During the cast bows, Reyer stood in the wings as usual and watched the opera's principals step out from the curtains. Although he could not see the audience, he could certainly hear them, and their applause was unanimously enthusiastic. The three new leads had done very well for being called in at such short notice; Joseph Arsenault and Christine Daaé made a far more pleasing duo of man and mistress than Ubaldo Piangi and Carlotta Giudicelli, and the young conservatory kid was a serviceable Dido. All three of them had certainly, unexpectedly triumphed, but the night's greatest success surely went to Christine. At least Joseph had already been somewhat known, and the kid already in the chorus—Christine had made the most glaring leap in roles, from dancer to leading lady. What an incredible triumph! She walked the stage as if she owned it, her voice was bold and confident with nary a tremor, and her delicate beauty, on the opposite end of the spectrum from Carlotta's brassy looks, was apparent to all. Now, as she and her two leading men stepped forward for their third bow, she seemed to be suffused with a kind of golden glow, awestruck at the applause, wearing a wide, bright smile on her face—she was positively radiant.
Watching unseen, Reyer felt oddly golden himself. He was proud—of course he was proud. He couldn't remember ever being so pleased with anyone or anything in his entire life. He had imagined such a scenario as this, but never in his wildest dreams did he think it might come true one day. Carlotta was too fiercely protective of her role as diva. But the unthinkable had occurred, Carlotta had walked out, and Reyer's master plan had finally come to fruition—unknown Christine Daaé was upstaging popular favorite Carlotta Giudicelli in a most spectacular fashion.
Oh, but victory was sweet. Reyer allowed himself a brief smile. He only wished he could be present to see the expression on Carlotta's face when she read the next morning's papers.
Finally the curtain closed for the last time; Christine was now bearing an enormous bouquet of flowers in her arms. The moment the curtain was shut she was immediately swamped by an adoring corps de ballet, which was apparently still conveniently forgetting their earlier torment of her. Christine had the presence of mind to respond kindly to them, thanking them for their praise; Meg Giry attempted to give her friend an estatic hug but was repelled by the flowers. Sensing that Christine was becoming overwhelmed, Madame Giry managed to shoo the gaggle of dancers away, giving the poor girl some breathing room. Giry spoke a few quiet words to her. Reyer watched as Christine nodded, her face still alight, but he could see the fatigue beginning to show through her excitement. That girl must be exhausted, he thought. Well, he'd speak to her before she left.
Madame Giry led the dancers off, the entire giggling bunch of them, and one of the costumers relieved Christine of her massive bunch of flowers. Before the lady left with them, though, Christine picked the two biggest blooms and gave one each to Joseph Arsenault and the conservatory kid, who were being congratulated by their friends in the chorus.
"You both did so well!" Reyer heard her say. He deemed it a good time to approach, now that most of the crushing mass of people was dissipating.
"You were brilliant, Mademoiselle Daaé!" Joseph replied, humbly accepting the flower. "Wherever did that voice come from?"
Christine looked aside, embarrassed at the praise, and unable to tell the truth. "Oh, it's always been there, I think," she murmured.
"That kind of talent's natural," the conservatory kid piped up, then turned red, but he was smiling. He noticed Reyer approaching. "Well?" he asked. "Were we horrible?"
"Very funny," Reyer said dryly as he joined the group; the congratulatory crowd left to get out of costume. "You were splendid, all of you. I don't think there will be very many refunds tonight." He nodded at each of them in turn. "You should be very pleased with yourselves. The managers ought to be pleased with you as well."
Christine, Joseph, and the kid exchanged a mutual happy glance. Receiving any praise whatsoever from Reyer was a sure sign they had done well. "What about tomorrow's performance?" Joseph asked.
Reyer paused to reflect on that—it was something he hadn't thought of. "I don't know," he said finally. "I have no doubt Madame Carlotta will be back to make a fuss once she hears Hannibal triumphed without her, but if the managers are smart"—which they probably are not, he thought sourly—"you won't be replaced, at least not tomorrow. I would think it wise to prepare to continue in these roles, but also be prepared to return to your former roles."
They nodded in understanding, but none of them looked too entirely thrilled at the prospect of giving up their newfound leading roles. Reyer turned to Christine. "Mademoiselle Daaé, a word with you, please?"
A nervous shadow fell across Christine's face. "Of course," she stammered, suddenly on guard.
Joseph and the kid bowed out, both of them exchanging sincere congratulations with Christine before leaving. Left alone with Reyer, Christine swallowed. "Did I do anything wrong?" she asked timidly, to forestall anything critical he might have to say. "Did I let you down?"
Reyer broke into an out-and-out grin; Christine's eyebrows lifted in surprise. "Not in the slightest!" he replied. "Mademoiselle, you were magnificent! I couldn't be prouder." He had unthinkingly taken her hand as he spoke; now he grasped it warmly. Christine, unused to receiving praise from him, merely smiled again and flushed pink. "The managers won't be able to ignore this—the fates willing, I don't think you'll be languishing in the corps de ballet much longer."
"Do you truly think so?" Christine asked, and then yawned. Quickly her free hand shot up to cover it. "I'm sorry," she mumbled.
"Quite all right, and yes, I do think so." Reyer realized he was holding her hand and quickly released it, but his uncharacteristic good humor remained. "Mademoiselle, do yourself a favor. As soon as you're out of costume, go straight home and to bed. You'll make yourself ill if you continue staying up nights to practice—don't deny it, I know you have." Christine looked down penitently. "Don't dawdle, simply go home. You'll thank yourself for it later."
Christine nodded and looked up at him. "I promise to go straight home." She paused. "But staying up to practice paid off… didn't it?"
"Yes, it certainly did." Reyer patted her briefly, a mite awkwardly, on the shoulder. "Go on now—we can't have you dropping asleep in the middle of some corridor. Get some rest and I'll see you in the morning."
Christine took his free hand in both of hers and pressed it momentarily, a heartfelt smile on her face. "Thank you so much, Monsieur Reyer," she murmured gratefully, then gathered her voluminous skirt and swished off into the wings, where she was met by a costumer and Meg Giry; together the three set off for Christine's temporary dressing room.
Reyer retreated to his closet of an office and put his score for Hannibal on his desk after scribbling a few more general comments in the margins, then gathered his coat and prepared to leave. The managers most likely wouldn't require his presence until tomorrow, and he certainly wasn't going to wait on them to find out; they were probably somewhere busily celebrating the lack of massive refunds as it was. He would stop in and notify Madame Giry he was leaving, go eat a very late dinner, and go home extremely satisfied with his day for once. As he left he office and started off down the hallway, he had an absurd impulse to whistle a cheery tune.
"A tour de force! No other way to describe it!" Monsieur André exclaimed in delight as he led a small party along the corridors to Christine's temporary dressing room. He was holding aloft a bottle of champagne and was in very high spirits. The more artistically minded of the new managerial duo, he was thrilled by the unexpected success of the gala.
"What a relief—not a single refund!" Monsieur Firmin added. He was more business-minded and had an eye for profit.
"Greedy," his wife admonished him with a smile.
"Richard, I think we've made quite a discovery in Mademoiselle Daaé, don't you?" Firmin made a noise of agreement; André was now counting door numbers. "And… here we are, monsieur le vicomte." He was addressing the fourth member of their party, an expensively attired young man with fair blond hair and intelligent blue eyes, the reason for their little expedition. Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny was the Opera's new principal patron and has expressed a definite interest in meeting the unexpected star of the gala. André and Firmin were only too happy to oblige him; his family was worth quite a bit of money and they wanted to keep him as a patron. "I believe this is Mademoiselle Daaé's dresing room."
"Thank you." Raoul took the champagne from André. His manner was not snobbish or overly aristocratic, just that of a well-bred young man. "If you don't mind, this is one visit I would prefer to make… unaccompanied."
André and Firmin glanced at each other. This would surely cause tongues to wag—Madame Firmin did so love her gossip—but surely the vicomte had nothing but the most sterling of intentions. "As you wish, monsieur," André acquiesced, gesturing for the Firmins to precede him back down the corridor, muttering under his breath, "One would think they had met before."
That was precisely the case. Raoul had been surprised enough to recognize the name of Carlotta's replacement as that of his childhood friend, Christine Daaé, but when she entered the stage and began to sing…! He had hardly recognized her as the shy, dreamy young girl he had known. Elated to see his old, dear friend achieving such success, he had sent a short message ahead of him via the ballet mistress and hoped to talk with her, to see if she remembered him as fondly as he did her. Now he straightened his coat on his shoulders and knocked on the door.
"Enter," a voice said. Her voice. Raoul opened the door and found Christine sitting at a vanity table with her back to him, dressed in a robe, brushing out her hair. She no longer looked larger-than-life as she had seemed on the stage, only the young woman with tired eyes preparing to go home that she was. She didn't look up when he entered.
"Christine Daaé, where is your red scarf?" he asked dramatically.
"Monsieur?" Christine stopped brushing, laid the comb down, looked up at his reflection in the mirror. She gave no indication of recognizing him, but she was plainly startled.
"You can't have lost it," Raoul added, prodding, hoping to tease her memory, "not after all the trouble I took. I was just fourteen, soaked to the skin…"
In the mirror, Christine's eyes lit up. "…because you had run into the sea to fetch my scarf!" She glanced down at a slip of paper lying on the little table, then spun around in her chair to face him. "Raoul, it is you!" She jumped up to give him a delighted hug.
"Hello, Little Lotte," he smiled, returning the gesture.
"So you remember that, too?" Christine retreated back to the vanity table, a little embarrassed at her display of emotion. But what a surprise! After those two summers years ago, she had never expected to see Raoul de Chagny again, much less be remembered by him. She'd been smitten with him then. But she firmly reminded herself that those feelings were those of a schoolgirl and had no business being resurrected now; even if she wanted one, she knew she had no future with the vicomte.
"I remember quite a bit," Raoul replied cheerfully. "Especially the stories your father would tell us."
Christine smiled faintly. "Little Lotte and the Angel of Music. Yes."
"I daresay you have been visited by the Angel of Music. Christine, you were amazing! What a triumph! I never guessed you had such talent. Will you do an old friend the honor of accompanying him to a congratulatory supper?"
Christine instinctively began to say yes, then stopped. She heard Reyer's voice in her head: "Do yourself a favor… go straight home and to bed…" She wanted to accept Raoul's invitation, but she desperately needed some shuteye, and she did not doubt that Reyer would resort to braining her with a book to make sure she got it. He was such a taskmaster. "I would like to, Raoul, but I can't—"
"Say yes, there's so much we could catch up on—"
"—no, Raoul—"
"—you must get dressed and I must get my hat." Raoul seemed to have already made up her mind for her and wasn't taking no for an answer. "Two minutes, Little Lotte." With a final smile that would melt any ingenue's heart, he turned and left, chuckling merrily to himself.
Dismayed, Christine rushed after him, watching him retreat down the corridor. Two minutes?! She would be lucky if she could get her dress on in two minutes, much less be ready to go out on the town with a respected member of Parisian society! Her, a foreign-born orphan! She couldn't possibly go! If and when Monsieur Reyer heard of this he would never let her hear the end of it. Quickly she shut the door and pulled her street clothes from the boudoir. Perhaps if she prayed hard enough Raoul would dawdle or be caught by the managers and allow her to slip out without having to make silly excuses…
There came a knock on the door. "Christine?" Meg's voice called. "Mother's ready to leave—"
"Meg!" Christine nearly shrieked, fumbling at the buttons of her dress with one hand and yanking open the door with the other. "Have you seen the Vicomte de Chagny?!"
Meg blinked and gaped at her for a second, taken aback by her friend's suddenly loud, panicked attitude. "Yes, I just passed by him, I—"
"Find him and stall him!" Christine begged as she finished with the buttons, then went hunting for her shoes.
Meg gaped even more. "What? Why?"
"He wants to take me out to supper and I need time to dress and leave before he comes back!" Christine replied quickly, sitting at the vanity table and lacing on her shoes. "I can't go; Monsieur Reyer told me to go straight home."
Clearly confused and astonished, Meg watched as Christine pulled a brush through her hair and quickly clipped it back. "Christine, are you mad?" she gasped. "His family is very powerful, if he likes you it could help advance your career and—"
Christine shot her an imploring look. "Please?"
"Christine, you're turning down an invitation from one of the most eligible young men in France!"
Pausing momentarily in grabbing her cloak and gloves, Christine narrowed her eyes at Meg. "I know that, Meg!" She shooed her away. "Go on, find him and keep him busy for a minute, give me time to leave without him noticing."
Meg gave Christine a look that clearly implied the dancer's opinion of her friend's mental state, but did as requested and headed in the direction from which she had come. Christine stuck her head out in the hall and watched her go as she hastily finished buttoning her cloak and then pulled on her gloves. She would wait a moment, then attempt the back exit. Ducking back into the dressing room, she snapped the hood of the cloak over her head and turned down the gas lamp.
Meg met Raoul de Chagny at the head of the corridor.
"Good evening, monsieur le vicomte!" she chirped, mentally scrambling for something to say. She settled for, "Are you on your way to see Christine?"
Raoul paused, looking amused and a little surprised. He was now wearing a top hat and was still carrying the bottle of champagne. "Yes, I am. Do you know her, mademoiselle…?"
"Giry, Meg Giry." She tried, as nonchalantly as possible, to stragetically place herself in the center of the corridor entrance. Oh, the things I do for you! she thought. It was incredibly unfair of Christine to put her in this position; well, she would find a way to get her back for it. In the meantime, Christine had better thank her for this… Meg still thought her crazy. "I'm Christine's best friend."
"Oh? Is she still in her dressing room?" Raoul tried to peer past Meg, down the corridor.
"I don't know," Meg lied through her teeth, still in the same bright, perky tone. Egads, he was going to think her empty-headed! "She might be. I didn't look." Hurry up, Christine!
"Well, if you will excuse me, Mademoiselle Giry…" Raoul carefully edged past Meg. "I must be going. It was a pleasure to meet you." He nodded and walked down the corridor towards Christine's dressing room. As soon as his back was turned Meg winced and sidestepped to the edge of the doorway, watching carefully, ready to make an escape at a moment's notice. She watched Raoul knock on a door, and after a short silence knock again.
She made it! Meg thought in relief, now neither of us have to be horribly embarrassed. Quickly she tiptoed away, before Raoul could realize he'd been given the slip. She didn't quite understand why Christine would want to do such a thing, but she could always persuade her to explain tomorrow.
Outside, safely undetected, Christine hailed a cab and started for home. It seemed an anticlimactic ending to the most incredible day of her life. It felt like centuries since she had awakened that morning and reported to rehearsal as a dancer… and finished rehearsal as the leading lady. And the gala itself—she could hardly believe her success. Waiting for the curtain to rise she had been nearly ill with fright and nerves, but then Monsieur Reyer reminded her of her vow never to let him down. And she had thought of her father, whose memory she so desperately wanted to do proud. That had given her the courage she needed; once she stepped on that stage she hardly knew herself.
The managers won't be able to ignore this, Reyer had said. His praise had meant the world to her—thank heavens, she hadn't disappointed him, she hadn't been a waste of his time. I don't think you'll be languishing in the corps de ballet much longer…
Christine leaned back against the seat of the cab and smiled to herself. If he was right, perhaps this could be the start of a new life for her… the life her father had dreamed of for her.