. He found himself staring, watching through the air vent that was a false front for a secret passage.
Then came the inevitable mood shift: desire, love even, swiftly turning to self loathing and hatred. Why did he ever think that a prodigy such as herself would sing for such a deformed monster as he! He turned away, withdrawing from his vantage point.
"He has the face of a rotting corpse! Barely more than skeleton! He has no nose at all and his eyes burn a fiery red," Bouquet continued, caught up in his dramatics,
"Monsieur, pardon me, but... If no one who has ever seen his face and lived, then how do you know what he looks like?" Christine asked innocently.
Bouquet stuttered to a stop and blinked at her. She smiled at him placatingly and pushed Meg toward the exit. "Good evening, monsieur Bouquet," she said kindly as she guided Meg to the surface.
The next morning, Christine was to report to the conservatoire for her daily ballet lesson. The Opera Ghost knew this, and he decided that he would attend. He normally made a practice of avoiding these rehearsals, as the bumbling about that was so common irritated his nerves. But that wasn't entirely the dancers fault. No, rather it was the boor-headed accompanist who plowed through the most delicate of passages with about as much sensitivity and grace as a barbarian sacking a village.
Behind the mirrored wall, he watched as the dancers filed in, pacing expectantly, waiting to see his young muse. For this moment, he let his heart long for her, unfettered by the doubt and guilt that would surely come next.
Her blue ribbon was tight around her stiff bodice. While not quite a corset, the materiel was boned and thick, keeping her rib cage contracted and her spine straight. It was her day to solo the practice routine and she was sweating. Her curls were unsuccessfully pinned into a low bun and her old toe shoes were ripped. Her long tutu was the only thing that shone with crisp newness- for they were provided by the conservatoire. She took her place at the barre in the middle of a line of girls, turning out her feet and placing her heels together in first position. She rounded her arm and rolled her shoulders, waiting for the music to begin.
The old piano was mostly in tune, even if you had to pluck the keys particularly hard. It came to life -barely- and the dancers began their warm ups, bending their knees and floating their arms like floating silk.
Christine's legs felt the fatigue of constant exercise and she willed them to relax and stretch. She loved to dance- she did! And she was very good at it. But she did not feel the joy and even ecstasy she felt when singing for her teacher.
The black ribbon around her neck itched and Christine got a quick stomp of the mistress's cane when she went to scratch at it.
Finally, after some floor exercises, it was time for Meg and her to dance alone. Every week a different set of dancers- four girls and four boys - had to perform the same routines and be harshly critiqued in the process.
Christine's sweat fell from a tendril of hair and hit the floor as she jumped and turned, balancing on her toes in an arabesque. She and Meg waltzed to each other and danced together for a moment before splitting off again and being joined by a couple of male dancers.
Behind the mirror, the Opera ghost frowned as he listened to the accompanist give a rather rushed rendition of Pathetique.
Erik sighed deeply as he listened to the opening chords. His gaze settled on the brunette. His muse. He watched her, his gaze rapt with attention. Her limbs extended so elegantly, accenting her perfect features: Her jaw. Her neck, her perfect bosom, waist; hips...
He shuddered in voyeuristic satisfaction before turning away in self-loathing. How dare he take such pleasure in watching this perfect muse...This woman...who haunted his dreams?
Christine spun and spun and spun. The world was a blur and she could quiet her mind for just a moment. She felt completely free and she basked in it.
She didn't mind the slight unevenness of the melody or the occasional sour chords coming from the accompanist - her eyes were closed and air whipped her hair against her neck.
She pirouetted one more time and extended into an arabesque en pointe. She held it, extended and taut, for a few seconds until she felt sometime give in the shoe supporting her. There was a loud rip and her shoe practically unraveled underneath her. The lack of support from the fabric caused more pressure to land on her big toe and she buckled, twisting her ankle on her way to the floor.
She didn't scream, but she bowed her head in pain, gripping her ankle. "Damn," she whispered inelegantly.
The music stopped and Christine looked up. The Madame did not look impressed. She took a look at Christine's shoes and sighed. "Mlle. Daae. You have not been replacing your slippers."
A brief tear escaped down her cheek but she did not allow any more to fall.
"Pardon me, Madame. I have not had the money to."
The ballet mistress clicked her tongue against her cheek. "That is no excuse for supplying necessities, mademoiselle. if you cannot afford the basics, perhaps it is time to find yourself a patron to help support you."
The girls around her tittered— it was often considered embarrassing to not have a wealthy man supporting a dancer. Being undesirable was a sure way to end your career in dance in Paris.
The Ghost saw this scene and frowned; it was true. Her shoes were falling was obvious that she needed a patron, for the social standing, as well as the income that it would provide.
A violent sting of jealousy ripped through his heart, settling as a vicious knot in his stomach. His muse, his student. He was not about to let her go the route of so many dancers. Such potential, only to end up the second mistress to some third-tier nobleman.
Needless to say, he had another letter that required his penning.
Christine sat the rest of the rehearsal, observing. Her ankle was not seriously injured, but without her slippers, she would not be allowed to practice.
She ignored the ball of embarrassment churning in her stomach. There was nothing to be done for it. Madame was not wrong- she was one of the last students in her level to gain a patron. It was difficult getting one when you had yet to perform on the stage; you had to go out of your way to become visible. At which, of course, Christine was horrid. And unwilling. She thought of her unearthly teacher. Would he abandon her if she became a slut?
She left the conservatoire deep in thought, returning home to change for the afternoon's rehearsal.
When she arrived, the elderly woman who served as land lady smiled to her as she walked in the front room.
"Mlle. Daae! You have a package. A boy dropped it off earlier for you, not but an hour ago. He said it was from an admirer of yours." With that, she offered Christine what appeared to be a shoe box wrapped in brown wrapping paper, tied shut with a string.
Christine stood there and opened the box to discover a new pair of slippers. The quality of them superior to what she was used to working with, exquisite in design and craftsmanship. They were selected by someone who knew what to look for.
Inside was a simple note in spiky red lettering.
"The brush, your body. Your canvas, the floor. Your music; your heartbeat"
Christine's heart beat painfully in her chest. How was this possible? Who could have sent this? An admirer, the woman said. As in... a patron? That was ridiculous. She had no exposure to have anyone at all known who she was, let alone someone with money. Someone must have seen her shoes break- it was the only possibility. But nobody who witnessed her shoe tearing would have had the funds to buy these shoes.
She looked closer and gasped quietly. These were Russian made. It was obvious with the Cyrillic inside and the sturdy block built into the front of the shoe. The Russians have begun to dominate the ballet world; their technique, their numbers, and their shoes with reinforced toe blocks to allow a dancer to suspend and balance en pointe for as long as she wanted!
She decided someone must have vetted for her. Maybe Madame Giry. She would know minor aristocrats and probably set her up with someone to protect her. She smiled with gratitude and vowed to work as hard as she could to make Giry and her hopefully new patron proud!
