A/N: Oodles of kisses (chocolate of course) to my reviewers - you guys are wonderful!
and now…
Part II - In a Gilded Cage
(Paris, France - 1868)
XV
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Christine grimly looked up through ivory columns that fronted the high walls of the impressive edifice of the opera ... this fortress of music which housed her escape from all who knew of her existence.
How a matter of minutes could so twist and alter a person's fate!
Over two years ago she had come to this monolithic building, beautifully gowned and bejeweled, on the arm of a vicomte, treated with the deferential respect shown only to the nobility. Now she arrived, a wanted fugitive for murder, hoping to seek employment in the chorus as a dancer for which she had little practice and no experience. Forced to play out girlhood dreams that at one time she would have given anything to accomplish.
The irony did not escape her.
It had been long months since she practiced what Arabella taught. How would she ever convince these connoisseurs of the dance that she had anything worthy to offer their chorus? But try, she must. And if in all likelihood she failed, she would simply have to seek work elsewhere in Paris, hopefully where they also spoke her language. The years had shaped and hardened her; somehow she would manage.
Grateful that the ugly bruises were covered, and the split on her lip and cheek hardly noticeable unless one looked closely, she took the wide spread of stairs to a set of carved double doors.
A man in an striking scarlet and gold uniform barred her way, giving her simple woolen dress a derisive glance. Arabella had wanted to clothe her in something finer, but Christine thought a servant's dress would seem more in keeping with someone looking for work with a theatre company. One look at the doorman's posh uniform, and she wondered if she should have listened to her friend and chosen the green brocade instead.
He spoke to her in French, his mustache twitching in disdain. She shook her head and lifted her hands at shoulder level to show she didn't understand. "Those seeking employment must use the back door," he said in English with a little superior sniff.
She gave a stiff nod at his deplorable treatment, lowered her head in unease, and took the stairs back down, to the street. This did not bode well. Her foot not even in the door and already she'd made a mistake in trying to enter! If she was superstitious, she might think this a bad omen … or perhaps the cold burst of wind that suddenly blew a chill down her spine.
The building was massive, covering one entire city block, but at last she found a door at the back near the stables. With no one there to challenge her, she walked through …
… and entered a whole other world, steeped in fascination and bizarre to the extreme.
The room with its lofty ceiling was dimly lit with candles and lanterns - thick with particles of dust that drifted through the air and turned golden when the light from the flames hit them. All about, people in strange costumes and men in work clothes rushed through practices and duties. Smatterings of French, Italian, English, and other languages she didn't recognize trickled around her in hurried conversations.
The area was large but inconceivably crowded, with plaster statues and mannequins- some of them headless!- varied urns and tables, mirrors with curious small lights on them, and rows of garish costumes hanging wherever a rack might fit – and so many props and other items Christine could not begin to recognize them all. If she was given a week to investigate, she would probably not see all of what was on display in this one room alone. And the Opera House was massive!
To her right, a musician practiced his violin while two servant women hung a tapestry of a medieval hunt behind him. Not watching where she was going, Christine barely managed not to get knocked over by a dancer rushing forward and carrying a woman who laid with her lower back on his shoulder, her arms and legs in graceful ballet position, her face lifted to the ceiling. An open loft-like area filled the second floor above in a compete square that rimmed the main area, offering no walls for privacy and bordered with simple rails of wood to prevent a fall, so that those above could look down at those on the lower level.
In the distance, a trio of girls in filmy tulle outfits and ballet slippers giggled and raced down a spiral staircase.
Deciding that to follow them would be to find the person she must approach, Christine hurried forward to trail behind, all the while taking in the incredible sights backstage. Inside an adjoining room she even spotted a workhorse tied to a huge, spoked wheel that lay flat with ropes tied around its rim and rotated as the horse slowly walked in a circle - Christine coming to the conclusion that it must be a hoist to move large pieces of stage scenery.
A warren of corridors made up of hanging curtains and tapestries or thin walls divided the area into a beehive of small alcoves and rooms, also leading to roomier areas where more items were packed solid, seemingly every inch of space taken with a mad jumble of equipment and yet more crates and props. So many props! People were everywhere - what must be hundreds - sitting, standing, hurrying to and fro, hanging furnishings, practicing dance, playing stringed instruments – a cacophony of notes, loud and soft, hurried and slow – each musician set off apart from the others and working on different music scores…
And through all of this workday madness, no one seemed to notice her. It was as if she walked among them, invisible. The experience came as both relieving and alarming.
It was the most peculiar and startling and incredible place she had ever seen. She could easily get lost here, and Christine was hard put not to gawk and keep her attention fixed on the three ballet girls who hurried through the jumbled maze of art, dance, and music.
She followed the trio to one wing of the vast stage. There an older woman stood in a severe black dress that suggested the widows weeds of mourning, except for the brazen flash of gold embroidered lace and vivid red flowers that rimmed both sleeves and neckline. Her hair was pulled into a long tight braid behind her as she viciously tapped the black cane she held against the polished wood floor. Ballet dancers formed two lines on the stage and instantly came to a halt, waiting. As the three girls hurried toward the other dancers, she turned and lifted her brow at their flurried entrance.
"Ah, Celeste, Meg, Bernadette, how gracious of you to find time from your busy schedule and join us." Her words were soft but biting, her blue eyes fierce. She harshly rapped her cane again. "Vite, vite! Get in line!"
And then she saw Christine.
"Qui êtes-vous?"
Christine shrugged a little and shook her head.
"Who are you?" the woman snapped in English.
"Christine Daaé," she all but whispered, realizing too late she'd forgotten to give her mother's surname as planned. The events had flustered her. She had not thought before speaking. But France was a fair piece from England. Surely no one in this theatre would have heard of a murder on the remote moors of Haworth. Arabella had told her to act assured and that was half the battle. She squared her shoulders. "I have come to try out for a position in the chorus."
The woman's finely arched brows sailed upward. "Auditions do not begin until noon."
"Oh, well then …" She floundered. "I only just arrived. I – I didn't know. I'll return later." Though she had no idea where to go until that time and hoped no one would question if she found a corner to sit in the jumble backstage.
"Wait."
Christine turned at the woman's soft command. Again, she hesitantly approached.
Madame studied her, one eye narrowing in speculation. "What experience do you have with the theatre, Christine Daaé?"
It was the question she most feared.
"Not a great deal. Well, um, none actually. But I'm willing to learn. Please, won't you give me the chance? I -I need the work and have been trained in the ballet." A small fib. She neglected to mention her instructor was a Comte's daughter and not a professional dancer.
A few of the girls in line giggled, making Christine believe she had destroyed her only chance with her impulsive words. Their stern instructor didn't look at all impressed by her introduction.
"And what will you dance to?"
Christine regarded her in surprised confusion. She hadn't expected that the stern woman would allow her to try out before the appointed time, and she certainly hadn't anticipated an audience of tittering, professional dancers to stand by and watch her amateur performance.
"Well?" the woman prompted.
"The first act of La Sylphide, the part where she snatches the ring from James and flees." She named the opera she had practiced most, dancing the part of the sylph, a supernatural fairylike being loved and inadvertently destroyed by a mortal man when he covered her with a magical scarf, tricked into thinking it would forever bind her to him; but her wings fell off and she died. She could relate to the character, her own life mirroring the poor sylph's, her own wings forever clipped. Loving one man had nearly destroyed her as well.
"Do you wish to change into costume?"
Costume? Christine felt the sweat bead her brow and thought how strangely warm it was in this vast theatre. She had no costume. Her mind went to the many she'd seen. Would they allow her to change into one of those? Dare she ask?
"N-no. I'll dance in this."
Madame looked at her strangely, from her woolen dress to her flat slippers, but directed her gaze beyond a row of unlit footlights and nodded. From beneath the stage, the sound of a baton struck wood and music in the orchestra pit filled the theatre. Christine blinked in shock to so suddenly hear the aria for which she asked.
The instructor raised her brow when Christine made no effort to move.
In haste she assumed starting position, but too late with her introductory steps, her first attempts came awkward at best. She grew more graceful as she concentrated on the music and tried to block out all else, but her thick skirts hampered movement. Coming out of a simple twirl, she stumbled, just managing to catch herself and prevent a fall.
"If the sylph danced like that, James would have caught her and the story would be over," one of the girls snidely said, among the scornful chuckles that came from the ballet dancers. The instructor did not smile. She did nothing but stare.
Christine's face heated with the fire of embarrassment.
"And do you sing as well as you dance?" the older woman asked pointedly.
Christine shook her head. "I don't sing."
"You don't sing?" the instructor scoffed in disbelief. "Foolish girl, you do realize that to join the chorus you must sing and dance for an audition? Surely you are not so daft as to come here without such knowledge." She paused to consider, a softness melting her ice blue eyes as she studied Christine. Her voice came more gentle. "Do you wish to try again later? Perhaps find a suitable costume as well?"
Christine lowered her eyes, seeing all hope for finding a place to hide within this theatre disintegrate as quickly as her dubious dancing skills had done.
"No, I'm sorry." Her answer came quiet but deliberate. "I cannot sing."
Madame shook her head. "I, too, am sorry, Christine Daaé, but there is no place for you within this opera company."
The soft words were barely spoken, falling like harsh blows to Christine's heart - when a paper came out of nowhere and floated to the ground between them.
x
Christine stared at the note lying face down, only a few feet from where she stood.
Titters and movements from the dancers stopped as if they were no more than puppets, and their strings had been cut. An expectant silence thickened the air.
Christine darted a glance upward, to the network of narrow walkways in the darkness from where the note had drifted. No one stood there. She lowered her gaze to the dancers. Absolute shock was written on every face as some looked above also and others stared curiously at Christine, no longer with scorn but in astonishment.
The instructor didn't look as surprised as the others. She seemed frustrated as she gracefully bent to retrieve the note, flinging back her braid behind her as she straightened. She read the missive silently, her mouth tightening in disapproval, and looked up to the flies again. She gave the slightest shake of her head, as if making eye contact with someone. Christine again looked up but from her angle saw no one there.
"I can offer you a position as a cleaning woman. The pay is minimal but you will have lodgings here. Report to Claudette for your duties. That is all I can offer you," she said emphatically, darting another glance above to the flies. Class is dismissed!"
Without waiting for Christine's reply to her offer, as though it were not even necessary and her fate had been decided, the woman turned away with a swirl of black skirts. She stormed off the stage in a poised manner only a dancer could achieve, the letter still clutched in her hand.
Christine stared after her, stunned by the rapid course of events, curious that a ballet instructor had the authority to hire for cleaning but grateful for any job that would keep her well hidden within the winding, cluttered maze of this theatre. The dancers gathered in groups, whispering among themselves and looking at Christine as if she were an oddity under glass in a museum. One of the trio of fair-haired dancers she earlier followed approached her. Her blue eyes seemed friendlier than anyone else's she had encountered, her manner inviting.
"Hello, I'm Meg Giry, the instructor's daughter. I'm curious. Have you been to this theatre before? Do you know someone who works here?"
Christine carefully considered her answer. "Once, more than two years ago, I attended the opera here with friends."
"Hmm." Meg studied her pensively. "Well, I daresay, you've become something of a mystery. I suspect they'll be talking about today's audition for weeks to come!"
Christine shook her head at the strange greeting. "I don't understand."
"It's been months since anyone has heard from him, and that – what he just did – never has happened. He's never come forward for anyone, except regarding the diva, La Carlotta, whose singing he abhors and with good reason. And Maman has never given another position to any dancer after rejecting them for the chorus. It simply isn't done. She wasn't at all happy about it either. It must be his doing, but then she always does what he tells her. Everyone does who values their life and their job here."
Christine tried to follow the confusing trail of information from the exuberant girl, who looked a few years younger than her twenty years. "The owner?"
"Oh, no – someone much more powerful. Everyone here calls him the Phantom of the Opera. He signs all of his notes O. G. - for Opera Ghost."
Christine regarded her skeptically, wondering if in being the newcomer she was also the intended victim of a prank. "A ghost? You cannot be serious."
"Oh, he's no ghost! Not according to two ballet rats who once worked in the chorus. Both of them swore on their lives that he came to them in the corridor late one night – and … well …" Meg looked around to make sure no one overheard. "Things happened," she whispered.
Christine nodded, wondering what "things", but couldn't begin to follow this bizarre conversation.
"The first year that he made his presence known at the opera, Juliet told everyone he approached her on the closing night of Robert le Diable," Meg went on in the same quiet tone reserved for shared confidences, "and Winnie who was always a scene stealer swore up and down that he seduced her in the same corridor the following spring. But Juliet was a drunk and Winnie a liar. None of the chorus believed them. Yet each of those girls was sacked soon after their recounting and for no apparent reason." At Christine's blank look, Meg explained, "No one is dismissed for telling tales of late night trysts that happen within these walls, true or fabricated – or more than half the theatre would be without work! And even though no one said they believed them, after having heard the sinfully wicked accounts of Winnie and Juliet I can tell you some of those same girls who called them liars have found any excuse to steal through the corridors late at night, even calling out to him, hoping they will become his next victim!"
"They want him to accost them?" Christine's face grew hot as at last she had a better idea of what "things" had happened. She felt as if indeed she had entered a bizarre new world as she was given her first taste of scandalous theatre gossip.
"Oh my, but yes. He never appeared again though – to any of them. If, in fact, he appeared at all. He remains hidden – where is anyone's guess. The managers ordered a search of the entire theatre when he first made his presence known, but no one has been able to find him or his hiding place. Then, not even a year ago, they ordered another search- behind the walls, when one man stumbled across a hidden entrance; only there were traps! Deadly traps. A few men got hurt. One of the stagehands almost lost his arm, and a male dancer was killed …"
Christine gave a little shudder at the horrific news. Traps? Behind the walls? What kind of madhouse had she entered!
"The only other person to have seen him and told about it is Joseph Buquet, one of the stagehands who works in the flies. He's a drunkard and a voyeur, so no one believes a word he says either. His accounts of the Phantom's appearance are simply bizarre – a hole for a nose, a skeletal face, and eyes that glow. Like a monster. Winnie and Juliet didn't describe him like that at all – they say he's attractive and very tall. Well built, with raven black hair. And he moves with quiet grace, like a ghost in the night – appearing and disappearing without warning. That's one reason we call him the Phantom. He wears a long cloak and a black mask, like a bandit, hiding his identity, though Winnie said it's white and covers only half his face. I asked Maman – for of course she has seen him since she's his go-between with the managers – but she tells me I must not think or ask about him again."
Meg gave a displeased little roll of her eyes. "Some say he's a wanted criminal, hiding from the gendarmes, which explains the mask, and there was this … incident, with Buquet's brother, once a stagehand too. Though the man was a clumsy oaf and could have fallen and gotten the rope wrapped around his neck." She shrugged as Christine's eyes grew wider. "The managers first thought the Phantom was a hoax played on them by one of their grand nephews. That is, until he spoke from the shadows, in the flies, while their nephew was with them. He's definitely no hoax." She emphatically and slowly shook her head. "He sends notes to the managers with demands for the operas, threatening them if they don't obey, and the managers who were here before the new ones always gave him what he asked."
Christine could understand the need to hide, a fugitive herself, but this "Phantom" sounded like a madman. She certainly would stay far away from all empty corridors late at night!
"Perhaps - what just happened - was a coincidence, the timing of all of this, and that note he sent was about something or someone else," Christine added hopefully.
Meg gave her an all-knowing look. "You'll soon learn, there is no such thing as coincidences in this theatre."
"But –"
"Meg!" one of the girls called out. "Are you coming or not?"
"I have to go," Meg said with a grin. "We'll talk later. It was nice to meet you by the way."
"Wait!" Christine called before the bubbly dancer could flit off with her two friends, who had not stopped staring at Christine. "Do you know where I can find the woman Claudette?"
"At the moment, non. She will be easy enough to find though. She has red sausage curls, a black mole on her chin, and is built like a house. You cannot miss her." She turned away, then gracefully pivoted again. "Oh - and Christine, a word of warning, do try not to get on her bad side, if she even has a good side." Meg shrugged and scampered off to join the other girls.
Christine stared after the retreating dancers then again lifted her gaze to the flies. She shivered as she stared into absolute darkness, no sign of movement or life apparent. Whoever this mysterious Phantom was he sounded more dangerous than anyone she had known or read about in truth or fiction – and, if Meg were to be believed, quite possibly was a true threat to her.
She wondered just how safe she was inside this bastion of insanity and if she'd made the right decision in coming here. Outside its doors, she was in danger of being caught by law officials … but inside, a different predator lurked within the intricate maze of alcoves and corridors. Within the very walls! She might be safer at the dubious mercy of Scotland Yard. Either option - to stay or go - seemed dangerous.
She shook her head in resolve, determined not to let Meg scare her away. Surely, all of what the excitable dancer said couldn't be true and she embellished the tale for the sake of drama.
This was the theatre, after all.
Christine went in search of the daunting Claudette, while trying to shake the feeling that someone watched her from the shadows.
xXx