Chapter 2
A week later, Hero found herself getting used to the chaotic routine of work at the opera. She had been found an available cot in one of the rooms housing live-in members of the ballet corps. The rooms were dark, and shabby, situated a few floors below ground, deep in the opera house. There were no windows, and the beds were very narrow. Hero could see why those dancers who could afford it chose to reside out of the opera. Most of the corps, however, particularly the junior members, and the young girls sent to the opera to begin their studies, lived on the premises.
Madame Collot, who proved a very pleasant, if somewhat reserved woman, had put Hero to work straight away, carrying fabric, and running errands, and fitting the cast members for the upcoming production of Rigoletto. It was a daunting task, given that she sometimes had to cover what felt like all seventeen of the Opera's floors in carrying out one of Mme Collot's errands.
As she walked down the small, wobbly street towards a nearby bakery, Hero contemplated the fact that despite being run off her feet by the costume mistress, she was rather enjoying the chaos. The opera house was like a large, working machine, or perhaps like a city, completely removed from the world outside, alive with its own unquenchable spirit. As if it would draw you in and never quite let you go, after. None the less, she was glad to have been given the morning off.
In general, Hero struggled to awaken early, and as she walked through the snow, she reminded herself that her efforts would be well-rewarded. The sun was yet to rise, and Hero felt more than a little dizzy as she tried to focus on her goal. She even nodded a genial greeting at an elderly gentleman who had been out walking his terrier and had tipped his hat at her politely. Usually, Hero would have been rather unpleasant towards anyone who ventured to wake her before half eight, especially in the heart of winter, but this was definitely an exception. She knew she would have been angry with herself if she happened to oversleep.
Her ultimate goal was one familiar to many Parisians: Hero was out in search of chocolate. Not just any chocolate, of course, but of the sort to be found in the finest bakeries of the city. Every Thursday morning, Mme Sully, a rather temperamental baker, would set a tray of freshly made chocolate éclairs on the tiny counter of her little shop. Hero had been told of the place by the proprietess of the hotel she had stayed in the week before her job at the opera. Having listened at some length to the lady's tales of Mme Sully's culinary magic, Hero was determined to find out for herself whether the landlady had been exaggerating.
Seeing the delicate pastries through the glass window of the bakery, Hero thought that she might just have found a new favourite indulgence. She had always had a weak spot for éclairs. There was something sinfully delightful about the sweet pastry, filled with the lightest cream and covered with the fine dark chocolate, slightly melted.
Brushing a stray strand of dark hair behind her ear, she hurried towards the glass doors of the bakery, which was lit with the inviting warm glow of gas lamps. A few customers were already milling about, and some were drinking their morning coffee at a few tables Mme Sully had thoughtfully set out inside her shop.
Closing the door behind her as a bell alerted the baker of the arrival of another customer, Hero closed her eyes and inhaled the heavenly scents.
"Good morning, mademoiselle. How may I help you?" Mme Sully was tall, thin, and she wore a rather pinched expression on her face.
Hero smiled charmingly. The baker's expression as somewhat disapproving, though Hero supposed if she had to rise at three o'clock each morning, she wouldn't be too merry either.
"I will have a dozen of the éclairs, please, madame," the young lady requested, fishing a purse out of her dress pocket.
With a brisk nod, the woman obliged. Hero carefully counted out the appropriate coinage, her fingers chilled stiff despite her woollen gloves, as the baker regarded her over the cardboard box of pastries she held, fairly radiating impatience.
Taking the box, Hero thanked the baker, cheerfully ignoring the woman's glum expression. Rather reluctantly, she headed back into the cold. Fighting the temptation to sample the delectable pastries, she clutched at the rough string keeping the box closed, with one black-gloved hand as she walked back towards the opera. The air was crisp, and the cold wind bit at her face, but she found herself enjoying the pre-dawn still of the morning. There was something almost enchanted about the silent world just before sunrise, glimpsed while most Parisians were still blissfully asleep in their warm beds.
The thought of sleep and beds made her yawn, and Hero knew that, enchantment or no, she still preferred to spend her pre-dawn hours asleep.
As she neared the opera house, other people began to emerge onto the streets. Apart from a few shop owners and beggars, there were also small groups of youths standing about here and there, talking quietly amongst themselves. She knew that she must look quite unusual, as a primly dressed young lady traversing the dark streets alone at odd hours of the morning. However, she felt quite safe, knowing that between herself and the average thug or pickpocket, she was likely to come off the more dangerous of the two.
It did not take very long for her to find her way back to the opera house. She took one of the side doors on Rue Scribe, knowing that the staff-entrance off the Cour de l'Administration would not yet be open, and walked along a poorly lit corridor, then down a set of creaky, narrow wooden steps and along another shadowed corridor. The building was very still around her. She chuckled softly to herself, thinking that it was just like a scene out of one of the Gothic novels her sister, Lavenna, was so fond of reading. Bronte, perhaps. Hero quite liked the Brontes. She didn't think she had enough melodrama in her soul to be a Radcliffe heroine. The ballet girls, or rats as they were called at the opera, were quite another story. In the past two weeks, Hero had already witnessed a myriad feuds and swoons and other little dramas.
Despite her Gothic musings, Hero made it to her dormitory without any kidnapping attempts by greedy, wicked relations or mysterious would-be suitors. Carefully opening the door, so as not to wake the girls who were still asleep, Hero made her way to her own bed, in the corner furthest from the door. She could hear the light breathing of the girl in the bed next to hers. Germaine had been the first to introduce herself when Hero was shown the room. Hero set the box on the coverlet and took off her cloak, which was wet with melted snow. She hoped the small fireplace at the other end of the narrow room would be sufficient to dry it.
As the scent of the éclairs began to carry across the room, Germaine turned over in her sleep, opening one eye and mumbling something about pointe shoes. She sat up groggily in bed, trying to see in the dim light coming from the fireplace. Her eyes settled on the box resting innocently on Hero's bed.
"Good morning. You're up early," commented Hero. Germaine was usually no more a morning person than Hero herself.
"Yes. You've made it rather difficult to sleep, sneaking in pastries at such ungodly hours."
"I do apologise. Shall I take my leave?"
The other four girls were beginning to stir around the room.
"Oh no, don't you dare! There's no getting rid of me now. What were you doing up so early?" the ballerina asked as she stretched, eyeing the box.
"Getting breakfast."
"Oh? Well, now that you've disturbed my sleep, you'll have to share." Germaine attempted to rise out of her bed, but she was still not fully awake and she tripped over the hem of her long nightgown, making a thud as she fought for balance.
"Why are making so much noise? Is that chocolate I smell?" asked Jammes, a small, blonde girl from the bed closest to the door. Her name was Cecile, Hero learned in her first few days, but everyone at the opera called her by her surname.
"If you smell chocolate, then so do I," piped up Suzanne, already sitting up in her cot.
"It seems Hero had taken it into her head to go out and buy pastries this morning," said Germaine.
Jammes raised an eyebrow, and Hero could only imagine the theories forming in the little ballerina's mind about what Hero had really snuck out for so early. Jammes was known for her fondness of gossip, and her wild suppositions about secret liaisons and midnight trysts.
The last girl to wake up was Meg Giry, who tied her dark hair back with a ribbon before coming to sit on Germaine's bed.
"I suppose no one objects to a bit of breakfast, then?" Hero asked brightly. She had suspected that chocolate was exactly the way to go about cementing her new friendships.
"Not at all!" Jammes replied enthusiastically.
"Madame Dubois might," chuckled Suzanne, seating herself comfortably at the foot of Hero's bed. Madame Dubois was the ballet mistress, who had a very strict approach where her dancers were concerned. With the opera undergoing restorations, the ballet school had been suspended and no practices held until about a month previously. The corps was much depleted. After the fire some of the girls had gone home to their families, and most had not yet returned. Even the prima ballerina was missing, Jammes had informed Hero in a hushed whisper at a costume fitting the day before. Why she felt whispering was necessary, Hero never learned because at that moment the Hero had been called away to pick up an order of tulle for Mme Collot.
"Yes, Hero, Mme Dubois would surely have your head for corrupting us with pastries!" laughed Germaine. "She's always making sure we don't ruin our figures in the staff canteen."
"As if that were possible," said Meg. The refectory food, while priced quite reasonably, was often rather inedible. Meg made it a point to dine at home with her mamma whenever she could. Mme Giry was one of the many box keepers employed by the opera, and Meg often bragged about her mama's roast chicken.
They continued to chat until there were no more pastries left and it was time to dress. Hero found that she like the ballet girls. They could be very loud and melodramatic whenever the mood struck, and they had a very operatic view of life, which Hero supposed came from having spent most of their lives training in the opera ballet school. They spent a lot of their spare time speculating on romances and fighting their own little feuds, which Hero couldn't begin to understand because these sometimes went back along several generations of dancers, and they could be rather mean to their dressers and coiffeurs, but Hero found herself enjoying their lively company.
Once dressed they made their way to the upper levels of the opera, preparing to resume their respective duties. When she had first arrived at the dormitory, Meg had asked if Hero would be joining the corps.
Hero had been very amused by this. "Ah, no. I think I'd better stay Mme Collot's assistant. I rather think I'm too old to start learning ballet," she'd replied. She was also the wrong build. The ballerinas were all very slight, and Hero was sure that she towered over them.
"I'm afraid that you are, yes," Meg had laughed. "I assumed you were a dancer, because they would never dream putting any of the chorus down here – they all claim it would ruin their voices, and the principal singers tend to have their own accommodations."
"Well, what about singing? Can you sing at all? You could join the chorus. They have proper windows in their dormitories," Suzanne had groused.
"My great aunt Clara always says that everyone can sing - it's just a matter of how well. She's a very sweet creature. The music tutor my mother hired for my sister and I, on the other hand, disagreed with my aunt strongly and at some length. I'm afraid I shall never be a diva."
"Neither was Christine at first," Jammes had commented, seemingly without thinking. A hushed silence had then fallen over the ballet girls.
"Christine?" Hero had been confused. She'd noticed that they all looked as though someone had broken a mirror. The rats had exchanged doubtful glances, and Hero had moved to sit in an old armchair. She could always sense a story.
"Haven't you heard the story of the… well… the Opera Ghost?" Meg had whispered. She'd leaned forward on her bed and her dark hair had fallen dramatically over her thin face.
"A ghost? I might have done, in passing," Hero had said, still feeling baffled. She'd remembered the story Monsieur Khan had told her in his shop, the one that had given her the idea of going to the National Opera in the first place.
"Ssh!" Suzanne had hissed "Don't say it so loudly. He'll hear. And it's not a ghost. It's The Ghost. The Phantom of the Opera."
"Really, Suzanne! Don't be a fool. Everyone knows that he's been dead for months!" another ballerina had interrupted and rolled her eyes at Suzanne.
"How can a ghost be any more dead? And how do you explain the rumours that the managers are receiving notes again, Vivienne?" Suzanne had retorted.
Vivienne had shaken her head. "Let's not start this debate again. It's getting late, I'm going to get dressed. I'll see you all in the practice room."
Hero had since learned that Vivienne and Suzanne were quite often bickering about something, and Vivienne's friends, Rosalina and Josephine, tended to take her side. Vivienne'a grandmother had never forgiven Suzanne's grandmother for stealing a very promising beau right from under her nose when they had been dancers for the National Ballet together as young girls, tempers had anything but cooled over the generations.
Jammes had watched Vivienne leave in disgust, then turned back to Meg. "Go on, Meg. You tell the story, you always tell it best." It turned out to be a long story about a Swedish singer named Christine Daae, formerly a chorus girl, who had sung the soubrette roles in a few productions until her meteoric rise to success, which had been shrouded in mystery. Hero had privately thought that Nadir Khan's retelling hadn't had have half as much dash and swooning as Meg's.
Later, when they had all gone up to have breakfast at the refectory, Germaine had tried to calm Hero's nerves by telling her that they really didn't have any proof that the Opera Ghost had returned. Hero hadn't bothered to correct Germaine that what she mistook for an expression of anxiety, had been one of contemplation. Unlike what seemed to be everyone in the company, Hero had very sound nerves and was not given to flights of superstition. She was also aware, however, that one didn't make friends by telling people that they were just being silly. The rats had a rather blurred concept of where fact ended and fantasy began.
Still, she couldn't quite dismiss the whole story. The rats had said that Monsieur Khan had been seen quite frequently around the opera at just about that time and that some thought he was somehow tied to the whole Daae affair.
She had mentally filed the matter for future contemplation, when she had a moment to spare. As it turned out, there would be no forgetting the Opera Ghost, even if her curiosity had remained unruffled – he often made an appearance in all kinds of seemingly unrelated conversations around the Garnier.