"'Unknown singer thrills at Opera,'" Monsieur Andre read aloud from a newspaper the next morning, as Monsieur Firmin sifted through the business on his desk. "'Christine Daaé a sensation. Three leads make a success of Hannibal.' I trust your nerves are sufficiently mollified by this good publicity, Richard. No refunds, glowing reviews—quite a start to our new careers, don't you think?"
Firming was sorting the mail. "Three inexperienced leads don't seem to have hurt us, no. But I think the loss of our two stars will hurt us financially in the future. Christine Daaé, Joseph Arsenault, that fellow who performed Dido—who has ever heard of them? Their names won't draw crowds. The Opera could lose money."
Andre frowned, not understanding Firmin's pessimism. "That may be so, but I should hardly think we'd need La Carlotta and Ubaldo Piangi anymore." Having received the brunt of the diva's tirade yesterday, he was no longer inclined to support her. "Firmin, Daaé and Arsenault are stars in the making! Just look at these reviews!—" Andre shook a newspaper in Firmin's direction. "I daresay after last night everyone in Paris will be flocking to see this new sensation! Have you no eye for the future?"
"Not an artistic one," Firmin replied dryly. "That's your job." He passed an envelope over. "You have a letter."
Setting the newspaper aside, Andre took the letter and opened it, his eyes quickly scanning the message from behind a pair of spectacles. As he read, a look of confusion clouded his face, soon replaced by a mix of astonishment and disbelief. "What the devil…?" he murmured. "Here, Firmin, listen to this." Having gained his colleague's attention, Andre read aloud.
"Messieurs Firmin and Andre:Firmin stared across at Andre, who looked just as puzzled as he felt; the other man dropped the letter down on his desk as if it were a large spider. "If this is supposed to be a joke, it's not very humorous," he said, and paused. "Who the hell is 'O.G.'?"
Congratulations on the splendid opera—Mademoiselle Daaé and Monsieur Arsenault enjoyed a trememdous success. Carlotta was not missed. A brief reminder in the event Lefévre did not inform you—my salary has not been paid. I require twenty thousand francs a month. It is better that you pay; my methods of dealing with debtors are most unkind.
Sincerely, O.G."
He and Firmin looked at each other.
"Opera Ghost," they muttered in unison.
Andre glared at the discarded piece of paper before him. "This is not amusing."
A knock on the door preceded the entrance of Monsieur Gabriel, the orchestra conductor. He was tall, unusually slender, with fine black hair; his relatively youthful features bespoke intelligence. He had been promoted to the position of chief conductor the previous year, after the Opera's veteran conductor retired. He was carrying a stack of newspapers under one arm. At the sight of him Firmin scrambled out of his chair. "You! You're a longtime employee," he cried, grabbing the mysterious letter off Andre's desk and charging around towards the conductor, brandishing the paper in the man's face. "What is the meaning of this?"
Taken aback by his reception, Gabriel silently took the letter with his free hand and read over it. Then he lightly shrugged and handed it back to Firmin. "It's just the Opera Ghost."
"Just the Opera Ghost?" Andre commented, one eyebrow raised.
Gabriel nodded, shifting the newspapers under his arm. "Correct. The Opera Ghost. The ballet rats like to call him The Phantom of the Opera—they think it adds more drama and romance to the stories." He chuckled. "He sort of comes with the building, supposedly. Mostly the Ghost is really rather helpful, dropping notes here and there to encourage people or to make suggestions, though he was the bane of Lefévre's existence. And the Ghost's dislike for La Carlotta is well known by now." He paused, and cleared his throat. "I don't know why he demands a salary. But I believe it in your best interests, messieurs, that you pay him."
Firmin looked exasperated. "And why is that?"
"Accidents, monsieur." Gabriel suddenly looked uncomfortable. "Things… happen… when the Ghost is displeased." When Firmin snorted, he rushed on. "Yesterday, when that backdrop fell and nearly flattened La Carlotta—things of that sort. Please don't think me mad. I'm quite sane. Ask anyone else here at the Opera, and they will tell you exactly what I've told you."
Firmin stared at the man for a long moment, a faint expression of disbelief on his face, then he sighed and went back to his desk, dropping heavily into his chair. "Ah, opera folk!" he murmured sarcastically.
Gabriel's eyebrows knitted in distress, and he turned a pleading gaze upon Andre. Andre promptly picked up the offending letter and re-inserted it into its envelope, then tucked it into a desk drawer. Best to divert the conversation before Firmin descended into one of his volcanic moods. Practical jokes and pranksters could be dealt with later; at the present an opera house needed running. "Just remember, Richard, this little enterprise was your idea," he said mildly, then quickly changed the subject. "Monsieur Gabriel, I believe congratulations are in order for you and the orchestra. You performed splendidly last night."
"Thank you," Gabriel replied, visibly relieved. His eyes flicked back towards Firmin, who was now going about the business of counting receipts. Gabriel was not an easily unnerved man, but the brooding expression Firmin wore suggested an individual who could be lethal to one's career if his temper were inflamed. And the conductor didn't relish being unlucky enough to land the unenviable task of explaining the Opera Ghost to the new management. How like Lefévre to neglect to mention that one little piece of information…
Andre stacked his own collection of newspapers, placed them on a corner of his desk, and readjusted his spectacles on his nose. "If you would be so kind as to fetch the chorus master—"
There was another knock on the door; it opened, and the fresh-faced secretary Rémy stepped partway in. "The Vicomte de Chagny is here."
"Ah, good. Show him in."
Rémy nodded and withdrew; Andre looked over at Firmin. He cleared his throat. "Richard, your prized patron has arrived."
Firmin looked up sharply from the receipts. "What? Oh. Yes." He shoved the receipts aside and folded his hands atop his desk as Raoul de Chagny entered the room. "Good morning, monsieur le vicomte," he said politely, all traces of his foul mood gone. "Have you read the papers this morning?"
Raoul smiled, temporarily dispelling the aura of vague confusion and worry that surrounded him. "I have. It's tremendous for Christine—Mademoiselle Daaé. Have you seen her today?"
Firmin and Andre frowned at each other. "No," Andre said. "Why?"
There was a sudden commotion in the outer office, the sound of Rémy letting out a small yelp of surprise followed closely by a soft thud; before either of the managers, Gabriel, or Raoul could move to investigate, Carlotta Giudicelli swept theatrically through the door Rémy had left open. "I have returned to save you from certain doom!" she declared grandly, a hugely bright smile pasted upon her face.
Everyone simply stared at her, their mouths more or less open in shock. Even Gabriel, normally a well-collected individual, was stunned into blinking silence.
Carlotta's abnormally glittering smile shrank a hair, and her wide-flung arms dropped slightly. "Are you not happy to see me?"
"I'm sorry," Rémy apologized sheepishly from the doorway, where he was rubbing his shoulder. "She pushed right past me…"
There was another moment of silence. Gabriel recovered first. Shifting the newspapers he held to the crook of his other arm, he opened his mouth, closed it, then muttered, "I'll just be fetching Monsieur Reyer now, if you don't mind—" Then he brushed sideways past Carlotta and virtually dashed to the outer door, unsettled for the second time that day.
The day had dawned bright and clear. Reyer was in a cheerful mood. Or at least as cheerful a mood as his personality would allow.
He didn't even halfway understand it. For the first time in recent memory, he hadn't wished to commit mass homicide on the Parisian bird population while walking to the Opera. On his way there Reyer had collected several newspapers that contained reviews of the gala performance, all with glowing praise for Christine Daaé. Upon reading the first he broke into a most unexpected grin; by the time the last review was read, he was feeling almost downright friendly in attitude. He even found that the grin plastered on his face had actual feeling behind it, found himself struck with an insane urge to dance down the sidewalk and laugh like a lunatic, to proclaim to the world that this new sensation was his student, his discovery, his doing. He wanted to collect every review he could possibly find and mail them to Carlotta, with a degree of satisfaction with life that he hadn't experienced in years.
Instead Reyer found his feet propelling him onward at a brisker pace than usual, the faster to arrive at the Opera and get the morning meeting with the singers over with so he could move on to Christine's daily lesson. Now he was in his office, looking over the notes he had written down in his score for Hannibal and jotting down a few extra ones to give to Christine later, preparing to meet with the singers. So enveloped was he in his good humor that he failed to contemplate the possibility of Carlotta returning in a fury once she saw the reviews—she could not fail to read them—and so did not anticipate what happened next.
As 'cheerful' was not a word analogous to Reyer's emotional vocabulary, his good mood was of course a mood not destined to last very long.
He was just placing his notes for Christine under a stack of sheet music when the door to his office flew open. Monsieur Gabriel entered, looking unusually agitated. "Prepare yourself," he said grimly and without preamble.
Reyer was so taken aback he didn't even snap at the man for not knocking first. "Prepare myself for what?"
Gabriel deposited the stack of newspapers he held in the overstuffed guest armchair, then folded his arms across his chest. "La Carlotta. She's back."
Reyer froze in the act of closing his score, and felt his good humor immediately vanish.
Upon arriving at the Opera that morning, Christine Daaé hadn't had a clue as to what to do with herself. Ordinarily she would have reported to the ballet studio, changed into her rehearsal costume, and begun her warmup exercises, but given recent circumstances—recent circumstances, indeed!—she was no longer sure of what to do or where to go. What exactly was her position in the Opera House now? Was she a dancer, a singer, or both? Would the managers still want her to sing Elissa tonight? For that matter, what of the rest of Hannibal's run? Performances were due to continue through the week, and then the company would begin rehearsals for Albrizzio's Il Muto. Would she have to return to the corps de ballet then?
She was so close to achieving her dream of being a famous opera singer—had just taken a major leap in that direction—that she was extremely loath to consider any possibility of having to return to that giggling band of backstabbing dancers. Finally, Christine decided to go to the main rehearsal room, where the other singers would be congregating. Surely Madame Giry wouldn't be angry if she was a little confused and didn't report to ballet rehearsal.
When she arrived at the singers' rehearsal room and peeked timidly in the door, she spotted Joseph Arsenault waving at her from the second row of chairs. The conservatory kid was sitting next to him, surrounded by newspapers and thumbing through one with a big, sloppy grin on his face. Christine made her way towards them, acknowledging a few called-out words of congratulations with a shy smile and a nod of her head.
"Good morning, Christine!" the kid said brightly as Christine sat down in the empty seat next to Joseph. Seeing as they were fellow newfound stars, the kid had evidently decided to do away with formal titles. "I say, have you seen any of these reviews yet?"
"Just one." Christine wasn't particularly well-off in her finances—one could barely live on a dancer's wages and her father had died virtually penniless—but she had indulged herself by buying one of the theatrical papers on her way to the Opera that morning. Even despite the fact that she knew she had done well, she was still utterly surprised to find the critic had loved her performance. Who had she been kidding? Her peers' praise and especially Monsieur Reyer's unexpected kind words did mean a lot to her, but finding that one of Paris's leading operatic critics had enjoyed her singing was like the icing on an already rich cake. She could almost see her father smiling down at her from heaven. I've been touched by the Angel of Music, haven't I, Papa? Are you proud of me?
The kid's enthusiastic voice brought Christine back to reality. He had picked up one of the many newspapers that were scattered about his feet and was shaking it at her. "You ought to read the review in this one and see what they said about you!"
Christine felt butterflies in her stomach. "Oh, I couldn't possibly." She looked nervously at Joseph. "You read it."
Smiling knowingly, Joseph took the paper from the kid and opened it to the correct page, folding it back and smoothing it over his knees. Then he cleared his throat and began to read. "It says here, 'The role of Elissa, Queen of Carthage was sung by Christine Daaé, who unexpectedly performed in place of the absent Carlotta Giudicelli. Mademoiselle Daaé's performance was nothing short of a revelation. Never have we seen an Elissa with so sublime a voice, so strong-willed yet vulnerable in character. Mademoiselle Daaé was formerly a member of the corps de ballet at the Opera Populaire, and this critic wishes to commend the individual who chose to pluck this jewel from obscurity. Paris has not known such a sensation since La Carlotta originally debuted in this role, but at this performance she was not missed.' My, that was certainly flattering, I should say."
Throughout Joseph's recitative, a smile had slowly spread across Christine's face. She found the courage to pluck the newspaper from his hands and look it over herself. "They flatter you, too. 'Richer vocally than Signor Piangi' and 'More convincing as Elissa's lover'…" Her cheeks turned bright red in embarrassment as her voice trailed off, and she handed the newspaper back to Joseph.
He winked at her good-naturedly, then elbowed the kid in the ribs. "No mention of you blushing like a baby when Mademoiselle Daaé here had to kiss you on the cheek. But I think this critic was willing to overlook our mistakes in light of the circumstances."
"It's easy for you to joke about blushing," the kid retorted with a smile, as Christine willed her facial color to return to normal. "You were like a regular Don Juan, you were. That reminds me—" He leaned forward to look across at Christine. "I heard that the Vicomte de Chagny was rather taken with you."
"You did?" Christine was unable to keep a tinge of dismay out of her voice—she was flattered, she truly was, and glad to see him, but they couldn't possibly have the future she feared Raoul was interested in. And if the kid had heard, well, then the entire Opera probably knew. Meg… "Well, we knew each other when we were young," she added uncomfortably.
"Really?" Joseph asked curiously.
Christine nodded and, seeking to change the topic to a more comfortable one, asked, "Shouldn't Monsieur Reyer be here by now? Where is he?"
Joseph shrugged and settled back into his chair, backing off from pursuit of Christine's relationship with the vicomte. "I haven't seen him." Suddenly he grinned. "Maybe he's off negotiating a new contract for you. You didn't really think he'd allow you to stay with the ballet after last night's performance, did you?"
In the managers' office, Carlotta was livid. "I cannot believe that you would even think about continuing Hannibal without me!"
She punctuated her exclamation with a sharp tap of her artful parasol. Andre flinched. He and Firmin were both leaning against the front of Firmin's desk, front and center for Carlotta's tirade; Raoul de Chagny was hovering beside Andre's desk; Reyer was glowering at Carlotta from by the door; and Gabriel was standing in a corner, hoping to be forgotten. Rémy was back out in the outer office, where he had been banished to attempt to pacify Ubaldo Piangi. No such luck for the managers. Carlotta had indeed read the papers and, outraged that Hannibal had triumphed—much less been performed—without her, had evidently decided she could continue to live with the Opera Ghost's hatred. No doubt she had intended to simply walk back into the Opera House and continue as if she had never left, had expected everyone to welcome her back with open arms.
Not so, if Reyer had anything to say about it. He intended to put up a fight.
"Now, signora," Firmin was fairly babbling, "that is not what we intended—"
"That is exactly what we intended," Reyer interrupted sharply, giving Firmin a very pointed and disgusted look. Carlotta turned on him, preparing to whip herself into an even more vile humor, but Reyer hurried on. He had something to say, and he would be damned if he'd allow Carlotta to run over him as she did everyone else. "Signora, you forfeited your right to the role of Elissa when you walked out of rehearsal yesterday."
"He's right, you know," Gabriel murmured from his corner.
Firmin harrumphed. Reyer quickly continued. "Did you expect us to cancel? Hardly likely! No, we found some very willing and able singers to take your places." He didn't have to add and it has been proven that this company can survive without you—it was already very implicit in his tone and the sardonic lift of his eyebrows.
Carlotta stabbed a finger in the general direction of the ballet studios. "'Able singers'? You cannot mean that awful, warbling dancer who has the gall to think herself a singer!" Savagely she swept the stack of newspapers off Andre's desk; again Andre flinched. "Who was it that bribed the papers to give such false reviews? Was it you?" The stabbing finger shifted to point at the vicomte.
Raoul drew himself up to his full height, extremely offended. "I did no such thing!" he retorted hotly. "Really—"
Andre coughed nervously. "Now, now—"
Carlotta sniffed derisively. "They are all lies, all of them. No dancer—and especially not that mewling brat—can ever hope to best me." She turned suspicious eyes upon Monsieur Reyer. "How is it that a dancer was chosen for this folly?"
Reyer was suddenly struck by a great desire to destroy the woman. It wasn't the first time he'd had such an inclination, but never had he felt it so strongly. Instead, he carefully kept his face composed in a coolly sardonic mask and feigned ignorance. "No one ever said ballet dancers weren't allowed to be singers as well, signora. Mademoiselle Daaé knew the role. She had the voice. Perhaps she simply has a natural talent, whereas you had to work at acquiring yours."
Carlotta narrowed her eyes at him; Reyer noted with a twinge of uneasiness that the suspicious glint did not entirely disappear. "And it is easily apparent that you have no talent at all."
Gabriel winced mightily, averting his eyes from the ugly scene that was sure to follow. Reyer stiffened, feeling his entire body go white-hot and then cold in an instant rage. One would have expected him to also feel humiliation or at the very least shame, but those were not emotions he would allow himself to feel, not at Carlotta's expense. The expression on his face must have been truly violent, however, for the vicomte took what appeared to be an involuntary step back, and Firmin swiftly moved to interpose himself between Reyer and the diva.
"Now, let's be reasonable here," the balding manager said quickly, with hands folded in a peacekeeping gesture. "It's obvious that we're not going to be able to please everyone. I'm sure we can negotiate something—"
"Daaé stays in the ballet," Carlotta said flatly.
"Absolutely not!" both Reyer and Raoul exploded at the same time; each giving the other a strange glance, Raoul continued, "If you do such a thing, I will take my funding elsewhere. The Opera Comique, perhaps."
Firmin gaped. Gabriel hid a smirk behind one hand. Reyer, gratified to have found an ally but unsure if he wanted to know why the vicomte was so adamant regarding Christine, added, "Gentlemen, Mademoiselle Daaé does not belong in the ballet corps, she belongs in leading roles. You cannot let a voice like hers go to waste!"
"What voice?" Carlotta growled.
Andre fixed her with a bespectacled stare. "How can we be sure that you won't walk out again?"
Carlotta lifted her chin. "I will not. You have my word."
Reyer, still smoldering, could barely suppress a darkly amused chuckle. Even so, he could feel his admittedly slim hope of driving La Carlotta out once and for all slipping away from him. Was there nothing he could do for his pupil? The thought of all those weeks of hard work being for almost naught somehow made him feel sick inside. "Her word means nothing," Reyer said shortly. "Make Mademoiselle Daaé her understudy." "I need no understudy!" Carlotta snapped back venomously.
Andre and Firmin exchanged a long look. The Opera's main attraction had returned, but was by all evidence extremely temperamental and therefore less than trustworthy; therefore insurance was needed in the event the diva threw another tantrum. There was the threat of their wealthy new patron pulling out his stakes and moving elsewhere if the diva's wishes were followed. And while the managers were not exactly experts on the world of opera, neither were they complete ignoramuses; Daae really didn't belong in the corps de ballet. All this left them in a slight conundrum as to averting all-out warfare amongst their employees.
Finally Andre sighed. "Here is what I propose. La Carlotta will finish Hannibal's run as Elissa, and Mademoiselle Daaé will return to the ballet corps." Both Reyer and the vicomte opened their mouths to protest; Andre silenced them with a wave of his hand. "However, after Hannibal is finished, Mademoiselle Daaé will be moved to the chorus and henceforth will understudy all of La Carlotta's roles. Is this acceptable to all of you?"
Carlotta stared hard at Andre for a long moment, then apparently decided she would get no better deal and haughtily turned on her heel to stalk out of the office, pushing Reyer out of the way to yank open the door. He had a sinking feeling that he knew where the diva would be headed, and giving those left in the room a curt nod, hurried after her in hopes of averting a potential debacle.
In the rehearsal room, one of the singers sitting near Christine, Joseph, and the conservatory kid suddenly asked, "Who on earth is making that horrible racket out in the hallway?"
They listened. Further down the outside corridor, two individuals appeared to be engaged in a bitter shouting match, and coming closer by the second. "Sounds like old Sour Face," the singer's friend said with a grin, using one of the company's myriad derogatory nicknames for Monsieur Reyer.
Joseph laughed. "When is he ever not shouting at someone?"
The others laughed with him, but Christine only bit her lip. She suddenly felt queasy, but didn't understand why.
Another singer said, "Wait. Did I just see Ubaldo Piangi walk past the door? Why is he here?"
Joseph and the kid looked sharply at each other as the shouting in the hallway abruptly stopped, only to start up again with two male combatants instead of one male and one female. The kid went slack-jawed. "That was La Carlotta he was arguing with…"
As one the two turned their gazes upon a now gray-faced Christine, who looked back at them with eyes as wide as saucers. "Hide," Joseph blurted.
They hadn't even time to rise from their seats when Carlotta appeared in the doorway, red-faced and thunderous as a tornado. Her eyes quickly swept the room; when they fixed upon the frozen Christine, Carlotta pointed a dagger-like finger at her and boomed, "You!"
The entire assembly instantly fell silent.
Carlotta charged over to Christine, snatched up the young woman's arm, and yanked her to her feet. Christine's cry of pain caused Joseph to start violently and make a move to stand, but the kid quickly restrained him—this was an upheaval no one on earth had the power to stop. "So, I see you have gone and made a spectacle of yourself, you little chit," Carlotta snarled, eyes blazing as brightly as her flame-colored hair. "But let me tell you something. I am the prima donna here. I am one of the world's greatest singers. Men have been known to slay themselves over me. You—"
Piangi walked into the room with a sickeningly smug air about him. Reyer followed a second later, looking as if he'd been knocked silly. When he saw Carlotta virtually ripping Christine apart he could only blink, and stare.
Carlotta took no notice of them. "You are only a pathetic little dancer who should never have been allowed to set foot in the conservatory, and sleeps with noblemen to use them to scheme against the true talent in this opera house. You are not a singer. You will never be a singer, no matter what pretty lies you have been told or who you slept with to create those lies. You will never replace me. I have no need of an understudy, so do not think that I will ever allow you to sing in my place again! Is that clear?"
The diva still tightly held Christine by the arm, who was wide-eyed and shaking and pale as a ghost in the face of Carlotta's fury, wishing nothing more than to die on the spot, and too stunned to speak or even to breathe.
"I do not hear you," Carlotta hissed.
Christine somehow managed to swallow and whisper, "It is clear," her voice wobbling and wavering up and down the scale.
"Good. We are at an understanding then. You would do well to remember what I have said." Carlotta let go of Christine's arm and smiled wickedly at her. The young woman recoiled sharply the instant she was free, still trembling and white-faced and on the verge of nervous collapse; then, overcome by shame and humiliation, Christine abruptly burst into tears and fled from the room. The entire company watched her go in silence. Reyer flinched as she passed him, but made no move to say anything or to stop her.
An uneasy quiet descended upon the rehearsal room.
In the end, it was Reyer who broke the silence. He did not move, nor look away from the indeterminate spot in the empty first row of chairs that he had been staring at; he merely said, calmly and quietly, in a voice no one at the Opera had ever heard him use, "Leave. Do not come back until the performance tonight."
Then he turned and walked out, without another word. He did not follow Christine.
Carlotta continued to smile.