It was quiet. The subdued glow of a newly risen autumn sun spilled in through a tiny window near the ceiling filling the room with a subtle illumination until it touched every corner and swathed every bed. Gradually the eased breathing of the girls within began to hasten, cut with occasional moans of dismay, wakefulness gripping their minds and moving them to emerge from the realm of dreams and nyx and into their much harsher reality of perpetual work and duty.
Colombe Deveraoux who lay against the wall directly beneath the widow stretched, back arched, arms extended high overhead, a foot tracing along the leg of another girl as she did. The women's quarters were divided four bodies to a room, with enough space for a bed and trunk for each, but little else. These merry quartets oftentimes formed bonds that replaced the family ties the girls typically were at a loss of when coming to dwell and labor in this place. It was a bond of sisterhood, familiarity, and a common destiny, as they each shared in one another's joys, sorrows, pains, and rarely successes. It was a bond that for many would last a lifetime.
It had grown cold sometime in the night and the bleary minded Colombe had been hardly surprised or disturbed when one of the others had crawled beneath the blankets beside her, sharing body heat in the cellars which seldom knew the comfort of consistent warmth, was ofttimes the only insurance of contented dreams.
Rolling to face the sky, or what would have been the sky if not for the the layers of opera house above her Colombe opened her eyes, and stared at the dark, gradually fading space over her bed. She could never be sure why, but since her childhood days of chasing cats down alleys and bashful side long glances towards neighboring boys, morning had always given way to a quiet, reflective nature often hidden away within.
This life wasn't an easy one, simple, and not without its charms, yes, but never easy. She worked hard with a tempered diligence and determination that seemed catching like fire to kindling to those about her. The young woman forever marveled by the beauty, and grandeur directly sculpted or painted into the walls around which she toiled daily. At times her life could feel like a waking dream, as all about seemed far so beyond her reach that even after some years the girl maintained a sense of awe where others failed to see the allure and even, after a time came to resent the beauty they were surrounded by. Colombe, though, was ever grateful and reverenced by the opportunity of merely being here. Letting out a long wistful sigh the girl stretched again before rolling towards her companion.
"It's morning." the weary brunette murmured, allowing her muscles to relax again, as if making ready to return to slumber.
With a characteristic whimper Sophie Bellerose buried her face into the joint of Colombe's shoulder and neck her nose cold against the other girls skin. "Don't say that!" she pleaded. "I hate when you say that, it never means anything good."
Sophie, who was far from the youngest of the group certainly did play the part. Her hair was an unruly mass curly blonde tresses which elegantly framed the deep blue eyes that had found her on a fair number of young man's minds, but that was before the fire in which she and her family had lost everything. Having been at the opera house just over a year she was still soft and ill accustomed to work, wishing instead to attend the gallas she was now meant to ready, reminiscent of days that took place what seemed to be eons ago when she had wealth, status, and suitors, where now she had none.
"Its cold!" came the sharp but muffled voice of Felicity Lamar from across the room as she stood, wrapped like a wayfaring refugee in her blanket and began shuffling towards them.
"Why is it always my bed?" Colombe groaned plaintively, despite the smile, as she was pressed to the wall in effort to accommodate the three tightly packed and giggling bodies.
"It's because we love you best." Felicity half sang clambering over Sophie to peck a kiss into Colombe's cheek earning some disingenuous mumbling and grousing from the recipient who smiled broadly into the covers.
Once everyone was rearranged and settled the trio relished the warmth and closeness, a heaviness creeping into their eyes and bones alike as slowly they began to drift away. This was until fiendishly playful ideas trickled their way into Sophie's mind with a fevered roguery.
"Oh, mi amor, you are forever the star shining in our hearts." she giggled inching over to nibble on Colombe's earlobe. The brunette shrieked pawing with a startled aggravation at the accosted body part. "Prude." the blonde laughed with the cadence of a song bird.
"Just because you're the resident whore doesn't make our Colombe a prude!" muttered the girl at the edge of the bed. The sharp intake of breath was so sudden a gasp that Sophie began to choke and sputter, a pain pinching at her side before she could react.
All at once the room erupted into a fit of rabble rousing; pillows crashed down upon heads, fingers danced with nimble glee across abdomens, and laugher filling the tiny room as brief scuffles ranged across the mattress, bedding taking flight. Scrambling out of the fray Colombe looked about the room with some confusion, most pointedly at the fourth bed, which stood very empty and unused.
"Where is Viv?" Colombe asked turning towards her comrades.
An impish silence hung in the air as the combatants fell apart. The eldest of the group had a new beau. Not quite as handsome or profitable as Emaurri who worked in the kitchens and would see the group plied with sweets when he could, the tall lanky stable hand that was Vivian Tasse's Louvel had his own perks, or so she said. It was almost preordained then, that the door should swing in, reveling a slightly disheveled Vivian, who took her roommates in with wide eyed horror, bits of straw still tangled in her caramel brown hair, shoes carried in hand.
The group pounced on her in an instant. Questions, taunting remarks, and jeers flew from the girls'mouths with colorful imagery as they gave her good, the assurance that if ever they were caught so compromised so too would be their fate. After badgering their friend into a state of red faced mortification the young women all dressed and readied themselves for the day ahead. Making their way to the kitchens where they were to dine hurriedly among the other members of the serving class.
Seated at one of the long, well worn tables the merry quartet spoke idly about one thing until it became quickly apparent that something was quite blissfully amiss today.
Glancing about the four were exhilarated to find a severe lack of order among the maids, which could only be an indication of one thing. This morning, was one of the rare, God gifted days when Madame Chaput was not dining with them in the hall, her piercing hawk like gaze cutting through them as she supervised their every action. Scarce though these mornings might have been seldom were they taken for granted, mirth filling the air. While the whole hall erupted to life with gossip and laugher Colombe slipped away to eat among the painted angels she liked to think of as her own.
Colombe cherished the cool touch her favorite marble pillar offered her back. This was the best part of day; before the noise, the calamity, before scrub brushes, and floor polish, scrutiny, and then, inevitably, the public. This was the time of day when truly the opera house, home to both the Paris Opera, and the Paris Opera Ballet, felt like the temple to the arts and one could truly sense the spirits thereof that surly dwelled within.
As she leaned against her favored column the girl closed her eyes smiling with a contentment she had never known before. All of these changes to her life were still frighteningly new for Colombe, even after some years.
Her mother had been a devout woman, pious, gentle, and loving. She had raised her daughter to be just as God fearing, and serene, but life wasn't always kind, nor was the man she had married. He was a harsh, hedonistic devil who had won her heart with false charms and fragrant words, imprisoning the woman through the bonds of marriage, and with chains forged of fear, and violence. After the woman had became ill, and inevitably died, what scarce peace she had been able to provide their squat, disheveled home died with her.
First came a sharp lapse in the cleanliness of their home, and her father's already unkempt attire. Then came the rampant appearance of empty glass bottles, while here and there the already uncomfortable attention the man paid his young daughter became more frequent and unspeakable until such acts of abuse, and unpleasantness came to rule their tiny home.
After years of languishing, and bitter prayer in the heart of the night it had been a daring act of courage, conviction, and faith that had seen the twelve year old come to the opera house in search of work. It had taken weeks of begging, bargaining, persistence, and many promissory lies before the child had found her refuge and salvation. So, unlike in all of her mother's fairy stories of princes and dashing heroes, it was Colombe who had rescued herself, when it had become apparent that no other would.
Though her harbor would come to be found out, and the girl's father came seeking what he felt she owed him in the form of payment, Colombe couldn't have been happier, living in this palace of marvels.
"Am I interrupting anything?" came the familiar voice of Felicity, cutting through her reminiscent, woeful lines of thought. Felicity was in truth Colombe's closest and dearest friend and ally against the vain and cruel Madame Chaput.
"Mmm?" Colombe teased opening her eyes with exaggerated bewilderment. "I-I'm sorry, were you saying something? I wasn't paying attention!"
The pair laughed as Felicity sank down to share the column, shouldering and elbowing the other girl to make room as she did. The third child in a family of nine Felicity had been living in the quarters since she was eight and her family could no longer afford to feed her. Gentle and fair her fiery red locks betrayed her passion and pension for strong held emotions and beliefs by displaying it candidly to the world, and as her sisters-in-arms liked to tease in warning to any unsuspecting suitor who may happen her way.
"Sorry, I just didn't want to miss it." Colombe confessed as she motioned heavenwards.
Outside the sun which warmed the earth was just peaking it's crest, covering the world in a lustrous blanket of golden light. It had only made it completely over the horizon when- Colombe smiled; a thin band of light bursting through the murk and mire that seemed to collect and abide in the unlit crevices of the ceiling, banishing it all together before illuminating the gold leaf wings and halos of her favorite mural.
"You're so beautiful." she heard herself mutter.
"Speaking with the angels again, or that saint of yours?" the interloper who Colombe liked to think of as an older sister asked, her tone laced with subtle mockery, eyes sparkling when the brunette crossed herself superstitiously. "Catholics!" Felicity giggled bumping and jostling the other girl in friendly play.
"Mock me all you like, but-" Colombe began before the humor filled redhead cut her off.
"'But I went through every saint in the book to help me when who should replace the missing key into my pocket but Zita!' Yes dear, I know, you've been telling that story for two years now." the loosely labeled Protestant sighed looking at the other girl with fondness. "How certain are you that you hadn't merely forgotten which pocket the key was in?"
Aglow with mischief and laugher the girls spoke in unison, their hands tracing similar paths from forehead to sternum and then each of their shoulders, "As sure as I am the Lord rose again in Jerusalem."
After a brief bout of laugher at Colombe's own expense Felicity doled out the spoonful of honey she'd balanced atop her porridge and the pair ate in comfortable silence.
From there the day went on with and uncharacteristic lively exuberance. With no sign of Madame Chaput, childish rumors began to swirl regarding her death, and play found its way into every aspect of work. Racing along halls with brushes and buckets as the morning began in earnest Colombe and her friends laughed and talked well into the day about one thing or another. Fondling a sculpted breast here, or taking one's time to elaborately polish a bronze manhood there Felicity and Sophie were intent on finding new ways to get a rise out of the other two. Whether asking Vivian to show them how Louvel had been with her the night before or merely trying to cause discomfort for a blushing Colombe the fun and games lasted well into the day.
It was as the others were away fetching clean water that the merriment came to an abrupt end. Lost in her scrubbing, the melody of a song she'd never hear in person on her lips Colombe hummed an upcoming aria. It was pretty, and while few of the workers gave the lady Carlotta Giudicelli much merit as her voice could come off on edge, Colombe found herself quite fond of this particular piece, no matter who sang it.
So intent in her work, and transfixed by the song there had been little warning when an oppressive weight fell atop the kneeling young woman. A shock of fear thrilled it's way through the girl's form, lacing her limbs with the cold spark of adrenaline as a strong, gripping arm wrapped around her waist.
"That's some pretty music you're making Bibi, how about we make a little music of our own?" came the rough and lascivious voice of a man who quickly busied himself hefting the layers of Colombe's skirts over her thighs with one hand, firmly restraining her with the other.
Her breath caught, heart racing as every fiber of her being reeled in terror from the crime being wrought upon her body. At the back of her mind she could hear a bell ringing with alarm begging her to fight back, as her legs ached with need to flee. There was the briefest of struggles as the girl tried to free herself amid laugher, hot breath on her ear accompanied by the rasp of a man's tongue, while calloused, eager hands explored, painfully, where they would. Colombe froze, her body betraying her as the first wretched sob escaped in a ragged heart torn breath, her body wracked with pain as he took from her all he wanted.
"Leave her alone!" Felicity called fiercely rushing onto the scene at the sound of harshly suppressed wailing, broom brandished like a polearm and ready to strike.
"We were just having a bit of fun, weren't we love?" the chief stagehand laughed, tugging a helpless Colombe closer to him, earning an agonized cry from the girl.
With a resounding twack Felicity struck Buquet hard across the face. Taking advantage of the situation Colombe scrambled up, rushing to her friend's side as the man stood, curses, and threats falling from his lips and onto Felicity.
"You deserved it and more you swine!" Felicity barked edging her weapon in the man's direction again.
"You'll get yours you bitch, you can be sure of that." the drunkard promised with dark menace as he redressed himself.
"Not if you get yours first." Felicity countered rising to the challenge, every bit the warrior queen she seemed to her trembling friend, to be embodying.
Spitting hotly upon the freshly washed marble that lay between them Felicity bundled Colombe away, and together they departed the scene leaving an irate and black eyed Joseph Buquet in their wake. An arm about her shoulders the redhead guided her tear blind friend away from the grand halls they had been sent to work among, and down a short service hall.
"Oh, my Colombe," she murmured in soft a maternal tone as she swept stray locks from the other girl's face, pinning them behind her ears where they refused to stay where they had been appointed to.
Unsure of herself in the given situation the broom wielding victor of the day was trying to find the perfect comforting words, for her bruised and accosted friend, who had already suffered so much, but found the task difficult if not impossible. So the pair sat, and much weeping filled the air with no words passed between them for a long while.
When Felicity did, at last speak her words were not as cherry picked and tactful as Sophie's might have been, or even as gentle and fragrant as Vivian's, they were as blunt and honest as the woman who spoke them.
"What happened to you was wrong, and I wish there was a way that I could fix it, and make your hurts go away, but there's not, and I can't." Felicity sighed her friend still wrapped in her embrace, ear pressed against the beat of her breaking heart.
"It might not seem like much solice, but you're hardly the first girl Buquet has handled, and doubtfully will be the last, but at least I gave him and thing or two to consider before he tries it again." she tried with misguided realism, and a lame sense of integrity. "Besides," she smiled precociously hoping to return to the lighthearted tone of moments ago to their day. "If you keep going on like this people are liable to think you were a virgin."
Colombe went rigid in the girl's arms and Felicity, mournfully recognized that she had gone too far. She regretted her words the moment she'd given them breath. It was as she attempted to apologize that Colombe violently wormed out of her embrace with a shrill wail, and taken flight down the hall.
As she raced away heartsick and forlorn Colombe knew that Felicity's remark hadn't been any grievous offense, or out of malicious intent. It was the way the four joked and played with one another frequently, Colombe included. Yet, the fresh feel of disownership over her own body welling within, a keen, fiery, pain between her legs, and memories of a father who loved her all too much, erupted within the girl like a pot set to boil. This was not a time for humor or good natured jabs, a part of her even hated Felicity for dismissing her ordeal with such frivolous banter.
Fleeing misty eyed through the tight passages and the winding narrow halls known only to those who worked at the opera house Colombe found herself turning abruptly when met with an impasse or the figure of a fellow servant who never seemed more imposing than in that moment. In hardly any time at all the hysterical young woman found herself lost, darting down avenues known only to the architects who built them, the dizzying labyrinthian maze only lending to her distress and fear.
At last, breathing hard, gulping back tears and the acidic backwash of her morning meal the girl found herself huddled in a darkened room she could not say she had any recollection of. Face buried in her hands Colombe sobbed hard agonizing tears, caught rocking back and forth in an entranced rhythm. It was, in a way, soothing to her that each time her back struck the wall, her head jarring forward, the air crushed from her lungs in tiny chuffs.
Wallowing in the pitch she silently begged to swallow her up and take her far from this place Colombe was drowning in a torrent of emotion. Riddled with scornful, bitter trains of thought directed at a friend who little deserved them, fearful of the brash man who'd molested her, and plagued by memories of the house she'd fled she fell deeper and deeper into despair. Screaming, and clawing at herself in the depths of her grief Colombe was struck by the grim reality of her own lowly state and what little, if any protections it afforded her.
Felicity had been right, honest to a fault. Colombe was in no manner the first, or even only girl assailed by the letcher. Yet there was a bold indifference as to if he folded a maid over for the taking, as opposed to if he were ever to try it with a ballerina. Most of the quiet workers, without whom the Palais Garnier could neither function nor be maintained, kept their heads down and disliked such attention, though they received it often from many in power over them. Contrasting their meek nature, the singers, and more so the dancers were wildly flirtatious and shamelessly buxom to every man they encountered. Playing lustful games of chance and secrets they rarely faced any ramifications for possessing the fine bodies, and heady bravado they did.
It was the protection offered them by their position in the opera house, the girl wouldn't wonder with some amount of spite. They were the reason the seats got filled every night, and if anything was amiss with them, damaged body or soul retribution would be swift and decisive. For the lowest caste in this preportedly free society however, little if anything would be done, and this sorely haunted the girl who had suffered at hands other than Buquet's during her residency.
Therein lie her friend's second truth. Felicity was right; Colombe was far from virginal, used by her father, if ever she had wished for death it was his doing, but she had been taken moreover time again than she cared to recall by those who felt entitled to her body. The young woman soon found herself cursing her sisters Vivian and Sophie as well, for finding joy and even pleasure in the company of that creature known as man. Though means by which they accomplished this eluded Colombe, for they too had known similar evils.
Rage flaring to life in her chest Colombe began to blame her compatriots for leaving her so vulnerable and alone, when they all too well knew the circumstances of their station, not one boasting a life unscathed. Though, easy as it seemed to find fault with them, it was not their crime that had hurt, and corrupted her body. Shaking the young woman struggled to remind herself of this. It was not their fault, though, perhaps it was her own. Surely she must have done something to make Buquet believe as though she had sought such attentions?
Guilt clung to her. Colombe knew, somehow, that she was to blame. It was the song, she concluded, that had enticed him so, the aria hummed upon her lips as she toiled. Yes, she thought with bitter acceptance, she had forgotten her place and thereby welcomed such attention and retribution. A mistake she would never make again.
After a time, when the frantic pelt of tears began to slow, becoming the shallow hiccuping whimpers of a lost child, the maid found that she could breathe once more. Rubbing her weary eyes with the heels of her palms Colombe knew she had been gone far too long, and with much work to be done in anticipation for the night's showing of Hannibal, her absence could not be tolerated. Reigning herself in and willing herself not to feel, condemning all pain, physical, and spiritual she rose, smoothing her skirts prepared to face the injustices of the world beyond her shadowed little haven when a voice found her in the dark.
"Were you hurt?" it, a man's voice, asked gently.
"No." Colombe lied heart fluttering arrhythmically, as she pressed her back to the wall in dreaded anticipation of what the stranger intended to do. "I was just-" she paused searching her surroundings for the speaker, but could find none. "Frightened." she managed, in a whisper hurriedly edging towards the door.
Dashing through the opened port Colombe took flight once more this time in an attempt to escape the phantasm that had spoken to her, a new fear finding hold in her heart. Winding up sloping halls, and down steep staircases the girl became more and more disoriented by the second, fearing she would die trapped between the walls of the opera house, until she heard it again, a voice no more than a gentle whisper speaking to her. It spoke only two words, words that rushed down her spine with the chill of a fresh spring melt.
"This way." it instructed.
Trepanation seeping into the bloodstream, blended with the dizzying rush of adrenaline Colombe, with no other recourse obeyed.
Cautiously, she picked her way over littered avenues, choking on dust that nearly blinded her half as much as her tears had earlier, the maid edged her way out of the mire and towards the warming rays of daylight. Pressing forward, and encouraged by the sudden, guiding touch of an unseen hand, and the lilt of a mournful speaker of few, commanding words, Colombe began to emerge from the bowels of the Opera House.
She had only just made contact with a large wooden door when it gave way before her, causing the young woman to fall through the open air it left behind and into the arms of none other than Vivian Tasse. The older girl gave a shrill cry in fright trying to fend off Colombe perceiving her as an attacker.
"There you are!" sobbed Sophie helping to steady her friends to their feet, each having taken a fright.
"We were worried." Felicity added balling the golden skinned girl into her arms and hugging her desperately. "I'm so sorry for what I said before, I didn't think! I never do, you know that! Please forgive me! I-I- You weren't terribly hurt were you?"
Eyes swollen and watery Colombe looked up into the earnest, caring faces she loved best as an urgent looking costume designer rounded the corner to see what was the matter.
"I'm fine," she smiled, a wavering, false expression as she lied for a second time. "And I forgive you, I was just," she stopped staring hard into the pitch from which they had drawn her. The light of day seemed to make scarcely an impact upon the night within that hall, even as the dreamlike familiarity of the question that had been posed to her dawned upon her mind. "I was just... frightened." she uttered at length.
Ushered away from the short dusty hall she had woven her way out of, and back to the world of color, and light, music, and silence, angels, and demons, her mind could not help but reel at the question that now consumed her mind; whose was the voice that spoke to her?