That Monday, Meg expelled from her mind all thoughts of the Count and her successful debut into society.
Now she had a greater test:
Impressing Monsieur Robard at the ballet's first rehearsal.
She was delighted but not surprised at the rest of the casting. She had known all long of course that Carolus Fonta would play the Beast and Prince, but she was thrilled to learn that Cecile was playing one of her sisters, along with Adele, who had the right humor for the role. Adele's brother Michel was playing their older brother, and he'd made no disguise of the fact that to him, Cecile Jammes was the most exquisite creature on the planet. Meg suspected there would be a lot of wooing going on between scenes.
Rolf Helm was playing Belle's arrogant suitor, and given Helm's ne'er-do-well personality, Meg couldn't help thinking his casting was perfect.
Filled with excitement, she kept up a steady stream of chatter with her castmates before rehearsal began. Reyer and Giry stood discussing last minute arrangements in the corner.
Meg froze once she saw Robard enter. She ignored the chatter around her. She was the only one to notice him. He slipped in quietly, taking a seat at the back.
Meg looked this way and that. No one still was noticing him. She wondered in a panic if his intention was to constantly stay in the shadows, to never be introduced to his cast. Some great artists were eccentric like that.
But she simply had to meet him.
That deep impulsive spark in Meg took over.
Making sure no one was observing her, she hopped offstage and sped to the composer.
He had that dreamy look in his eyes again, staring at the stage.
When she coughed to get his attention, he looked over like one gradually waking up.
Then his wrinkled face stretched into a kindly wry smile. "My Belle," he said, standing and bowing.
Meg could have cried.
Instead she curtseyed. Then in her usual rapid breathy voice she said, "Monsieur, I hope you don't think me forward, but I had to meet you! I've adored your music my whole life! Vasilisa the Fair, The Nightingale…genius! They were absolutely genius!" Suddenly she was sitting next to him, clutching his wrist. "Your music is so beautiful and so wonderful to dance to! Oh monsieur, I'm so honored to be playing Belle. Tell me, what should I know about her character that I don't already? Does she resent her family at all? How does she really feel about Armand? Does she care for him, or does she only love the Beast? And tell me: is she secretly disappointed when the Beast turns into the Prince?"
His smile only grew as she went on. At that last part, he closed his eyes and leaned his head back, laughing silently. He squeezed the little hand clutching his. Then he opened his eyes and looked at her fondly.
"My dear, let me tell you a secret: this is my last ballet. Truly. I have put my heart and soul into this score, more than in any other piece I've written. And let me tell you one thing more." He gazed directly into her eyes. "My conception of Belle was never as clear as it is now meeting you. I saw a beautiful damsel on the page, whose strength and compassion help the Beast find peace. But you? I wouldn't worry." He shook his head. "You will make her come alive."
Meg's heart swelled.
Yet a few days later a foreign doubt crowded her heart.
Rehearsals were going very well, and Robard, Reyer, and the rest seemed pleased.
But something gnawed at Meg.
This was his last ballet. The one he'd devoted his entire soul to, his goodbye to the theatrical world.
She couldn't just be good.
For him, she must be spectacular.
This she expressed to Erik in his lair, pacing again, as she seemed to often do down here.
"What do you think, monsieur? Am I overthinking? Should I just relax?"
She turned to him, waiting for a reply. Then she frowned.
Erik sat immobile at his pipe organ, staring at the keys as if into an abyss. His mask was off, and there was an air of dark indifference around him.
She studied him. Although he was far from a handsome man, she didn't feel that the deformity was all there was to his face. The deep crevices, twisted flesh, and discoloration served only as a sort of decoration for the prominent cheekbones, the noble set of his jaw, and those arresting eyes unlike any she'd ever seen.
Yet those eyes were so empty now.
Like a tentative doe, she approached him slowly. "Monsieur?" Her brow creased. "Monsieur Erik? What is wrong?"
He shivered all over, rubbing his arms. He sighed.
"Nothing, little Giry. It is nothing."
A short pause. Then, "I do not think it is nothing, monsieur."
Her grave voice appeared to rouse something in him.
He spoke as if the very word was a struggle to get past his lips: "Christine."
Meg was conflicted. Half of her was ashamed at herself for constantly forgetting his sorrow, while the other half was…frustrated.
"What about her, monsieur?"
Tragic eyes lifted to hers. "Oh god, sometimes it comes upon me all at once. The loss." His trembling hands struck his chest again and again, his wild eyes never leaving hers. "The pain of it, the hollow empty pain."
Meg saw tears in the brown and blue irises.
He looked away from her sharply. On this day, when murky dreams of Christine lying in the golden swan bed woke him to a great misery, staring at the bright face of Meg Giry felt even more unfaithful and wrong than usual.
Why wouldn't she just leave?
But the girl would not. She dared lay a soft hand on his shoulder. Yet her voice, though gentle, had a hint of stern impatience as well. "Monsieur, you mustn't succumb to your depression. Why do you think Christine wanted me to look after you? For you to live and perish in the same darkness, never looking for happiness? You must move on."
He whirled around on her, face contorted in fury. "Move on? Move on, you little rat? Oh, what do you know of it? You who have confessed to never feeling love, passion, what do you know of the searing heartbreak that leaves you breathless? You are nothing but a…but a mealy-mouthed coward!"
His eyes were from hell, his sneer a serpent's.
Meg quailed in fear.
Then the words reached her and she shook with her own fury.
"How…how dare you? How dare you speak to me so!"
"I speak the truth!"
She spied his mask on the pipe organ. Her eyes narrowed and she grabbed it and waved it in his face. "Who's the coward, monsieur? Look. Even when you don't wear it, it's never far from reach."
Oh, how he hated her in these moments. "You are too vapid to understand. Too vapid to understand anything of real beauty, real despair."
The fire in her glance burned him.
She turned quickly, mask still in hand, and ran to the candelabra on a corner desk.
She lit the mask with the candles' flames.
Then she threw it in the ash bin nearby.
She stared at him hard, once. He was immobile again, staring at the ground expressionless.
She left.
Madame Giry came home that night to hear her daughter's weak sobs from her bedroom.
Panicking, she rushed inside.
Meg was lying clutching her pillow, tears running down her cheeks.
Madame Giry sat beside her, brushing her hair away from her face. This wasn't like her usually sunny Meg.
"Meg, darling! What is it?"
The girl squeezed her eyes shut. "Mother, I…I was so cruel…he was so cruel, and I…oh, Mother! What have I done?" She sat up and threw herself into her mother's arms, sobbing brokenly into Madame Giry's neck.
Giry sensed she might not get the full story.
But she knew, deep in her heart, who it concerned.
She thought back to the few times recently she'd seen Erik with Meg.
And she saw more clearly the eager brightness that entered Meg's face when she'd look at him.
And the look of fear, doubt, and awe in his.
She rocked her daughter in her arms, shushing her gently as she pat her back. Meg couldn't see the uneasy look on her mother's face.