When you finally achieve your established goals, you are seldom afforded the opportunity to stand at the threshold of your dreams and breathe in the triumph. The rush and whirl of realized ambition leaves you too breathless to appreciate what you've earned.
The same could be said now of Gilles Andre and Richard Firmin as Lefevre whisked them through their tour of the Opera Populaire that fateful June of 1882.
This was their second visit to the opera house, they having signed the paperwork in the managerial offices the previous day. Now they would see the theater itself and its inhabitants.
Both were swaddled in their finest coats, top hats, and walking sticks. Andre with his fly-away gray hair and mustache gave the impression of an alert squirrel, with a bit more dignity and intelligence. Balding and upright, Firmin looked like a maitre-d', proud but eager to please.
Andre in particular would have enjoyed a moment to soak in the atmosphere. Of the two, he was the one most appreciative of art; Firmin was there for the luxuries that in his naivete he believed came with an artistic lifestyle. Andre was the one who suggested managing the opera house after the partners compiled enough savings to move on from the scrap metal business.
They'd been out of place there, considered pompous dandies who would rather don velvet smoking jackets and sip champagne than deal personally with the "rag and bone" business they'd found themselves in charge of.
Firmin and Andre met briefly in school, but it was only later when they were individually looking for loftier careers after claiming their inheritance that they chanced into each other's lives once more. They agreed to enter into business together. They bonded over their status as unfortunate members of the nouve riche, their inelegant fathers having built up worthy inheritances for their sons through music publishing (Andre) and furniture reproduction (Firmin).
The two men worked various odd jobs at their family businesses for some ten years before their fathers passed. They picked up their inheritance and seized the most available and accessible business venture to go into together: the scrap metal trade. From there, they worked and strove toward nothing solid, only craving the sort of careers their refined temperaments yearned for.
The Paris Opera House it was, as luck would have it. News of Lefevre's retirement reached them just after they sold their factory.
Lefevre greeted them this morning more relaxed and contented than he had felt in years. He would be in Switzerland soon. This would all be over.
He was friendly but brisk with the gentlemen, desiring to get the tour out of the way as quickly as possible. Nothing is more agonizing when undergoing an ordeal than the moments just before it is finally over.
After exchanging their greetings and charging happily down the corridor, the men were greeted by an usher who opened the door to the theater. All at once an explosion of music and bright spectacle assaulted their eyes and ears.
The new managers at last let themselves shiver and rejoice inwardly. They had indeed arrived.
Ubaldo Piangi stood there in all his resplendent glory amongst the extras and Her – La Carlotta.
Andre had to bite his lips to hold back the almost girlish giggle of excitement. Firmin stood with mouth agape as he took in the scenery.
"This way, gentleman," Lefevre said breezily, as if leading them through an average office setting. They made their way down the rows of seats to the stage.
A bookish-looking man with a peeved expression had interrupted the proceedings, directing Piangi.
"Rome...Rome..." the great tenor repeated to himself, lost in concentration. Piangi was a large, unassuming dumpling of a man when not in character. Born Paolo Barbieri to a locksmith father and a saloon singer mother of mixed Sicilian and Moroccan blood, the young Italian followed in his mother's footsteps to take the stage. In the process, he shed his name which translated to "small barber-surgeon" and replaced it with "Ubaldo Piangi" – "bold tears."
An equal mixture of pomposity, true talent, opulence, and a lingering earnest kindness, Piangi felt no shame he still struggled with French. "Is difficult for me," he explained to Reyer lightly, continuing to practice the proper pronunciation of "Rome".
It made a rather comical sight: his hugeness and his garish costume—war helmet, emerald green cape, bronze shield, and rainbow smear of makeup – as he paced in a circle, forehead creased, repeating "Rome".
Reyer interrupted him. "Once again, then, if you please, Signor: 'Sad to return...'"
At this moment Lefevre and the new managers finally arrived at the stage. "This way, gentlemen, this way," Lefevre said. "Rehearsals, as you see, are under way for a new gala production of Chalumeau's Hannibal."
Once more, giddiness seized Andre. His appreciation of grand opera was as shallow as Erik's was deep. Hannibal was one of his old favorites.
Firmin, meanwhile, admired the swirling emerald and gold patterns in the costumes of Piangi and the extras crowding the stage. He was a little mystified by the humungous backdrop, consisting of two golden statues with cow heads standing against the exotic Carthage locale.
He only had time to dismiss this as "artistic business" when Lefevre attempted to make their introductions to the bedlam onstage. "Ladies and gentlemen, some of you may already perhaps have met M. Andre and M. Firmin" –
They were just bowing when Reyer testily cut in. "I'm sorry, M. Lefevre, we are rehearsing. If you wouldn't mind waiting a moment?" So secure now was Reyer in his position that over the years, the awe and reverential attitude he'd before given his employer faded with the sense of his own importance. He'd already turned back to Piangi, continuing to instruct him.
Lefevre explained, "M. Reyer, our chief repetieur. Rather a tyrant, I'm afraid."
The managers had little time to feel affronted as they were swept up again in the rehearsal, which started where Piangi left off.
They found themselves suddenly swarmed by dancers. The slavegirls were dancing in tribute to the great warrior, keeping time by the whip the tall stern slavemaster struck at their feet. As the young ladies dove in and out between the men, trying to dodge them, the managers found it rather difficult to concentrate on what Lefevre was saying.
He was motioning to Piangi. "Signor Piangi, our principal tenor. He does play so well opposite La Carlotta." Almost by rote, Lefevre said this with a hint of innuendo in his voice. Part of the draw of the two singers was their well-known love affair, which Lefevre always tried—subtly, in his mind—to capitalize on.
Madame Giry banged her cane irritated. "Gentlemen, please! If you would kindly move to one side?"
"My apologies, Madame Giry," Lefevre said, steering his companions slightly more to the right. He nodded toward the severe-looking lady. "Madame Giry, our ballet mistress." He leaned in to Firmin, as the theater-infatuated Andre was at the moment too distracted watching the dancers. "I don't mind confessing, M. Firmin, I shan't be sorry to be rid of the whole blessed business." Instead of finding an ally in each other, over the years Lefevre and Giry often clashed. Their methods of coping with Erik differed too much – Lefevre, the one straining desperately against his leash, and Giry, the wiser one who knew it best to placate him. Although they respected one another, there was little love lost.
Firmin frowned. "I keep asking you, monsieur, why exactly are you retiring?"
Whenever this question was asked, Lefevre paled a little, though he kept his expression even. He pointed to where Andre's gaze was directed. "We take a particular pride here in the excellence of our ballets."
Among the dancers, a dazzling girl with fire-kissed blonde hair caught their attention. She danced with authority, with spark. She possessed a playful yet dangerous sensuality in her expression. So immersed in her dance was she that she spun recklessly close to the men watching, her streaming red, green, and gold striped skirt just brushing them.
Andre shivered. "Who's that girl, Lefevre?"
"Her? Meg Giry, Madame Giry's daughter. The lead dancer of our corps de ballet. Promising dancer, M. Andre, most promising. Believe me, Madame Giry is not the doting type of parent who would advance her career regardless of whether or not she has talent. Miss Giry has definitely earned her place here."
As she held their attention even in the middle of La Sorelli and the Slavemaster's passionate contortions, the new managers could not help but agree with Lefevre's assessment.
The rhythm of the dance was thrown off almost entirely when a tall, slim young woman suddenly leaped confusedly into the ballet. Compared to the dainty and smooth movements of the dancers around her, this girl's clumsy dancing made her look like a duck flying blindly into a herd of swans, even if the girl herself was lovely and graceful in her looks.
Giry thumped her cane again. "You! Christine Daae! Concentrate, girl!"
Panting, Christine at last fell in step with her partner, Meg. "Christine, what's the matter," Meg whispered anxiously through her teeth.
Meg was secretly flummoxed as anyone that Christine of all the understudies was selected to fill in for Sonya today as the second lead slavegirl (as Sonya had come down quite suddenly with a nasty headache and upset stomach). However, Christine had confided in Meg that her tutor proclaimed Hannibal was to be the setting of her true debut. Therefore, Meg was sure this placement was a step in the right direction. It was a chance to show the managers how professional Christine could be in a prominent role, even if it was in the ballet, not the chorus.
Yet here she was, fifteen minutes late, face white as a sheet, and eyes wide as dinner plates. And in front of the new managers, too!
Meg bit her bottom lip in worry before pulling the sensual mask on once again, as if by magic.
Meanwhile, these very managers observed Christine. "Daae? Curious name," Firmin noted.
"Swedish," Lefevre replied by way of explanation.
"Any relation to the violinist?" Andre put in quickly, eager to show off his theatrical knowledge.
"His daughter, I believe." Lefevre shook his head carelessly. "Always has her head in the clouds, I'm afraid. Although she is unique in that she dances and sings. She also understudies in the chorus. From what I understand, her singing is a bit better than her dancing, thankfully. Ah! Speaking of which, the chorus is starting again. You might want to stand back, gentlemen."
They did, gasping and chuckling. From seemingly nowhere a large, mechanical elephant decked in a costume just as ornate as the opera's stars - helmet on its head and exotic carpets beneath a large golden saddle – rolled center stage.
As the chorus rang out triumphantly, Piangi was lifted with great struggle atop the monstrosity. The three men watching held their breath as the rotund tenor wobbled uncertainly for a bit, before finding his balance.
Their ears practically bled as the chorus finished.
The trumpeting elephants sound –
Hear Romans now, and tremble!
Hark to their step on the ground –
hear the drums!
Hannibal comes!
Meg and Christine knelt gracefully at the feet of the elephant, raising their arms, heads back.
A moment of stillness and quiet passed. They were leaving room for wild applause. The only clapping came from Lefevre.
As he spoke, Piangi made his way off the elephant. The beast was turned around, revealing two stagehands operating from within, merrily swinging bottles back and forth. They somehow managed to steer the pachyderm offstage.
"Ladies and gentlemen – Madame Giry, thank you"- Giry grimaced at the interruption to her remonstrance with the tardy Christine. "May I have your attention, please? As you know, for some weeks there have been rumors of my imminent retirement. I can tell you that these were all true" – with practiced humility, he broke off to close his eyes and smile in acknowledgment at the perfunctory murmurings of regret from some of the more conscientious cast members. "It is my pleasure to introduce to you the two gentlemen who now own the Opera Populaire, M. Richard Firmin and M. Gilles Andre."
The same conscientious cast members graced them with a smattering of applause as Firmin and Andre quickly put on their own practiced smiles, bowing here and there to no one in particular.
A soft cough and a rush of presence overtook them.
Lefevre turned to the source and cleared his throat. "Gentlemen, Signora Carlotta Guidicelli, our leading soprano for five seasons now."
Andre beamed foolishly and Firmin, sensing instinctively a powerful being, bowed once more.
Sitting on a chair in the corner, surrounded by a maid, a costumer, and some small breed of dog that looked a cross between a lamb and a sentient pillow, was Carlotta. She was just as bright, glittering, and ostentatious as anyone could have imagined or wanted her. She encapsulated the majority of the drama and the histrionics of the Opera Populaire; in just five years she'd caused more mayhem than Meg remembered anyone else had in her childhood.
La Carlotta turned artifice into an artform. Born to a courtesan in Florence without ever knowing her father, Cara grew up quickly and surrounded by love in spite of her fatherless state. Her glorious mother, who delicately adopted the title of "widow", with her rouged cheeks, towering height, and musical laugh assured the young girl she was meant for something very fine one day, surely.
As Carlotta grew, the many rich and so very kind gentlemen who came to pay compliments to her mother soon turned the compliments to her. When she was eleven she sat on one of their knees, blushing uncomfortably as he made her twirl his curled black mustache. In a light, sweet voice that contrasted with the lust burning in his eyes as he gazed at the daughter, he mentioned to Carlotta's mother that he happened to be well-acquainted with a few wonderful singing instructors who could make something of Carlotta's naturally clear and resounding voice.
Her mother watched the lascivious glances the man gave her young daughter, the way he stroked her hair. She silently thought that yes, it might be best to expose Cara to a different sort of life, a different sort of future.
Before her first lesson, Carlotta's brilliant and glimmering mother, weighted down by furs and French perfume, bent down to pinch her cheeks till they were pink. She said, "My child, it is better to be charming than to be good. You'll see one day. Get their attention, and keep it." She wanted better for her child, but she still knew a woman in the world had to use her...natural attributes to get by, even in a so-called respectable trade.
Thus were the unfortunately narrow but - from her experience - accurate views Carlotta's mother held, gathered from her own personal highs and lows.
Dipping her eyelids and swaying back and forth to the music, Carlotta found as years went by that it was indeed better to be charming than good with her music instructors. These charmed instructors secured her concerts at rich peoples' drawing-rooms. And charming these rich husbands and fathers secured her extravagant suites in the center of town.
And all it took was one party for her to happen to charm the owner of the Florence Opera House.
She made her debut as an understudy at age seventeen. By eighteen, she was second lead soprano. By twenty, she was the prima donna. For it was just as important to be clever as it was to be charming – and swiping a newly-wedded patron's glove and placing it in the diva's dressing room just before a reporter from a popular newspaper came to interview her secured that diva's dismissal.
Carlotta did not stop to think of any moral repercussions. She was not heartless. She'd simply grown up listening to her mother and her mother's beautiful doting friends reminisce shudderingly of their previous lives in squalor and how anything – anything – was better than returning to the dirt, the hunger, the dying younger siblings. A man can escape through the military, through business. A woman must trust to charm. Always charm and ambition and cleverness.
Carlotta's voice was a good instrument, clear and powerful, but it lacked grace. She never missed it.
However, that's not to say she did not work hard for her career. She was a close observer and learned quickly which musical notes and keys best fit her voice, and how to situate herself onstage so that she could be always visible even when the narrative focus was not on her. Her presence was astounding.
When Ubaldo Piangi joined the Florence Opera House, he was already famous, having left Italy after his initial spurt of acclaim to give touring performances in Vienna and Zurich. He returned to his home country twenty pounds heavier and with a wealthy stick of a wife he barely spoke to. He was ten years Carlotta's senior and already balding a little. All the pretty chorines fawned lovingly over him.
All except for his leading lady. She was aloof and never spoke to him outside of performances. She would turn away and sigh, staring up at the ceiling as though wishing she were elsewhere.
He thought her terribly haughty. He disliked her icy manners, the way she barked commands at the staff.
He would like just once to look into her eyes when they weren't singing together.
One evening after rehearsal, he fell asleep in his dressing room, and woke long after most of the company had gone away. As he walked past the dressing rooms, he paused as he heard what he thought was a little girl crying.
He frowned. The sound was coming from La Carlotta's dressing room.
The door was open a crack.
He couldn't help but nudge it open a bit further.
She was at her vanity, convulsing with sobs. A telegram was crumpled in her hands.
"La Carlotta...?" He asked hesitantly.
She gazed up at him.
La Carlotta not only turned art to artifice, she turned beauty to artifice as well. While she'd inherited her mother's tall curvacious form, her face was a little more coarse and common, though still roughly attractive. To make it more genteel, Carlotta rouged it as her mother taught her, reddened her lips, and lined her eyes with dark blue to make them more mysterious. She touched up her dirty blonde hair with burgundy highlights.
As she gazed now at Piangi, however, the mascara trailed down her powdered cheeks, some of her bright vermilion curls stuck to her wet face.
She would have looked ridiculous were it not for the childlike sorrow pouring out of her eyes. She helplessly held up the telegram to Ubaldo. "Mama!" She said plaintively.
Piangi took up the telegram from her aunt and read, YOUR POOR MOTHER PASSED THIS EVENING LOVE AND KISSES DEAR VALENTINA WOULD HAVE WISHED YOU TO STAY STRONG.
He looked back down to Carlotta. "Mama," she repeated.
Piangi fell upon her, taking her in his arms as he stroked her hair, kissing her all over her face. "Little girl, little girl...Cara, Cara!" She sobbed in his arms for hours.
They were inseparable from then on.
Risking scandal and career ruin, Piangi separated from his wife and left with his Cara to Paris – where they and their scandal were welcomed with open, eagerly curious arms.
Carlotta's flair for the melodramatic and her unapologetic command of the stage was a foreign wonder to the more delicate aesthetic of the French. She was immensely popular.
She was detested by Erik.
To him, La Carlotta represented everything wrong with modern opera. Her voice, though powerful and technically impressive, was strident instead of passionate, mawkish instead of sincere, and her acting could hardly be called acting – an obvious scream when she meant to convey anger, a laughably deliberate vibrato when she meant to convey heartbreak. Many critics noticed this too, but were silenced often by editors who remembered the times La Carlotta would flash her dazzling smile at them at dinner parties, murmuring whispered promises that, though they never seemed to come to fruition, remained in their memory.
What neither Erik nor her critics understood was that the public did not flock to hear Carlotta's voice. What they came for was to see her—to see her hold her scandalous head high, to flourish her movements wildly, to entertain them not with her art but with her personality.
Any real talent she possessed may now have faded, her once charming excessives onstage now more mannered and monotonous, but the power of her personality—that she cultivated into a legend—was the sort to bring audiences to her naturally. It was ironically the sort of temperament that goes on indefinitely, long after the light in real genius burns out.
Carlotta smiled now as a Madonna does to her devotees as Andre rushed forward, taking her hand almost slavishly. "Of course, of course! I have experienced all your greatest roles, Signora."
"And Signor Ubaldo Piangi," Lefevre said, gesturing to the man.
Firmin acknowledged him, but Andre continued addressing Carlotta. This offended Piangi not at all – who wouldn't fawn all over his Cara? Instead of a look of offense, a gleam of fond pride entered his eyes as Andre solicited a performance of "Think of Me" from her. "I wonder, Signora, if, as a personal favor, you would oblige us with a private rendition?" He turned annoyed to the director he was already not terribly fond of and questioned briskly, "Unless, of course, M. Reyer objects?"
Carlotta laughed in a practiced flirtatious way. "My manager commands...Monsieur?"
Slipping easily into the role he'd adapted himself to since Carlotta's arrival, Reyer said with surface reverence, "My diva commands. Will two bars be sufficient introduction?"
"Two bars will be sufficient," Firmin hurried to contribute, anxious those present should not think him less knowledgeable in the arts than Andre.
Reyer turned to Carlotta. "Signora?"
Carlotta inclined her head. "Maestro."
"Think of Me", though lovely, was a song written with the express purpose to sell sheet music, not to fit the plot or overall tone of the opera it came from. Compared to the more grandiose music in Hannibal, "Think of Me" was uncharacteristically gentle, contemporary.
Not as Carlotta sang it, however. Of her many gifts, subtlety was not in her range. Everything she did she must do with her whole personality, with her whole repertoire of soaring, towering notes.
She stood and swanned her arms out elegantly. She sang the somewhat wistful and softly romantic lines as though she were atop her steed galloping toward Valhalla.
"Think of me,
think of me fondly,
when we've said goodbye!
Remember me once in a while –
Please promise me you'll try!
When you find that once again you long
to take your heart"-
Meg and a few keen-eyed girls shrieked the moment the backdrop started to give, allowing Carlotta enough time to just get out of the way before it plummeted in a heap to the stage.
Pandemonium struck all around Andre and Firmin. Varied shouts of "the Phantom is at it again", "the Ghost is with us," "he's here," rose up from singer, dancer, and stagehand alike.
Piangi furiously took control, rushing to Carlotta, who was shaking and gasping. "You idiots," Piangi cried to no one in particular, taking her in his arms. "Cara! Cara! Are you hurt," he asked in Italian.
Lefevre called wrathfully for Buquet. "Get that man down here!" He turned agitated to Firmin and Andre. "Chief of the flies. Old drunkard. He's responsible for this."
A few stagehands hurriedly raised the backdrop again, revealing Buquet as he stood ominously in the rafters. He held a length of rope, eerily reminiscent of a noose.
Meg shivered, remembering her mother's words. Punjab lasso.
Joseph Buquet was a tall, stocky man, his white hair and stubble blending into his ghastly pale face. The only color was in his nose, which reddened with each swig of drink he took. He swayed now on his feet. He was practically a laughing-stock, but the dead look in his eyes and the universal knowledge of what he'd once seen still lent him a portentous air.
Everyone quieted as he rasped, "Don't look at me, messieurs. As God's my witness, I was not at my post. There's no one there, monsieur. You see? Unless, of course..." he stuck his head suddenly into the noose, his face wild with drunken glee. "It's the ghost!"
As he guffawed down at the frightened ballet girls, Meg looked with hard eyes into the rafters. She said in an insistent voice, "Here's there: the Phantom of the Opera..." Christine tugged at her arm curiously, noting that this seemed almost a mantra of Meg's. The phrase often passed her lips.
"Good heavens! Will you show a little courtesy?" Andre snapped at Meg. His enchantment with her and her dancing fled with these recent events, and the fact Meg now shed the flirtatious act of her character and revealed the outspoken and childlike aspect of her true personality.
"Mademoiselle, please," Firmin echoed. Christine at last succeeded in pulling Meg beside her where she sat on the floor.
Andre was all ingratiating smiles as he turned to Carlotta, who was being fanned by Piangi and petted by her maids as she sat collapsed in her chair. "These things do happen," Andre said in his most honeyed tones.
A moment of silence followed, Andre frozen by her deadly glare.
" 'These things do happen?'" She repeated in a cold, quiet voice, her accent strong.
At Andre's dumb look, she snapped, rising to her feet. "Si! These things do happen! All the time! I cannot work in these...in these...horrid conditions!" She addressed her paramour. "Ubaldo! Andiamo!"
Seemingly from nowhere Piangi was at her side with furs, bag, and dog. As he helped her into her stole, she spoke furiously to Firmin, Andre, Lefevre, and the whole theater. "Until you stop these things happening, this thing does not happen!" Holding back her indignant tears behind an enraged mask, she stormed past the two new managers, whipping them with the tale of her mink.
Piangi followed behind her with his hat and coat in hand, sniffing "amateurs" at them as he passed.
Firmin and Andre looked desperately toward Lefevre.
They were taken aback by the gentle smile on his face.
Throughout the hubbub a strange feeling of serenity had fallen over the old man.
He...he didn't have to worry about this.
He...
He was done.
Casually, as if greeting two acquaintances on a sunny day in the park, Lefevre said, "I don't think there's much more to assist you with, gentlemen. Good luck. If you need me, I shall be in Frankfurt."
He did not take a moment to breathe in, for the last time, one more whiff of the life he'd devoted himself to for twenty years. He made no lingering eye contact with Giry, Reyer, or anyone else.
Instead he turned swiftly and with a quickness unexpected from a man his age, he left.
Contrary to his parting words, he never left a forwarding address with which to reach him.
He was gone.
Firmin and Andre stood stranded on the island of the stage, surrounded on all sides by hungry sharks.
The sticky sensation of embarrassment caught in their unprepared throats.
"La Carlotta will be back," Andre weakly offered.
"You think so, messieurs?" All jumped. Even her daughter had forgotten Madame Giry's presence throughout the chaos. She stood in her stiff black gown with her dark hair coiled in a braid around her head, the white envelope with its blood-red seal in her hand the only splash of color about her. "I have a message, sir, from the Opera Ghost."
The ballet girls all squealed, each in their turn tugging at Meg's skirt, tapping her shoulder, looking for reassurance. Meg squeezed their hands, though never letting go of Christine's.
"God in Heaven, you're all obsessed!" Firmin scolded. He and Andre had the evening before laughed together about the well-known Opera Ghost figure, meaning to consult with Lefevre if he'd like them to keep up the ruse after he left. Now it appeared the whole company genuinely believed in the idiotic rumor, or else this was an immense prank on the new owners.
But there was no humor in the stony face of Madame Giry as she continued. "He merely welcomes you to his opera house and commands you to continue to leave Box Five empty for his use and reminds you that his salary is due."
"His salary?" Firmin hoped he misheard.
"M. Lefevre paid him twenty thousand francs a month." At the aghast expression of the men before her, she added, "Perhaps you can afford more, with the Vicomte de Chagny as your patron."
"Madame, I had hoped to have made that announcement myself," Andre said curtly.
It was too late. The damage was done. The ballet and chorus girls all giggled excitedly amongst themselves. Although the vicomte had only recently come back to Paris, stories abound about how handsome the young man was.
Meg felt Christine grip her with the tightness of someone holding on for dear life. The blood appeared drained from her face. She had not heard of his return. Now the bottom had come out of everything, and joy and terror warred in her soul. His name pounded in her temples, again and again. Maybe...maybe it wasn't him, maybe it was a cousin, an old man or a pimply boy, maybe...
"Will the vicomte be at the performance tonight, monsieur?" Giry asked. Meg wondered why her mother was so curious.
"In our box," Firmin answered.
Andre returned to the problem at hand. "Madame, who is the understudy for this role?"
"There is no understudy, monsieur! The production is new!" Reyer cried out. Of everyone present, he was the most distraught. Everything that happened onstage reflected on him, and he'd lost his two leads. "Piangi has an understudy, but La Carlotta insists in her contract on only having one for works in the repertoire. Those older productions get little press. She fears an understudy assigned to her in a newer production would be more eager to edge her out!" He pulled at his hair, face red. "What are we to do?"
Meg's impulsiveness, courage, and most of all her deep love for her friend led her next actions. She didn't even hesitate. "Christine Daae could sing it, sir!" She was on her feet. Christine stared at her with dead-eyed horror from where she shrank into herself on the stage floor.
Then she stared at the managers.
They and the entire company stared incredulously back.
"The chorus girl?" Firmin asked aghast.
"She's been taking lessons from a great teacher," Meg said with eager pride, as if the accomplishment were her own.
"From whom?"
This was addressed directly to Christine. She opened her mouth once or twice like a dying fish before answering in a quiet shaking voice. "I...don't know, sir."
A universal sigh of aggravation and exasperation across the stage. "Oh, not you as well!"
Meg commiserated with her, whispering, "Christine! For heaven's sake, certainly now that you have this chance, you can tell everyone who your teacher is!"
Christine shook her head helplessly. "But Meg, I honestly can't! You don't understand! I"-
"Let her sing for you, monsieur." Madame Giry's voice cut through the tumult. With nary a change in her expression she nodded toward the girl. "She has been well taught."
This was a surprise to Meg and Christine. Madame Giry never went to any of Christine's singing lessons, or understudy rehearsals for the chorus. When had she heard Christine sing?
However, Firmin and Andre were not insusceptible to the rigid air Giry had of a schoolmistress that demanded obedience.
Plus, what else was there to do? They were grasping at straws – or, at least, a pretty chorus girl.
With a weary gesture of defeat, Firmin signaled to Reyer.
Huffing, the director marched over to Christine. Meg helped her to her feet, noticing the way Christine's legs were shaking.
Reyer shoved the score in her face. "From the beginning of the aria then, mademoiselle." Almost immediately he snapped the book shut. He anticipated disaster.
So did everyone else. Half the stage consisted of practical worriers who feared the cancellation of the opera, which might eventually lead to the end of their careers. The more flippant half eagerly awaited what they felt sure would prove an amusing display of incompetence.
Meanwhile, Meg and Christine clutched each other's hands.
"You can do this," Meg said. Her face was like a sunrise: faith in Christine in her eyes and a wide smile encouraging her.
Christine felt temporarily warmed by Meg's loyalty, but nonetheless slunk almost guiltily center stage. Meg rushed to the props that Carlotta in her angered haste had hurled across the stage during her exit. Meg picked up the long silk scarf Elissa occupies her hands with during the aria.
With an almost deferential grace she presented her friend with it now.
One last look at each other, then Christine nodded slowly to the pianist.
Unconsciously taking the lead from Christine's timid attitude, the pianist played the opening bars in a gentler, softer key.
Even then, when Christine finally sang, the words were hardly audible over the music.
"Thinkofme
Thinkofmefondly
When...we've said...goodbye.
R-remember me..once in a w-while
Please promise me...you'lltry."
Filled with despair and terror, Christine turned like a child instinctively to Meg, who likewise instinctively reached out to comfort and encourage her. Both drew back as Madame Giry once more brought down her cane with a loud bang.
"Andre, this is doing nothing for my nerves," Firmin groaned out the side of his mouth.
Yet a meditative look came over Andre's face. "Don't fret, Firmin." The voice was weak, but...there was a tone there...
Meg stared hard at her friend, willing that some of her own faith in her should transfer to the shaking girl with the scarf.
Her hopes raised when she saw Christine close her eyes. She recognized that look. Christine was about to lose herself in the song. Meg smiled.
All snickering and doubtful murmurs faded as suddenly glory itself soared out of the young woman's throat.
"When you find, that once again you long
to take your heart back and be free,
if you ever find a moment,
spare a thought for me!"
Great gasps of disbelief abound as Christine continued, turning the song into the most poignant expression of beauty and longing they'd ever heard.
Firmin and Andre saw daybreak.
When she finished to delighted and amazed applause, she collapsed into Meg's arms, the friends embracing, crying, and laughing.
Madame Giry stood apart from the rest, watching with a mix of pride in Christine and moody foreboding.
She knew now that Erik did indeed take an active interest in the girl.
For everything had unfolded as Erik said it would in the other note she received, two weeks ago.
The first part of the letter told her not to fret over the sudden illness of Mlle. Sonya when the new managers arrived – she would recover quickly.
But in the meantime, Miss Christine Daae was to fill in for her during rehearsal.
Miss Christine Daae was also to take Carlotta's place opening night. Should there be any trouble with the management, Giry was to stand firm and promote her.
Whether Erik intuited that Meg's friendly nature would make her the first to nominate Christine for the role or not, Giry didn't know. She supposed it did not matter now.
After hearing Christine sing the aria, Madame Giry no longer doubted Erik's motives, either.
And she feared, she feared desperately for the girl.
Luckily she'd thought of the vicomte.
She remembered coming home late one evening about a year and a half ago, opening the door of her flat so quietly that the two girls in Meg's room did not hear her enter.
But she heard their conversation.
She heard the dreamy, far-off voice of Christine Daae telling Giry's daughter all about a long-lost young love, a dashing vicomte. Raoul de Chagny.
Two months ago Madame Giry heard that name again. In society it was apparently well known that the young viscount had returned from the Navy. Always eager to flaunt her upper-class connections, La Sorelli regaled a fellow dancer with all the details of an affair she once carried on with his late brother and what she had seen of Raoul then. "This boy Raoul, you know, he was not like Philippe or any of the rest from what I remember. He was a very eager, sincere fellow. Handsome too, so handsome! He thought I was ridiculous, the brat, but I can't hold it against such a good-looking specimen. He was quite fond of the arts, as I recall."
After Giry received the Phantom's note, she sat down at her desk and wrote one of her own. She walked to the post office, leaving instructions that she wanted all her mail forwarded there for the time being.
In just two days she received a reply directly from the vicomte. He would be delighted to serve as patron of the Opera House.
Madame Giry smiled to herself now, watching Meg prepare Christine for tonight's gala performance.
For the first time there was a development at the opera house Erik had been unaware of, and Giry hoped it would be Christine's salvation.
A/N: So as you can probably tell, I borrowed the majority of the dialogue straight from the OLC libretto (including its version of the "Think of Me" lyrics). I don't think I'll have to do this again, it's just that the Hannibal rehearsal is the most dialogue-heavy scene with much-needed exposition.