AN: to continue on Bourbonville's Le Conservatoire - a little more info: it was a two-act vaudeville ballet created in 1849 for the Royal Danish Ballet. The ballet's setting is a dance studio at the Conservatoire de Paris. In the 1820s, Bournonville studied at the Paris Conservatoire for his recreation. www. youtube watch?v=v0ACTwmehu8 or google a performance of it. Very cool glimpse into the past!

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Put on the costume, and the face in white powder. The people pay, and laugh when they please. - Pagliacci, Ruggero Leoncaval

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-Chapter 5-

The afternoon rehearsal would go far more smoothly than the previous days. One of the co-owners, Andre, was watching the scene like a hawk. He was determined to have the opera finished by the end of today and as a result, everyone seemed to be on their best behavior.

Nearing the end of the rehearsal, a stage manager's assistant approached the cast. "All of you are dismissed, with the exception of the following supernumeraries. You are being given additional movements in act two, during Mephistopheles' first aria." He then began to go down the list of names with, of course, with Christine being one of them.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, we open in two weeks! Everyone, please, come prepared for tomorrow's full run!"

Christine groaned inwardly. Her excitement for being onstage had been replaced with sheer exhaustion. She stepped forward, waving goodbye to Meg on the way to center stage. She was wearing a simple, unbustled brown skirt today. Her white blouse was pleated but obviously well worn. Tendrils of hair escaped her low bun and she was flushed with the heat of the stage, creating a withered, frazzled, look. The last string of rehearsals had burnt her out.

The movement was not difficult, though it was a little macabre. The aria was about how Satan leads mankind into a dance, with different groups of actors being caught up in this strange, marionette-like movement. She would be able to learn it quickly, at any rate, and she was grateful for that. Perhaps with this added dance, she would be able to keep the interest of this strange admirer she seemed to have aquired.

She did not realize, of course, that her patron was indeed already there, watching her yet again as little more than a shadow hovering in the darkness of box five.

By the time they had finished the rehearsal, the Dancer's Foyer was full of dancers and their respective patrons; wealthy men, generally much older than their belles, all busy making dinner arrangements for the evening. As Christine tried to sneak through the room, she was stopped by another delivery boy.

The boy spoke loudly, his tone very presentational, as if he had been instructed very clearly by the one who hired him to do such.

"Mlle. Daae, for you!" he exclaimed, handing her another large box, similar in design as the last one.

A thrill ran up her spine and she squeezed her way into a corner and ripped open the box. Billowing fabric spilled out. A ballgown; a very beautiful, obviously very expensive one. On the top of it was a business card of the designer, clearly and obviously visible. "F. Worth". The designer was Frederick Worth! A fashion designer who at that time had the same level of name recognition and elegance as Gucci or Prada did today.

Another simple card was on the inside.

"You taught me
the most effective disguise
for a treacherous beast
is beauty"

The script was elegant. In slightly more simple script, penned by the same hand was:

"For the Premier Masquerade Gala. I hope to meet you there."

Eyes from behind the mirror burned an intense yellow... His heart hadn't pounded this hard in years. Never had he wanted a woman to accept his advances more than he did this beauty. To be honest, he had never had the opportunity to extend gentlemanly advances to any woman before and, as a result, he found this to be rather trying territory.

The delivery boy gave a comically large bow and ran out of the room and Christine looked around at the startled faces and wide eyes and gave a small smile. She walked out of the room with her head high.

Eyes from behind the mirror burned an intense yellow... His heart hadn't pounded this hard in years. Never had he wanted a woman to accept his advances more than he did this beauty. To be honest, he had never had the opportunity to extend gentlemanly advances to any woman before and, as a result, he found this to be rather trying territory.

Christine didn't even make it past the stone steps of the opera house before she had to sit and open the box again. Her hands shook as they tenderly removed the fabric from it.

The dress had more lace than not. It felt like woven gold beneath her fingertips and the bright red of the fabric reminded her of scattered rubies.

She rushed home, of course, and tried on the dress. Her room was dark and tiny and housed beds for three other young dancers, but thankfully she was alone for the moment and had the space to squeeze into the dress. Beneath the dress itself was everything else needed to complete the outfit. The black satin of the corset surprised her, for she had never seen undergarments in such a color! Without proper help, she could only tie the corset with minimal pull, so her waist obvious was wider than the dress allowed, but she could tell that when bound correctly, it would fit like a red, gorgeous glove. It was sensual. It reminded her of foreign lands she had never seen. It was perfect. It was a little frighteningly perfect.

She felt... beautiful did not describe it. Sensual. Exotic. She ran her hands down the sides of her body, tracing the curves that the dress accented so well. She flushed, for a moment, thinking of her teacher, incorporeal and without form, watching her from the corner of the room, drinking in her feminine features.

The shift she wore underneath everything (for she had certainly not gotten out of that and stood nude! Even for bathing, full nudity was indecent at the time!) did not fit well underneath and she knew without looking that the box would contain all she needed. She went to bed that night grinning and holding the dress to her chest like a holy object. That night she dreamt of lace and sensual voices.

The properties that were associated with the Palaise Garnier were well versed to the shadow that followed her. This included the dormitories that the dancers and other lowly artists stayed at. Although they did not have the same network of tunnels and cellars, there were more than one secret entrance associated with those venues, so the shadow followed Christine home.

And he watched her behind a false air vent that opened into a thin, narrow hallway, the musty air a common companion in these cramped quarters. He watched though he knew he shouldn't. His cat-like eyes stared at her body; drinking in sights that were forbidden to him. He was drunk with her, intoxicated with her beauty. Every curve she revealed, every inch of flesh that was bare. Then there was the corset; the black satin against her pale skin. It was simply too much for him to handle, and he had to work to calm his breathing. The dress was stunning on her; magnificent. She would have suitors calling for her once they noticed her. This was good, as it meant publicity, if a personal nuisance. Thankfully, her patron would see that she was quite well cared for.

He turned his gaze away as a wave of loathing came crashing in on him. She didn't even know his name, and if she did, she would abhor the sigh of him.

When The Opera Ghost returned to his lair in the cellars, he was full of guilt and shame for what he had done. Though she was not nude, it was indecent; it was improper. He did his best to try and focus on his music, but peace eluded him. He tried to think of music, and her form haunted his every thought. It was inescapable, and he felt a desperate surge of anxiety as he rose from his desk.

He crossed towards a chest near his bed; removing the formal tuxedo jacket from his body. The suspenders were cast down about his hips, the bowtie soon laying discarded on the floor. His shirt was the next to be removed. His motions were violent, sending the metal studs that served as buttons clattering to the floor.

For a man who was significantly older than his muse, he was in excellent shape; his time as an assassin requiring physical prowess as well as mental aptitude. So, his physique was strong and well muscled; the suits that he so often wore being filled out quite nicely by it, not that any female had had cause to inform him of that.

Shirtless, he reached for the chest and opened it, withdrawing what looked to be an angry leather flogger. He left the mask on as he began to act in a series of vicious strikes against his back. How dare he see her like that, even think of her like that? He was nothing; no, worse than nothing! A filthy, perverted cancer, not worthy of her love, let alone of her presence.

The lashes he gave himself were relentless and vicious, soon leaving angry welts, some of them drawing blood. He did not count as his self hatred consumed him and soon his entire body was numb. When he was done, the flogger would fall to the floor as he collapsed in bed, bits of blood and flesh dripping from both the implement of torment and the tormentor.

The next day Christine had her scheduled lesson with her teacher. When the evening's rehearsal ended, she lingered behind, then slipped her way into their appointed practice room.

As she entered, the sound of piano keys gently being played alerted her to his presence. He was here, awaiting her.

"You have been added to the act two dances. This is wonderful progress. You are being noticed, Christine," the velvet voice caressed her ears.

She still jumped as she heard his voice, even though she expected it. But a wide smile followed it immediately and Christine beamed.

"Thank you, teacher! I don't know what I've done to impress others, but it is very exciting!"

"You have been doing very well. Adapting to what has been given to you, working well with others. Your dance. It is progressing as well? I've noticed that your...pointe work has greatly improved," He commented.

She blinked. "You... you've seen me dance? You've been at the conservatoire?"

"I am everywhere," the voice replied simply. "I have been eager to see you progress, and you are excelling wonderfully. Tell me, is the Faust aria memorized yet, as I asked you?"

She blushed at the compliment and bowed her head, allowing a few tendrils of hair to fall into her face. "Yes, teacher, I have memorized it."

"Good. Now then. Let us warm up."

At that, he would take her through a series of vocalizations, all becoming quite familiar to her by now, as they were to be done daily. All the while, she'd hear his voice, shaping and guiding her instrument with each instruction. By the time they were done he'd begin the accompaniment of the aria, letting her start.

It was at this moment that he heard a sound coming down the stairs, towards the practice room. Behind the wall, The Opera Ghost smiled.

She was still breaking her habit of stopping and apologizing when making a mistake, and yet she managed to only do so twice as she was nearing the apex of the aria. She was sweating both from effort and the emotion it took to complete the song.

The aria concluded and a knock on the door immediately followed.

"Answer it, and say nothing of me!" Her tutor instructed, his hypnotic voice firm.

"Wha-" She looked around, confused, still dazed from the magic of the song. The knock sounded once more and Christine rushed to answer it.

When she answered, she was met with Monsieur Andre's eager face. "Mlle. DaaƩ! Was that you singing just now?" he asked, surprised by who he saw yet clearly pleased with what he had heard.

The Opera Ghost smiled from his vantage point, his gaze a fiery, focused expression, and if guiding this exchange to her favor by sheer force of will.

"Well.. I mean... ah..." Christine's mouth hung open and she found she could not answer.

"Please, my dear; could you sing more? I didn't hear a piano playing with you. Allow me." Andre sat down at the piano, playing the opening chords of the piece.

When the Phantom whispered, it was for her ears, only. "Sing for him."

"Uh...ah... of course, Monsieur," she squeaked. She allowed him to play the introduction- so bare and hollow compared to the way that her teacher played!- and she began singing in a small, hesitant voice.

In her head she would hear her tutor. "More. Give him more. Release your breath...Yes...like that," he purred as he listened to her, guiding her through the piece.

She slowly gained confidence and finally allowed her voice to shine through. By the end of the number, she had forgotten who was playing and was once more lost in the song.

When the final chords ended, monsieur Andre was smiling broadly. "And to think you've been hiding right under our noses... Tell me, are you in the chorus?" he inquired, "And I must know who you have been studying with."

A sharp rebuttal would ring in her mind. "Do not tell him of me!"

"I..." Her throat closed on her again. She shook her head then mumbled to the floor, "No, sir, I am studying ballet here and I am a supernumerary for Faust."

"You are a spear carrier? With that voice?" He stood up, shocked. "Please, I must have you sing for the chorus master - at once! Meet me at my office. Tomorrow. Eleven in the morning, sharp." His grin was infectious and Christine found herself mirroring it.

"Uh...Of course sir!" She managed a wobbly curtsy to the man.

"Then it's settled. I will see you then!" He said, turning to depart, a spring in his step. With that...she would find herself alone, her spectral teacher silent.

She did not say anything; she had nothing to say. She could barely think.

"T-teacher?" She finally asked with hesitation.

Cutting the silence, she'd hear his voice one last time. "I'm proud of you, Christine. Tomorrow you will sing for them. This will be a turning point in your career. Now, go, we are done for the day," he said, wanting to preserve her voice for tomorrow.

After Christine left the theatre, floating above the cobblestone street, the rest of the evening passed slowly for the ghost, ruminating over his brilliant little soprano. How he desired to see her, speak to her; meet her face to face. Yet he could not do that- lest he risk losing everything that he had worked for with her.