By Allison E. Lane
"So, it is to be war between us!"
The Phantom of the Opera, Act One Scene Eight
Some time later, Christine sat dumbly at the piano as Monsieur Reyer raged about the small rehearsal room, snatching up random sheets of paper and shredding them in his fury. Already the floor was littered with bits of paper he'd torn and thrown and stamped on.
"I'm going to have Firmin's throat, that's what," he growled, pacing around the room with short, jerky strides, crumbling yet another piece of paper into a compact ball. Christine silently plucked a loose thread off of her skirt. "That man! At least that idiot Andre has some artistic sense, but Firmin! All he cares about is money!" Reyer's voice adopted a mocking tone. "'Carlotta makes us money, which keeps you employed, I won't take any complaints from you'—complaints?! I'll go to my grave complaining about that woman!"
Paper began to fly as Reyer, having angrily straightened out the paper he'd crumpled, started to rip it apart. Christine managed to drag herself from her stupor and raised her head to look at him. "Perhaps it won't be so terrible," she attempted lamely; the words sounded hollow in her ears. "At least it's my own role—"
Reyer laughed, and Christine jumped at the sound. It held no humor whatsoever, only bitterness and an odd tinge of old pain. "'Role'? My dear Mademoiselle Daae, Serafimo is not a role." He threw his hands up in the air, his dark chuckle abruptly gone, and paper once again rained down upon the floor. In two swift strides he crossed over to Christine and took her tightly by the shoulders.
"They are making a puppet of you," he said fiercely, his eyes boring into hers. "This is Monsieur Firmin's way of punishing you for daring to upstage his precious diva. All he cares for is money—not art—and so your art is being sacrificed for Carlotta's money."
It was as if some dam in him had broken, and years of pent-up rage and frustration were finally being unleashed. Christine could hardly believe he was acting this way in front of her—while always very blunt and acidic in his commentary, and prone to fits of temper, Reyer was still normally reserved in his physical actions. This, however, was pure loss of control. Alarmed by the depth of intensity in his eyes, and acutely aware of his fingers digging into her skin, Christine reached up and carefully took hold of his wrists. Taking a deep breath, she swallowed and looked him square in the eyes. "But… surely… you're accustomed to art being pushed aside for profit by now? You're behaving as if this casting arrangement is the end of the world as we know it—"
Reyer snatched his hands away from Christine's shoulders, but she still somehow managed to keep a hold on his wrists. Belatedly, she realized it was the first time she'd touched him of her own accord. "That woman," he spat, breathing heavily, "that woman is a walking apocalypse. She spreads disease and entropy wherever she goes. And I'm sick of it, Christine. I'm sick and tired of it."
At his pronunciation of her name Christine flinched as if a spark had jumped from Reyer's hands to hers, and her eyes widened in surprise. Realizing he'd overstepped a boundary he'd never intended to cross, Reyer firmly extricated himself from Christine's grasp and stalked across to the far side of the room, leaning his weight against the wall on one arm and attempting to regain his composure. He'd never addressed Christine by her Christian name before. It just wasn't done—it wasn't proper. A teacher always maintained a professional relationship with his student, did he not? But like a fool, he'd let himself fly out of control, let the situation get out of hand. His anger at the management for assigning Christine the silent role behind his back, coupled with the sense of failure that seemed to pervade his life like a plague, had left him feeling curiously unhinged and somehow vulnerable. Reyer detested weakness of any kind in himself, and this wholly unfamiliar set of emotions—he didn't like them at all.
Therefore, he didn't think about them. Forcibly, he buried the vulnerability beneath a veneer of stone. He had to regain control of himself—he couldn't go about spewing emotion like some kind of freakish human volcano. It wasn't done… it wasn't proper. Not proper at all.
After a moment of awkward silence, her voice uneven, Christine ventured, "Maybe... maybe you could look on this as a blessing in disguise. You'll have one less person to trouble you in music rehearsals."
Reyer snorted, a sharp sound that was almost--but not quite--a genuine laugh.
There was a light rapping at the door, and they both looked to see Raoul de Chagny with his knuckles still resting against the frame. Christine blanched. She didn't even want to know how long he'd been standing there, what he might have seen of Reyer's tirade.
"What?" Reyer asked shortly.
"Begging your pardon," Raoul replied, with all the civility of a proper gentleman, "but might I have a word with Christine?"
Christine glanced at Reyer, and was momentarily taken aback by the undisguised contempt in his eyes. It was clear he held no love for the vicomte. "If you feel you must," he said finally, and, stepping away from the wall, wordlessly began to clear away the mess he'd created.
Joining Raoul just outside the door, Christine said quietly, "Don't mind him. He's in a bit of a temper."
"This I can see," Raoul said dryly, arching his eyebrows at the quite obviously irritated chorus master. Reyer wasn't even attempting to hide the fact that he was eavesdropping on their conversation. "What is it now?"
Christine sighed. There hadn't really been time enough yet to be disappointed with the role she'd been given in Il Muto, but now it was beginning to weigh down on her. "He's... not happy with the casting for Il Muto."
"Ah." Raoul nodded in comprehension. "I know that you must be upset as well, but I think it's for the best." Seeing the look of betrayal that instantly flooded Christine's eyes, he raised a hand to halt her protest. "You can't replace Carlotta overnight," he said reasonably. "And despite what Monsieur Firmin thinks, she won't be here forever. Your time will come." He took her hand and squeezed it gently. "I have faith in that."
Reyer cleared his throat loudly.
Jumping, Christine guiltily dropped Raoul's hand. "You're right, of course," she murmured, looking down. That didn't make her disappointment any less, though. "But I had better go."
"May I see you later?" Raoul pressed.
Christine glanced quickly at Reyer, who was now seated at the piano, pointedly leafing through the score to Il Muto. "I don't know. We'll see?"
Raoul nodded in consent. Smiling at Christine, he shot Reyer a brief, incomprehensible look, then was gone.
"Are you quite finished yet?"
Reyer was still studying the score, his back to Christine, for all appearances back to his normal self. But she knew better. Biting back a comment on his rudeness towards Raoul, chalking it up to the day's events, she went to stand beside him at the piano.
"More jewels for the lady? Madame le Comtesse, surely you can afford to add just one more ring to your bejeweled fingers?"
"Back down, you silly oaf," Christine protested laughingly, waving her hands to fend off the conservatory kid's joking advances. A staging rehearsal was being held for the understudies, and Christine was waiting her turn while Madame Giry, who also served as the production's main choreographer in addition to her duties as ballet mistress, put the understudy Don Attilio through his paces. Joseph Arsenault stood nearby, ready to lend a hand to his counterpart when Madame Giry moved on. The conservatory kid was present in his role as the jeweler, as was Meg, and the two were sitting with Christine to help pass the time.
They watched as the understudy stopped to consult Joseph's copy of the score, making notes in his own. "Carlotta is supposed to be here, isn't she?" Christine commented as their mirth faded.
Meg scowled. "Of course she is," she replied darkly. "And she knows it, too. She's supposed to work with the understudy Don Attilio, and you're supposed to work with Joseph. Monsieur Reyer discussed this with the entire company at our last rehearsal. She can't pretend ignorance."
The jeweler's bag clinked softly as the conservatory kid dropped it into his lap. "Then who will work with Arturo?" he asked, nodding at Joseph's understudy.
Staring at the stocky baritone as he, Joseph, and Madame Giry conferred over the ballet mistress's open score, Christine felt her stomach sour. "That's the point of it," she replied quietly. It was just another passive act, one more inconvenience Carlotta had been causing her since rehearsals for Il Muto had begun. "He'll have to work with me," she continued. "And that means we won't make very much progress, since I'm still learning my role as well."
Meg continued to glower. Christine noticed that the look on Madame Giry's face wasn't too dissimilar as the woman looked around the stage and its environs, obviously searching for a sign of Carlotta and finding none.
"She's determined to make this as difficult as possible for you, isn't she?" the kid mused, his eyes fully of sympathy.
Christine bit her lip. "I'm afraid so. And I fear that it's not going to get any better than this."
It didn't. Christine had to wonder whose idea it had been to cast her and Carlotta as illicit lovers, for surely any fool could see that there was absolutely no chance of them ever getting along. For the most part Christine managed to swallow her dislike and gamely play the part of lover in disguise. Carlotta, on the other hand, made no attempt whatsoever to hide her hatred for her understudy. She refused to even so much as touch Christine, merely mimicking the motions and constantly maintaining a sizable distance between them. Sometimes she didn't even bother to acknowledge Christine's presence at all. This made rehearsal of scenes involving both Serafimo and the Countess—and there were a large number of them—next to impossible. They often ended with Monsieur Reyer throwing everyone out in a fury, with very little having been accomplished.
Despite all this, the managers refused to replace either Carlotta or Christine, or renege on their decision to make Christine Carlotta's understudy; most surmised that the latter was due to Raoul de Chagny's influence. Neither did the managers ever rebuke Carlotta for her behavior, and the staff was simply told to conduct rehearsals as best as they could. As a result, Reyer became more draconian than ever, and even Madame Giry's temper developed a short fuse. Monsieur Gabriel, the orchestra conductor, seemed to have a weary expression permanently affixed to his face.
When Carlotta did deign to recognize Christine's existence, the results were even more disastrous. Still without making any actual physical contact, Carlotta somehow managed to manhandle Christine, and took great delight in tripping her up at every turn. She took to attending understudy rehearsals and loudly spouted vicious criticisms of Christine's singing and acting abilities to the point of distraction. At company music rehearsals, which Christine was required to attend, Carlotta made relentless fun of Christine's silent role. Every week there was a new rumor being spread about her, each one more outrageous than the last. And Carlotta's toadies, whom she seemed to have in limitless supply, took every available opportunity in the diva's absence to make Christine's life as miserable as possible.
Christine's lessons with Reyer became a refuge for her. She felt that there, at least, the criticism was constructive and of value, as opposed to Carlotta's unending insults. Reyer was never any less acerbic--he was, in fact, a great deal more so than usual--yet he somehow seemed gentler when he was working with her. It was as if he sensed the toll Carlotta's abuse was taking on Christine's psyche and, in a rare display of empathy, had resolved not to contribute to her distress if he could help it.
In comparison to the Il Muto rehearsals, the lessons were actually very pleasant. There was no Carlotta, no cackling chorus members or twittering dancers, no taunts or whispers or staring eyes--only Reyer and Christine and the solitary piano. They worked together peaceably enough, Reyer oddly patient with her though he did grit his teeth from time to time if he felt she was lacking in effort; they discussed technique, and interpretation, and how the staging being done might affect both. Christine found herself using her lessons as an anchor for her sanity. Her anticipation of them bordered on irrational; she was so loath to leave them and return to regular rehearsal that she took to extending her post-lesson conversations with Reyer until he was forced to cut them short and dryly point out that they were both needed elsewhere. She even found herself wishing that their nightly ride home lasted longer, the longer to see a friendly face before having to confront her dark, empty flat and her own thoughts.
She often felt like a sacrificial lamb of sorts, offered to appease both management and staff and then slaughtered in the name of fiscal security. Christine would think this and become frightened, frightened of what her mind was splintering into at Carlotta's hand, and she missed her father so fiercely at those times that the pain became a physical hurt. He would have known just what to do, just what to say to help ease her through the darkness until dawn broke. And she had to forcibly remind herself that her father was gone, dead three years, and she must be content and thankful for the support group she did have. She had the Girys. She had Joseph Arsenault and the conservatory kid now, both of whom had proven to be stalwart in their friendship. She had Raoul, as inconceivable as that might seem. And... she had Monsieur Reyer.
During the three months that made up the rehearsal period for Il Muto, Reyer had become even more of a fixture in Christine's life; he was almost always there, even if only in the background at times, and always a source of support and strength. And she did believe in her heart that he supported her. He was never very obvious about it, not in the vocal I'll-campaign-for-you way, of course. It was evidenced in the little things--the fact that he continued to teach her, his feuding with the managers over Carlotta, his feuding with Carlotta herself concerning the woman's behavior, the occasional words of praise that seemed to carry an unspoken I'm standing beside you in this with them. And perhaps she was imagining it, but his eyes always seemed to follow her around the stage during rehearsals, as if he were watching out for her. Either way, imagined or not, it gave Christine courage to continue on when what she really wanted to do was curl up in a dark corner and be forgotten.
Especially, especially, at the last dress rehearsal.
Carlotta had apparently decided that, it being the last rehearsal before opening night, it was due time for her to actually execute her blocking with Christine. Unfortunately, she was none too gentle about it. Monsieur Andre, who was attending, advised restraint to the staff in hopes that the diva would tone down. Which, of course, was nothing but a pipe dream--by the end of the first act Andre had nearly bitten a hole through his lower lip, Monsieur Reyer was audibly popping his knuckles and grinding his teeth, and Christine was close to tears. In the back of the theater, it was almost possible to see steam issuing from Raoul de Chagny's ears.
"This can not continue," Reyer hissed through clenched teeth as the actors onstage dispersed and stagehands began to set the opening scene of act two. "Any more of this abuse and I assure this production will be without a Serafimo--I'll take Mademoiselle Daaé out myself."
"Now, now, let's be reasonable," Andre said nervously, dabbing his face with a handkerchief.
Over his shoulder, Reyer spotted Raoul advancing rapidly up the aisle, with all the subtlety of a steam train. "Enter the choir," he muttered sourly, and Andre turned to be met head-on by the de Chagny Express.
"What is the meaning of this?" he demanded, loudly enough to raise a few heads in the orchestra pit. "You can't tell me that you haven't seen what's going on up on that stage!"
Andre's right eye twitched, and the handkerchief wavered. "I assure you, monsieur le vicomte, that we are not blind," he replied uneasily. "But do you realize that this is the first time Carlotta has fully rehearsed her blocking...?"
Raoul rounded on Reyer. "And precisely whose fault is that?"
Reyer drew himself up to his full height, severely affronted. "I beg your pardon," he shot back icily, "but you might choose to conduct that particular conversation with the overdressed peacock on stage that is passing for the Countess."
Andre colored around the ears. "Now, now, gentlemen--"
Both Raoul and Reyer turned on him, and the manager flinched. "Go deal with her," he muttered in Reyer's general direction, then sidestepped past Raoul and headed for the exit as fast as his legs could carry him, continuing to mutter under his breath.
Backstage, Meg was holding a cold compress to Christine's right wrist, which Carlotta had rather cruelly jerked midway through act one, and making soothing noises. "Everything will be fine," she murmured in what she hoped was a convincingly hopeful tone. Inside, she felt as if her blood was boiling. "You'll make it through this just fine, you'll see."
The effort of holding back tears, lest she mar her makeup and show any weakness, had left Christine nearly incapable of speech. It was just as well while she was onstage, since she had no lines to speak, but offstage the dam was threatening to break. Under the greasepaint her face was deadly white, and she had to bite her lip to keep it from trembling. "I don't know how much more I can take," she quavered, swallowing hard. "How can Carlotta do this? How can--"
"Shhh," Meg calmed, reaching up to smooth Christine's hair back from her temples. "Take a deep breath and breathe." She knew what her friend wanted to say--how could Carlotta knowingly jeopardize the production like this, and how could no one take measures to stop it? But it didn't need to be said. Everyone was already wondering the same thing.
Christine nodded and gulped again, her hands shaking.
Meg glanced past Christine, further backstage. Madame Giry was nowhere to be seen, and neither was Carlotta; Meg fervently hoped that meant the diva was receiving a stern dressing-down, wherever she was. Meg did spot Ubaldo Piangi loitering in the wings, however, a small dog cradled in his arms, and Joseph Arsenault giving the man a death glare as he returned from his costume change.
Just then Reyer stalked past with an air of burning determination, followed closely by Raoul. When Christine saw them, she was unable to keep herself held together a moment longer, and her control snapped.
"Why haven't you done anything?!" she wailed, startling Meg, staring with a world of hurt in her eyes as the two great pools of tears finally spilled over onto her cheeks.
Reyer froze. For just an instant, Meg saw an expression of utter dismay flash across his face.
Then Raoul was pushing past him, hurrying to kneel in front of Christine and taking her hands in his. Meg rocked back on her heels to move out of the way. "Don't think I haven't noticed what Carlotta's been doing to you," he said, sincerely apologetic. "I have. It's just that Monsieur Andre had hoped that she might back down, but now that she hasn't we're going to speak with her this very minute. Don't cry, Christine... everything will be taken care of."
Meg was struck by three things: the way Reyer was staring at Raoul, the fact that Raoul had automatically assumed Christine had been speaking to him, and that it hadn't been him Christine had in fact been looking at.
"Are you coming or not?" Reyer interjected sharply, an impenetrable look on his face. "We haven't got all day."
Raoul seemed to chafe at the sudden rebuke, clearing his throat and rising to his feet. "Be strong," he said softly to Christine, with a final fond look.
Reyer glanced askance at him. "Take care of her," he muttered to Meg, then turned and walked away without a backward glance.
When they were gone, Meg turned back to Christine with a reassuring smile; the poor thing had just instinctively wiped her eyes and was looking in despair at the smeared makeup at her hand. "Come on, then," Meg said gently. "Let's get you cleaned up."
"I was not aware I was doing anything wrong," Carlotta was saying innocently, turning as required while one dresser laced up the stays on her bodice and another powdered her cheeks with rouge.
For his part, Reyer's face was rapidly emulating an overripe tomato. The opulent dressing room was far from crowded, but to him it was overpoweringly claustrophobic. Carlotta often had that effect on him. "Oh, come off it, you miserable wretch," he spat. "You know perfectly well what it is you've been doing, and you would be advised to consider that this institution is not a playground for spoiled children. This is a professional opera company, and we expect you to behave like a professional!"
Carlotta puffed up in indignation, very much resembling the peacock Reyer had earlier compared her to. "How can I behave as a professional," she shot back haughtily, "when I am forced to work with such spoiled children, who curry favor with the patronage?" And she looked pointedly at Raoul.
Raoul flushed crimson. "Now look here just one minute--"
"Enough of this," Andre interrupted from where he was standing by the door. "You're all acting like children." He'd been quiet up to then, but even so Reyer had a sneaking suspicion that the man was there on behalf of the management without Firmin's knowledge. Andre's next words served to confirm it. "Signora, your behavior during the course of this production has been most unacceptable. If you do not cease this foolishness immediately, I will have no choice but to put Mademoiselle Daaé on in your place tomorrow night, with my full support."
Carlotta's jaw dropped, and Reyer experienced a sudden surge of admiration for the manager. The two dressers, their work done, chose that moment to make a hasty exit, nearly tripping over the crowd eavesdropping outside in the corridor. Raoul glared at them as the door closed.
"But--but Monsieur Firmin would never approve of such an action!" Carlotta spluttered.
"I will have his full backing in this matter," Andre replied evenly, and his tone made it clear that Firmin would be doing so whether he liked it or not.
Carlotta forcibly clamped her mouth shut and took a moment to recompose herself before responding, "I cannot allow you to make such a grievous mistake."
"Does this mean your abuse of Mademoiselle Daaé will end?" Raoul quickly interjected.
Carlotta nailed him with a venomous stare. "Don't presume to speak for me, boy."
"Answer his question," Reyer said shortly, arms crossed menacingly.
Carlotta gave them all an imperious look as she swept up her bejeweled costume shawl from her vanity table. "You will not regret having me as your star," she said haughtily, stalking past Andre and out the door.
Left to themselves, the three men looked at one another.
"She didn't answer," Reyer muttered, still on edge, unconsciously tapping his foot.
Andre was once again pensive. "I don't like this. I don't like this at all. Still..." He sighed. "The show must go on, yes?"