Meg did her best to bite back giggles, but this was a very trying situation for one attempting to look dignified in front of her new employers.
After all, how often do trained professional spies seriously examine the wardrobe of a young ballerina?
Yet here were Officers Marcus and Perrin rifling through her dresses that she'd brought into the kitchen from the bedroom, studying them as though they were coded messages from the front.
She was very glad they timed their visit for when her mother was preoccupied with the managers. Madame Giry would not approve of their current activities.
They arrived shortly after Firmin and Andre's announcement at their behest: that a large party was to be thrown in honor of Pierre Robard's return to the theater, taking place in the opera's foyer Friday evening.
The party would also introduce the ballet's new leading lady, Mademoiselle Meg Giry, though her face was already known to most opera goers.
This party was an open invitation to Paris's elite – including the Count, who had so generously supported the opera by buying Box Five for most recent performances.
Once Meg saw Marcus and Perrin at the door after the announcement, she knew for a certainty that she and she alone was the reason for this party:
Her official presentation to the Count.
And thus, the scrutiny of her wardrobe.
Meg felt her amusement give way to impatience as the minutes ticked by and still the officers poured over her skirts. Apparently Stephen Marcus's various adventures with ladies had made him somewhat of a casual connoisseur of female fashion, and David Perrin…well, he was often pressed into selecting dresses for his busy married sisters.
Meg sighed and tapped her foot, straining to look polite and interested.
She had too much else on her mind. Rehearsals started Monday, she had as yet to officially meet Robard, and Erik, when could she make time to rehearse with Erik again…? To be sure, her practices with him were surely unlike those he had with Christine. Unlike singing, Erik's knowledge of ballet was lacking compared to Meg's, and so he was not so much a tutor to her as a fresh pair of eyes for her acting.
They would clearly never share the master/pupil dynamic he and Christine had, and that was fine with Meg. She shuddered at the thought of becoming just another young girl for him to mold. Christine forced herself to break free from that role, and Meg was just relieved she'd apparently never have to.
Yet deep down she knew no one would be able to play Robard's score like Erik did, or stare at her with such honest appraising intensity. That she would miss come Monday's rehearsals.
But she could overcome that.
She was shaken from her musings by Marcus's sharp derisive laugh.
He held up Meg's favorite dress: a pink cotton gown with lace trimming, and just the most beautiful cream-colored silk ribbon bow in back –
"Mademoiselle, is this childish monstrosity the most elegant piece of apparel you own?" He looked at it as though he were holding a drowned rat by its tail.
Perrin coughed and looked away as Marcus laughed again.
Meg was not a vain girl, but his behavior was just too much! Her cheeks burned pinker than the dress as she answered, "What do you mean, 'childish monstrosity'? It's beautiful!" She spread out the skirt, gazing lovingly at the minute pattern of red tea roses embroidered on the material.
Another snort from Marcus as he plopped the dress down unceremoniously on the kitchen table. He gestured to it and then to the heap of discarded dresses next to it. "This, a light blue cotton gown that puritans in America would probably deem too prudish, a white muslin thing that looks dated a good ten or fifteen years, a yellow dress that a child's doll would wear, a black funeral dress, a few more pink disasters, and then a cloud of ballet tutus. You really do not own any other dresses?"
Meg refused to be cowed by his tone. "What of it?" She straightened her posture, nose slightly up. "I am a dancer, you know, not a society dame."
"And yet," Marcus said, leaning on the table, arms crossed, "That is exactly the image you need to project Friday night."
Perrin lent his quiet and uncomfortable voice in assent. "I am afraid he is correct, mademoiselle. Granted, I know how awkward this whole situation is for you…."
Meg appreciated Perrin's efforts, but her temper was up now and she couldn't help feeling that as much as Marcus was mocking her, Perrin was condescending to her.
Clearing her throat, she said affecting haughtiness, "Thank you, messieurs, but that will do. I see I shall have to get a new dress."
"Don't worry, the department will foot the bill," Marcus said casually, seemingly ignoring her frosty manners. "But we'll make the selection, mademoiselle." He turned to Perrin, speaking now solely to him. "I think something dark, form-fitting. Low neckline. Sequins? Probably sequins."
"Good heavens!" Meg broke in, offended he should talk over her so. "Men, look at me. Frankly, now. Does it really look like I'd be convincing in a risqué dark evening gown? Playing the elegant flirt? Hm?"
The men looked at her youthful, energetic face, her small sprightly form.
They did see her point. "Then what do you suggest, mademoiselle?" Marcus challenged her.
"Well" –
"Nothing pink."
"…Oh. Well…how about something white, then? I do think I look better in white. Something sort of…swan-like. Delicate!"
The men considered. "That does sound nice," Perrin said encouragingly.
"The only problem I can see is that 'swan-like' and 'delicate' don't exactly inspire pangs of desire, mademoiselle."
He expected her to blush at his words, but once again, this little ballet girl surprised him by taking his words and thinking them over. "Mmmmm…I wouldn't be so sure, monsieur. I've lived here all my life, you know. I've watched men pursue chorus singers, dancers. They enjoy the girls who blatantly seduce them, but I've never seen a man go so crazy as when a girl acts too virtuous for him and gives him the 'cold shoulder'. They seem to see that as…as…a sort of challenge." Her nose wrinkled with distaste.
Still, she had impressed them.
"Say, Stephen! That's not bad!"
Marcus nodded. "Yes. The innocent act. That will make her stand out." He frowned. "But there is a line, mademoiselle, between alluring innocence and cold puritanism. Are you sure you could pull it off?"
Meg stared at him for a moment. Then she cast her eyes demurely to the floor. Her hips swayed just slightly, as if she were doing so unconsciously, and she sighed softly. "I…I don't know, monsieur," she said, her voice quiet, breathy, but somehow rich with feeling.
A lovely blush suddenly suffused her skin. She moved like water toward Marcus. She tentatively yet gracefully took his hand. Her plump lower lip trembled as her large green-gray eyes, sparkling with what looked almost like tears, swam sweetly and shyly up to his. Her lids were halfway closed, giving her a sleepy, soft look.
"What do you think?" She breathed ever so gently. She looked as if her very life depended on his words, yet she was too afraid to let him see just how much his words meant. She was so helpless, so delicate, so lovely. So heart-tuggingly reticent.
Marcus trembled, for the first time in his life stunned to silence.
Then she dropped his hand and giggled, the lively elf-girl again. She seemed somewhat embarrassed yet pleased by her performance. "I think I'll do just fine!" Her nose was up again. "I am an actress after all."
Perrin, enjoying the rare sight of his friend's discomposure, joined Meg in her laughter. "Yes, I believe she'll do just fine, Stephen!"
Marcus felt dazed and…strangely like he'd lost something when she let go of his hand.
What…talent!
In the mirthful surprise over her little performance, none of the three gave much thought that she would have to perform that way again for the Count. None of them wondered how a man like him would react to such a beguiling display of vulnerability.
The figure watching behind the Giry mirror did, however. And his fury at their apparent disregard was matched only by the violent ache in his temples recollecting Meg taking Stephen Marcus's hand.
Despite Marcus's efforts, in the end both Meg and Mother Giry were present when the final gown was selected at Dame de Grace, one of the more exclusive boutiques in Paris.
After an hour rifling through various outfits – Madame Giry nixing one for showing too much skin, Marcus nixing another for showing not enough – Meg sped away from them with a loud gasp to a dress mannequin in back.
She ran her hand over the skirt, and her mother and the two officers could tell by the way her eyes gleamed and the grave expression she wore that there would be no arguing. This was the dress.
Luckily, her choice happened to satisfy everyone's preferences: it was white and delicate like Meg wanted, with gold chiffon covering much of her neckline like Madame Giry wanted, yet displayed her arms, neck, and shoulders like Marcus wanted, plus it did have an elegant silhouette. Sequins were also scattered across the bodice and skirt per Marcus's earlier recommendation, and while they were not embroidered into swans to reflect Meg's imaginings, they instead took the shape of intricately beaded golden butterflies.
Meanwhile, Perrin was just happy everyone was satisfied and that the tension was now largely dissipated. Madame Giry finally agreed to bow out of attending the party, thus signalling to Meg an increase in her trust.
Friday came, and Meg happily distracted herself fitting into the dress, putting her hair up with a few matching gold butterfly pins, and admiring herself in the mirror. This kept her away from thoughts of the Count until she stood at the top of the foyer stairs.
Then, as she saw the crowd and they saw her and applauded, the thundering in her heart reminded her:
Oh.
She must allure the Count.
Oh.
Her first instinct was to stamp her foot like a child and cry, no, she wasn't about to spoil this perfectly lovely evening by entangling with that…that…snake.
But like cold hard steel, duty returned to her, and she raised her head and smiled. Andre took her hand in its long silk evening glove and announced to those assembled, "Our Belle in truth, Mademoiselle Meg Giry!"
She gracefully acknowledged each smiling face with a wide grin of her own. The girl in her would have blushed and giggled triumphantly knowing so many fine members of the elite were acknowledging her almost like royalty, were it not for the fact that a wary voice inside warned her: any of these faces could be the Count's. Remember that.
As she accepted a flute of champagne, she looked around the foyer. The space was quite crowded, though with a far more dignified and orderly hum than during masquerade. Yet there was no sign of the Count.
A small part of her started hoping he hadn't accepted the invitation, when a waiter that was offering her an hors d'oeuvre leaned in to whisper: "To your left. In the far corner." Surprised, Meg saw above the waiter's mustache the winking eyes of Stephen Marcus. "To your left," he repeated.
Pretty smile still on her face, Meg turned her head and almost gasped. Yes, there was the Count, in the corner. Shaded. His glass eye caught the light ominously. His slick hair shined unnaturally and his exquisitely tailored suit looked incongruously new, unrumpled. She had never been stared at so blatantly, with such a sickening smile aimed right at her. "Maintain eye contact," Stephen whispered again, pretending to show her the tray. "Now do your stuff."
The Count raised his glass to her. She let a blush crawl up her neck to her cheeks and she dipped her eyelids down demurely. Yet her smile only grew. Then she looked back at the Count and nodded once, willing all the softness and sweetness within her to show in her eyes as she locked them with his again.
Stephen appraised the situation. The Count suddenly looked like a prize peacock, like a happy bull ready to charge. "Good, good!" He whispered. "That's all for now. You've got his attention. You'll be introduced some other time." And off he sped with his tray.
Meg was dumbstruck. That…that was all she had to do tonight? Truly? That…that can't be! All the apprehension, the preparations…and that was it? But here come Andre and Firmin now, to introduce her to important backers. The Count was moving away to another part of the room.
Not even the disturbing force of the Count's look, the simpering act she'd forced herself to put on, or the fact she now had to pull double duty charming the rest of the guests because the unconventional Monsieur Robard had failed to show up to his own party (and so Meg still failed to properly meet him), could dampen her spirit now.
Yes, she would have to meet the Count eventually. And yes, she'd have to do more than meet him…court him, practically. But ah, those worries could wait another day! For now…for now Meg would enjoy her debut in the opera foyer as star, truly enjoy it!
As charming a picture as she made before, her genuine delight with events transformed her even further. She was more openly vivacious, still poised but with a girlish light in her eyes that was more appealing than any studied grace could have been. Her dress suited her perfectly, and the butterflies on her dress and in her hairpins caught the gold in her hair until she was a dazzlingly radiant figure, gold and white and pink. As she rarely wore her hair up outside of ballets, the thrill of her bared neck and shoulders pleased more than one pair of eyes.
Of these pairs of eyes, one watched obscured upstairs, behind a pillar, wrapped in his cloak.
His distrust of the Count, his frustration with the police, all were dulled inside him as he gazed at Meg.
Meg – little Meg – her figure held his attention so violently that Erik did not even think to make the connection between this lovely butterfly and the net she could fall into if not careful.