Thirteen Years Later (1870). Paris, France.
"Heaven help you if it's not perfect, you louse."
"Yes, ma'am," Albain grumbled.
"Don't 'ma'am' me, Albain, you're not English, and you'd best be thanking God for that little fact."
Albain Cretoux IV chose not to grace his company with a reply which would certainly shock her. His friend (and employer) was not one with which to tease, especially with the gala coming up so soon. She was far more delicate when time pressed.
"And besides, there's the whole matter of Carlotta's hat."
Albain looked up at his friend. Laure-Caroline Le Moûel was perhaps the closest friend Albain had, despite her being six years his junior, a world less mature, and his boss. Laureline, as her friends called her, was currently working at drawing a costume on a large page, intent on her work.
Albain, however, had his head bent over a costume, fixing a small tear on the seam. La Carlotta would not appreciate anything less than perfect, and she didn't seem to like her hat for Act I.
But no one pretended that anyone besides Laureline controlled who wore what in L'Opéra Populaire, and as far as she was concerned, she was a queen of fashion and costume. So Albain merely said, "There's nothing the matter with the hat. It's perfect- very gaudy, just like Elissa the person."
"And Carlotta herself, I'm thinking," Laureline said. Albain hid a smile as he ducked his head over his work. "Besides, anything less wouldn't catch the eye of the audience. And she's likely to walk out, from all the things happening with our dear O. G."
At the mention of the Opera Ghost, Albain could not help but grin. It was almost a joke in the clothing department, for they were all untouched by the goings-on of the stars, and the Opera Ghost apparently found no faults with Laureline's designs, so he left them alone. But he found great annoyance with La Carlotta, L'Opéra's lead soprano, and her haughty character.
Of course, Albain's employer as well found great annoyance with the singer, and her general dislike of Laureline's work. He could not quite understand Carlotta's loathing of Laureline's work, for she made Carlotta look like any part, despite her unfortunate lack of acting skills.
Albain thought it a great pity that Laureline was not blessed with any kind of good voice, for she had a talent of projection that could make one's ears bleed if one annoyed her. But Laureline insisted that she was much happier in the background, where she could pull the strings of opera life unseen and in control. "Like politicians," she had said.
Now, she was regarding her current drawing with a look of distaste. "Albain, come here. Something is wrong with this design." Albain obediently came behind her shoulder, looking with interest at the fine outfit she had drawn. "Look, there is something missing. It seems like just a regular fine outfit."
"What is it to be, Laureline?" Albain said.
"A costume for you for the Masquerade," Laureline said easily. "I have dropped a note to Monsieur Lefèvre, and he has kindly said he plans to have a bal masque at the turn of the year. But this would look horrid on you as it currently is, and since you are very busy, there will be little time to work on it."
"Good lord, it's only July, Le Moûel. You can't seriously think me to start my costume now."
Laureline turned a steely eye on him. He fought the urge to cower. "Don't question my motives, Albain, you are quite foolish there. I know what I am doing. Don't presume to have me expose myself as an idiot to you, for I have no intention of doing so."
"I didn't think you did," Albain said carefully. "But you are amazingly ahead of schedule. Why, I'm in shock as to where you get your timeliness."
"You sound like the stagehands, trying to placate La Carlotta," Laureline smiled. "Come, now, forget all of that. For your costume must be perfect, and six months is hardly enough time to create that."
"God created the world in six days, if you'll care to remember."
"And look at what a mess it is."
"Touché, Laureline. Now come, what flaws could possibly meet your eyes?"
---
Laureline had seen a dashing young man Albain's age pass by her door, and quickly summoned her friend to go and find out his name and reason for being at L'Opéra Populaire. As the two went out, Laureline carefully making sure her dress fell properly down the skirt, they heard M Lefèvre addressing the company, two strange men at his side.
"Albain, do you hear! M Lefèvre is retiring! And to Berlin, of all unhappy places."
"No, it was Australia he said. By the gods, your hearing deserts you. Here, the new managers were in the junk business. I pity them and their lack of experience in this world, they will find life here very frightening. And the young man you saw- why, he is the Viscount de Chagney, our new patron."
"Patron? How amusing, Albain. I swear I never saw such a well-bred gentleman so easygoing with his smiles." Laureline looked at him as he left by them, curious. "He looks very rich," she pointed out to Albain. "It's too bad, his tailor seems to suit him. I could do him better, though."
"Of course." Albain was amused: Laureline was forever criticizing the rest of the world and their less-than-satisfactory clothing. "Meanwhile, shall we return to your- Ah, I see they are continuing with rehearsals."
"Let us watch what spectacles happen here, with Carlotta and her lovely hat," Laureline said, mischievous. She watched the managers complimenting the ballet to Madame Giry, the dance teacher. "Ha," she breathed to Albain, "those two men are very low in the choice of women. If I were he, I would be gawking after La Carlotta."
"You forget, my dear, how much older men like revealing outfits."
"I do no such thing, darling, seeing as I made those slave costumes like that for a reason," she hissed with an easy smile to hide her venom.
Laureline watched Madame Giry carefully, glad that she failed to mention L'Opéra's designer. The elephant rolled on stage, and Laureline hid a smile behind her hand as she watched Piangi, the lead tenor, trying to hoist himself up.
When the last note finished ringing, Laureline and Albain easily waited for La Carlotta to make a scene. "Lord, what a hilarious scandal," Albain breathed into her ear. "I never met such a high-strung woman."
"You don't know me very well, that is clear," Laureline whispered back. "Oh, and there she is again about that lovely hat. Why, she's leaving! How funny." They watched as the diva left, shouting annoyingly as the new managers fawned over her, trying to get her to return.
"They will have her sing the aria from Act III, Laureline," Albain said. "Very badly, I am sure."
"No, it's not her voice that is so very bad. It is her screechy way of using it, that is all."
"Why, I thought you knew nothing of music!"
"Indeed, no, for I play the flute a little."
"A little, I am sure it is just a little, with you going on about screech-"
A scream echoed as a large backdrop fell to the ground, landing atop La Carlotta and pinning her leg. In the pandemonium which ensued, Laureline and Albain, both sat turned away with their fists in their mouths. They were both heartily amused.
"You two! Not again," groaned a voice. "Would you not care at all if she were to be seriously hurt? Honestly."
It was Annie Cretoux, one of the dancers, and a cousin of Albain's. Annie was also a close friend of Laureline's, despite being two years her senior. She stood, bedecked in her slave's costume and ballet slippers, with her arms akimbo, and her pretty, mature face worked into a frown as she saw Carlotta leaving.
"Should you care? For, look, she is away, and O. G. has saved us from her stupidity."
"Laure-Caroline Le Moûel, I am ashamed. Do not speak that way again." Madame Giry quickly passed the trio, holding a white envelope in her grasp.
"Look, it is a letter from the Opera Ghost," Annie whispered as Madame Giry addressed the new managers. Laureline and Albain exchanged glances and grins. "But it's nothing he's not said before, just about his salary and his box."
"Why should he want Box 5? There is an unquestionably better view from simply backstage," Laureline said, smiling widely.
"Oh, you are infuriating, Laure."
"But who will sing her part? There's no understudy."
Madame Giry, however, had a solution that she said immediately after Albain whispered his question. "Christine Daee could sing it, sir."
One of the new managers looked at a young dancer with great skepticism. "A chorus girl? Don't be silly."
"Let her sing for you, monsieur. She has been well taught." Madame Giry beckoned Christine Daee forward. Laureline noted the girl's fine figure and exceptionally lovely, innocent features. When she began to sing, Laureline immediately clapped her hands together silently.
"I must go, the costumes will need alterations."
"What?" Albain followed her, rather dazed by the beauty of Christine Daee and her angelic voice.
"Lord above, Albain, don't fall in love with her, for I'd have to fire you straightaway. And you know how I depend on you for some things. Besides, you deserve much better. She looks as though she's got very little wit about her, all innocence and young beauty that she is. They're hardly ever of good mind. But she'll dazzle the crowd, no worries."
"None at all, for she's quite dazzled all the men in the cast and crew."
Albain walked quicker to catch up to Laureline and hooked her arm gallantly through his. She snorted, very unladylike, but let him be chivalrous. "Go amuse yourself with Jean and Annie. I'll come down directly."
"I'll wait for you."
"Don't bother, I must pen a letter to a customer."
"Mine?"
"Afraid so, Albain. Now shoo, before the whole world knows my dirty secret."
"Of course." Albain went off, thinking how lovely it would be to wear a fine outfit like the one he'd wear for the Masquerade. Perhaps he'd be lucky to get a dance with Meg Giry. He knew she was much more to his liking than that Christine Daee, with her big fawn eyes and brown hair. No, Albain was quite content to fall in love with Meg Giry, if it got that far.
But then, he would remember Madame Giry, and quell all thoughts of the blond dancer. He wouldn't want a mother in law such as her for all the world.
Oh yes, what was that clever joke Laureline had told him one?
"Why did Adam live so long? Because he had no mother-in-law."