A/N—in which she moves
This was a long chapter, my apologies. I didn't want to split it up but thought I needed to. If I can get a few reviews, I'll put up the angsty phluff part this Friday. It's already completed and ready to go. :)
a)}—'-,-'-,- Cyber roses to Glacifly4POTO, RosieLilyIce93, Grandma Paula, and PhanGirl4044 for your deeply appreciated reviews on Chapter 14, and Monarch27 and PhanGirl4044 for your reviews of Chapter 1! You all are awesome.
The Usual Disclaimer—these characters are not mine, belonging as they do to the heirs of M. Leroux, to Sir A. L. Webber and the RUG, and to Susan Kay. I thank them for the privilege of their use. All errors concerning the Paris Opera, Paris, music, religion, military history, and the French and Farsi languages are unfortunately mine, and for that, I do apologize.
Please read and review. * looks sadly at those who read but don't leave comments * :(
A Second Chance
Chapter 15
Copyright 2003, 2004, 2016 by Riene
Nadir Khan slowly made his way backstage, cool green eyes amused as others' glances slid away from his. His presence still made them uncomfortable, an alien, a foreigner in the very French world of the Opera House, and yet, he was a patron, a fixture, treated deferentially even by those unsure of his intentions.
It was not long before he found a recognizable face. He stopped the lady, drily noting the way she flinched back from his raised brown hand and simply indicated the folded paper.
"I wish you to deliver this to Mlle Daae, s'il vous plait," he smiled.
Louise took the note from him, avoiding touching his fingers. "Yes, sir," she stammered, and felt immediate relief as the tall impassive Persian turned to go. Whatever did the man want with Christine?
Christine, however, seemed pleased with the contents of the message. Only minutes after breaking the seal, she gathered her hat and bag, tossing her light coat over her arm. "Thank you, Louise," she smiled. "I'll be back in a few hours." She locked the door to the dressing room and headed toward the rear entrance. Louise shrugged; the performers were beyond her comprehension.
Mere minutes later she was descending the stairs at the rear of the building. "Mlle Daae," a voice called, and Christine quickly turned, shading her eyes against the late afternoon sun. The Persian stepped down from a carriage and bowed. Rather to his surprise, Christine squeezed his hands in greeting, and he dared to offer a very French kiss to her cheek. Nadir introduced her to the other occupant of the carriage, his manservant Darius. Within minutes their conveyance rumbled along to the rue Notre Dame des Victoires.
The broad-shouldered man had immediately risen to his feet, only his eyes displaying curiosity. "Good afternoon, Mlle Daae." His voice was quiet, his accent less marked than that of the Persian. He seemed several years younger, his black hair untouched by grey, with lines of amusement surrounding his dark eyes. Christine smiled and nodded politely, liking him immediately.
She'd directed them to her flat and stood by feeling awkward as the two men collected her meager belongings. Darius lifted the heavy trunk as if it was of no consequence, and Nadir gathered her few bags and boxes. She'd wandered the nearly empty rooms one last time, touching the worn furnishings and listening to the voices in her head-the professor, bringing her here, his rough voice kind as he told her she would live with them now, hoping she'd be happy and make herself useful and avail herself of the new opportunities before her, and Mama Valerius, gently gathering the grieving, frightened girl into her arms as she sobbed that first night. The flat had a forlorn, neglected air, and soon would not even exist. "Goodbye, dear friends," she whispered into the stillness, and locked the door one final time.
They'd ridden in near silence to the postal office where she'd mailed the letter and key to the cousin who would clear the few remaining pieces from the old flat, and then rode on to Erik's rooms. She'd stared out the windows, tears in her eyes, and Nadir's gaze rested on her compassionately, knowing what it was to leave something forever.
At the rue des Arbres, several small changes met her eyes as she unlocked and entered the graceful rooms. Two chairs, very similar to the ones in the underground house, were angled near the fire, with a small table between them. A classically elegant china service now filled the cabinet, white with platinum rims. On the writing desk, a pile of small boxes littered the surface, later proving to hold fountain pens, cut-glass bottles of ink in jeweled colors, and deckle-edged embossed writing paper. A note lying on the desk caught her attention.
C—
I have no doubt that in my haste to complete these rooms I have overlooked many things. You will find funds in the desk; please, use them to provide for any items I have neglected.
I remain
Your obedient servant,
Erik
She folded the note thoughtfully then tucked it inside a pigeonhole, having no intention on touching the money.
Darius busied himself bringing her few possessions up the stairs while Nadir and Christine wandered the flat. The kitchen had been completed in her absence. An icebox and stove had been installed, their gleaming surfaces proclaiming their newness. A quick examination of the cabinets showed a pristine set of copper cookware, utensils, and linens. Nadir's short bark of laughter interrupted her perusal of the cabinets.
"Trust Erik to utterly neglect provisions," he said wryly, shutting the last door. "Mlle Daae, if you will make a list, I will send Darius to do some quick shopping."
Impulsively she gripped his hands, gently squeezing her thanks. "Thank you, Mr. Khan. I suspect you and Darius had a hand in creating this lovely flat."
"Nadir, please," he smiled, and held up nicked and abraded hands. "Yes, we were of some assistance, but it was a pleasure. You must thank Erik for the majority of the work and financing. The man is somehow able to set fire to even the laziest of building crews and delivery men."
He stood across from the flat, dark eyes narrowed into slits. Why was she in the company of two foreign men? Why was she entering that building at this hour…with a trunk and boxes. Was she moving? This tree-lined street was not an inexpensive area. He did not like mysteries, but perhaps her actions could be used to his advantage. The men left and returned, bringing other cartons into the building, leaving again. A smile twisted his features. Perhaps their precious ingénue was not quite as innocent as she seemed.
The evening passed pleasantly. After Darius had placed her trunk into the bedroom and boxes by the desk she spent some time unpacking. The shelves nearest the desk would hold her few books and photos. She found new linens in the bath chamber cabinets and dressed the bed. Nadir's expertly placed sticks and logs laid in readiness for a small fire, and gratefully she put a match to them. The sunset across the city was a glorious blend of soft clouds against a pink, gold, and indigo sky. She'd sat by the fire much later than she had intended, refusing to admit she was waiting for his knock on the door. I have no intentions on disturbing you, he'd said, but surely he would check on her this first night?
Had she looked down from the windows she might have noted a carriage that drove slowly down the street, its lone occupant staring fixedly at the windows high above. The set of his shoulders relaxed slightly when he beheld the golden light diffusing through airy draperies. She was there and safe; she had accepted his gift.
She ate lightly, not really hungry but knowing from experience that some nourishment before a big performance was necessary. She had fainted once before and had no intention on a repetition of that experience. Cold chicken, bread, butter, fruit, salad, perhaps some tea. Her maestro had forbidden wine or coffee on performance nights.
The carriage took her around to the back entrance. Truly, Christine had no desire to see the brightly painted signboards or the queues out front, hoping for an unsold ticket or spare seat. The Opera House was its usual whirlwind of nerves and excitement, stagehands frantically dashing about, lighting techs grumbling, the newest members of the chorus and corps de ballet straining for a glimpse of the house and its patrons, musicians heading for the orchestra pit. There was no sign of the managers; no doubt they were making an appearance in the Rotonde des Abonnés or the Grand Escalier, chatting with patrons, subscribers, and guests. Often the leading performers would make an appearance before or after the evening in the exclusive subscribers' vestibule and at some point after the performance, she too would be expected to make an appearance, smiling and chattering, signing autographs, accepting invitations, compliments, and fending off too-friendly overtures. There were too many men who simply assumed a young dancer in a skirt above her knees or a singer in a costume were fair game.
Somewhere tonight, Erik would be watching. He had never yet missed a performance, to her knowledge, noting for the following day an exacting list of what she had done well or poorly, and waiting with impatience to attenuate her voice to his standards of perfection.
Behind the stage, Madame Giry had gathered her dancers and was beginning the second in a series of warm-up exercises. Meg caught her eye and risked a wave, earning a fearsome glare from her mother. "Sorry," she mouthed and ducked past. She passed the harried stage manager and called a greeting to M Dumont, leaning in the doorway of his office, drinking coffee.
The dressing room hallways were awash in people as well. Well-wishers, wanting a "brief word" with the performers, Mlle Janvier's elderly mother, errand boys bearing armloads of bouquets from admirers, M Lassalle apparently giving an interview, a bucket of champagne cooling on the table behind him. Christine quickly unlocked her door, sweetly declining to allow anyone inside, and gratefully escaped the press of people.
A carafe of water and bouquet from the managers occupied the center of her dressing table, with the standard note wishing her the best for the night. She moved both over to the little chest and began to lay out the necessary stage makeup. Louise would be by soon to help her dress for the first act and arrange her hair.
Outside, opera-goers were gathering in expectation of a gala opening night. The Opening Night was sold out, with lines out front still clamoring for tickets for the following performances. The glitterati of Paris were slowly assembling, jewels taken from cases to adorn powdered necks, collars and cuffs immaculate and starched to painful stiffness. Carriage after carriage pulled in front of the Palace Garnier, couples alighting to stroll the Grand Staircase, to see and be seen, to gossip and preen beneath the glowing lights. Slowly the throng of people made their way to stalls and boxes, galleries and balconies, and the opera began.
The debut of Le Tribut de Zamora was a rousing success. Luigi played his role with aplomb in the final act, scaling the walls of the palace garden, his shirt partway open, every bit the gallant hero. M Lassalle relished his role as the villain, Ben-Said. Gabrielle's stirring scene during the third act, singing of the death of her husband at the burning and massacre of Zamora and the war-song of the Spanish soldiers gained a thunderous round of applause, but it was the duet between Christine and Gabrielle which closed the act and brought the audience to its feet.
Flushed with success and the many calls for encores, Christine took only a few minutes backstage to tidy her hair and makeup before joining the others in the Rotonde. Many people pressed her hands and plied her with invitations, offering champagne, kissing her face effusively, seeking to introduce her to their compatriots. The only unpleasant part of the evening was a brief encounter with Philippe Chagny, La Sorelli hanging on his arm. He looked at her and then through her, adjusted his cuffs, and pointedly changed directions. Sorelli murmured something in his ear, and his harsh laugh grated even over the noise of crowd. Soon after, Christine excused herself.
The little dressing room had become a hothouse, filled with boxes of chocolates, champagne, and flowers in every conceivable shape and color. Abruptly exhausted, she sank on the chaise, idly reading the many notes from admirers and others. Some were coarse, men who wished to sponsor her or to have her endorse their products. A few made her blush in anger with the sheer indecency of their proposals. She swept them into the bin, keeping only the kind and genuinely complimentary missives.
Louise arrived minutes later, her own eyes bright with pleasure. "We did it, Mlle Daae! It was a success from what I heard! Crowds on their feet calling for you and Madame Krauss again and again!" She assisted Christine from her costume and swiftly removed the pins holding her veil in place.
Christine laughed, happy with the older woman's obvious delight. "We did indeed! Let's hope the rest of the performances go so well." She quickly slathered her face with cold cream and began to remove the heavy makeup. Minutes later she was changing rapidly into street clothes.
There was a soft rap on her mirror, and Christine quickly rose to her feet.
"Erik?" she questioned softly, and he stepped through. One black-gloved hand clenched and turned upwards, revealing a single dark red rose on his palm, and he bowed, handing it to her. It was one of his old sleight-of-hand tricks from a year ago and involuntarily she smiled, reaching to take the lovely blossom. She brought it to her face, inhaling the spicy scent and touching the velvety petals, noting it had been stripped of its thorns.
"How did I do, oh my maestro?" she asked, her eyes sparkling up at him.
His eyes were golden in the soft gaslights. "You were…divine," he said softly. "The angels hid their faces in shame."
She laughed, sending a nearly painful tremor through him. "Erik…"
"Well, perhaps not," he conceded. "Perhaps they merely were envious. I will still see you tomorrow for your warm up, I hope?"
"Of course," she smiled up at him.
He turned to go, then deliberately paused, looking back at her. "There are celebrations tonight, cast parties and the like," he said quietly. "Have you plans for the evening? I am sure you have received many invitations."
Christine looked up, hearing the faint undercurrent of longing in the diffident tone. "No," she replied, searching his eyes. "I have invitations, yes, but had not yet decided which, if any, to accept. Why?"
"Ah," he said. "I had wondered if perhaps you might…dine with me, but no matter." He stepped toward the mirror.
Her small hand on his sleeve arrested his movement. "Perhaps I was hoping for another invitation," she said softly, "from a certain gentlemen."
"Christine," he said, sounding as if each word were being dragged out, "I cannot take you to a restaurant or escort you to the celebrations. And you should be there in the light, enjoying your success with your friends. Not buried in the darkness, with shadows."
"I have had enough of bright lights and pressing crowds tonight, Erik." Dark blue eyes held his golden gaze steadily. For a moment he wavered and she was afraid he would refuse.
"Mlle Daae…would you care to dine with me in my abode this evening? I will see you safely home, after." His voice was oddly formal.
"I can think of no other company I would choose, this night," she replied honestly.
With a formal bow, Erik offered his arm, pleased to feel her small hand tuck itself into the crook of his elbow. "Then I am honored by your presence, my dear," he murmured, and together they stepped through the mirror.
Awaiting a carriage of his own, Luigi's eyes narrowed. Again, there was Christine, on the arm of a tall, well-dressed man. The two walked down the Rue Scribe, before hailing a cab. He did not catch a glimpse of the man's face, but her delicate profile was unmistakable. The tall man handed her up into the carriage and entered behind her. As it drove away, Luigi made a mental note to watch for her at the various parties of the evening, and if he failed to see her, he would drive past a certain tree-lined street on the way home.
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