137
Hermine Leach's tears had to be an act, I reasoned. This was nothing more than a scene she wished to rehearse for the stage as she could not truly be weeping within arm's reach.
Unfortunately, within seconds her eyes were red with emotion, her chest heaving with hyperventilation and her face blotchy from the deluge of tears. She attempted to weep quietly, but each stifled whimper squeaked out of her as if she had a rubber balloon trapped in her throat.
I felt like an unwilling participant in her traveling sardoodledom.
"Why are you…?" Weeping uncontrollably? I took a breath and reconsidered what to say to her. "May I ask what is wrong?"
"I'm upset," she moaned.
That was exceedingly evident with each passing second of shared misery. What I needed to know was why she was upset and more importantly why she had decided to subject me to her emotions.
"That is quite unfortunate," I said without looking at her, which only made her cry harder. I swallowed and glanced around the carriage, having no idea what to say or do in such a situation.
If I opened the carriage door and leapt onto the street, Julia would most likely murder me when I returned home for abandoning a woman in need. If I attempted to sit and ignore Hermine, however, I would wish to murder myself before we reached the Golden Palace.
"May I ask what has upset you?" I questioned, feeling as though I had no other choice but to inquire. Perhaps if she explained why she was so melancholy it would rectify the situation.
She blew into her handkerchief with such force that she sounded like a horn. In silence, she waved off my question as she fanned her face.
"Raoul de Chagny?" I ventured. "Did he offend you?"
"No, no, he has not offended me. He is quite the gentleman in every sense of the word." She sniffled again and pursed her lips.
I furrowed my brow, perplexed by her emotional state that was seemingly for no reason. "I am pleased to hear he has treated you well," I said, feeling quite satisfied with my reply.
"Monsieur Kire," she said suddenly. She held her head up high, but her lips began to tremble and I feared an onslaught of additional tears. "I am upset because you don't like me," she wailed.
My breath hitched. I had no reply that seemed appropriate. I didn't care for her flamboyance, but if I agreed with her observation, then I would have to explain that I didn't care for most people and she was not unique.
"I beg your pardon? What makes you say something so utterly absurd?" I groused.
My tone did nothing to quell her tears. In fact, it appeared that I had made her tears stream faster and harder down her cheeks with my harsh tone.
"It's quite un-absurd," she sniffled.
"Now you are simply making up words," I grumbled impatiently.
Hermine Leach sucked in a breath.
"Which you are entitled to doing being that you are upset with me," I added.
She dabbed the smeared khol from from around her eyes as she attempted to catch her breath. "You know, Monsieur Kire, I was beyond thrilled when my dear Julie said she was marrying for a second time," she squeaked, her voice still tight with emotion. "I suppose rather foolishly I thought that because Archie and I always considered Julia family that you would be an extension of that, especially considering you and Archie have hit it off straight away."
To that, I fought the overwhelming urge to roll my eyes.
"But you look at me like…like…I am the terrible witch Bruna in your opera Margarite," her bottom lip began to tremble again and she burst into another round of tears, one that sounded far worse than the first one.
There was no witch in Margarite. Bruna was the main character's jealous older sister, who had consulted with a sorcerer to ruin Margarite's blissful marriage, but it didn't seem like an appropriate time to point out a trivial detail.
I rolled my tongue along the inside of my cheek and imagined pulling up to the steps of the Golden Palace with Antonio and Adrian impatiently awaiting my arrival, their arms crossed while they tapped their feet in unison. Their relief at my arrival would instantly be overshadowed by their concern once they saw Hermine Leach step from the carriage, weeping inconsolably as she ran into the foyer. Undoubtedly they would wonder what I had done to upset their beloved guest soprano.
"I have never intended to look at you in any particular way," I assured her, attempting to keep my tone reasonable and even. "Least of all in a way that would make you burst into tears or feel like…"
"An evil witch?"
"Which you are not," I firmly said. She was far more suited to play Margarite's younger sister Fauna, the most dramatic and childlike role in the production that served as comic relief. It was a part that the audiences apparently adored and was a more sought-after role than the lead and namesake of the opera.
"Why do you sound so angry?" Hermine cried.
My lips parted. "It's…it's simply my manner of speaking."
"Gruff?"
"Yes, I suppose so."
"Why on earth do you sound so gruff?" She wiped her eyes again and peered at me. "It isn't very becoming of a man such as yourself. In fact, it reminds me of Louis Seuratti."
Inwardly I cringed, horrified by her comparison. No, it was far more than horror. It was a deep sense of shame, complete and utter modification of being compared to someone so abhorrent as Julia's first husband. I sat with my mouth agape, scarcely able to think of a reply to her accusation.
"I am not like Louis Seuratti," I firmly said.
Hermine Leach gave no indication that she was convinced by my statement. Her frown deepened, but at last the tears seemed to have subsided.
"Mademoiselle-"
"Julie dear spoke endlessly of Louis before they were married. He was the world to her and it seemed as though she had found the most suitable match. Then shortly after she rarely mentioned his name, and once the Seurattis moved here to Paris, I never heard from her for several years. I believe it was his doing."
I sat back, unable to meet Hermine's eye as I was certain Louis had purposely isolated Julia from everyone and everything that she had known prior to their marriage.
"You know we spent the summers together when we were growing up?" Hermine continued. "Me and Archie and the Falschetti children, all fourteen of them, running around like little imps set free for three and a half months. Julie dear became a sister to me, one that I had always wanted when I was younger since Archie didn't want to play tea time or raise baby dolls. I of course love Archie with my whole heart, but there is something about having a sister that is beyond comparison. She is my Julie Sunshine." Hermine chuckled to herself. "Goodness, I haven't called her that since we were sixteen years of age. I wonder if she still remembers."
Every time I heard others speak of their siblings, cousins, or other close relations, I felt increasingly lonely. I had not been worthy of friends in my youth, and I had assumed I was an only child as I could not imagine my mother or father bringing another baby into the world, fearing what evil would spring forth as they had already produced one monster.
I was jealous of those who had not only siblings, but brothers and sisters with whom they were friends as well. I imagined having older siblings who would want nothing to do with me, who would taunt and tease me relentlessly, goaded by my father to make certain I was aware of my oddness.
I tormented myself with thoughts of being told I could not play with them, that my presence offended the rest of my family and they would not tell others we were related because they were ashamed of me. I had nightmares of being forced to sit alone for supper and watch the rest of my family interact, my loneliness inescapable.
And then the burden of solitude became much more acute in the traveling fair where there were a dozen other boys and girls similar in age to me, none of whom spared a glance in my direction. They would squeal in delight as they made up their games, chasing each other about until they fell to the ground, doubled over with laughter. If I so much as looked longingly in their direction, if I observed their mirth, I was punished merely for wanting to be included. Eventually I learned to keep my head down and back turned, blocking out what was never to be mine.
The thought still made me shiver as an adult. The feeling of being inconsequential had never left me–and despite the family I had waiting for me at home, I knew I would ever be free of the doubt that plagued me.
"I would be lost without her, Monsieur."
"I assure you, Mademoiselle, I would be as well," I said.
Hermine fixed her hair. "What can I do?"
"I beg your pardon?"
"To lessen the ways in which I offend you."
My lips parted. I had never been so bold as to ask others the ways in which they would have wanted me to change to better suit them. Of course, there was no need to voice my inquiry as it was blatantly apparent.
I released a breath and thought of how many nights I had spent alone beneath the Opera House, wishing to be someone else, someone better. I was certain I would have given up the music that kept me company if there was a chance to live without the scars, to be no different than anyone else. I would have exchanged my violin and the stacks of compositions I'd created over the years for the opportunity to be someone who could walk down the street without a single person staring at me.
But it was more than simply my appearance I wished to change. I wanted to be bolder, to walk from person to person at a party and shake hands, telling stories and having every person within the room falling over themselves for a moment of my time. I wanted to be the center of their attention, to draw everyone to me, the flame to a hundred worshiping moths.
I had less inclination to give up my music once I had met Julia and even less desire to attend events that would require hours of being in a crowd. As I sat in a carriage traveling to The Golden Palace, I could not imagine exchanging my music for anything at all, including a different visage. Music had given me a worthy life and not even the scars beneath my mask could take that from me.
"Mademoiselle, you are boisterous," I said. "And quite confident both on and off the stage. There has not been a single moment where I have seen you perform where you appear bothered in the least by what others might think of you."
Every single attribute I listed was something I had never been nor would ever be. I preferred the orchestra pit to the stage, a pen in my hand versus a podium, my family in the parlor instead of a sea of unfamiliar faces in a ballroom. I was a quiet composer and Hermine was every bit a showwoman.
Hermine sat up straighter and folded her hands, awaiting my answer.
"I would not request or demand that you change yourself on anyone's behalf, least of all mine," I said.
Hermine frowned at me. "Then there is nothing I can do to placate you?"
I sat back and scoffed. "To placate me?"
She nodded in silence, her eyes still glassy.
"If you were reserved in the presence of others, meek on the stage and fretted over everyone's opinion, you would not have had the audience in Calais clamoring for more or theaters in New York City sold out."
"I'm not certain I understand."
"Mademoiselle Leach, I do not believe you are the one who needs to change," I said.
The theater came into view through the window to my right and the carriage slowed as we approached the half-circle drive where patrons were typically dropped off for performances. Thankfully Antonio and Adrian were not standing outside awaiting my arrival.
Hermine blinked and turned her attention to the view outside of the window. She folded her lace handkerchief and returned it to her skirt pocket, apparently resolved to the unresolved.
"Hermine," I said as the carriage rounded the curve. "I never intended to insult or demean you," I said, saying aloud the words I had longed to hear from just one person in a crowded tent, an apology that had never been voiced.
Repeatedly I had been subjected to taunts and ridicule, told I was hideous and grotesque. Every fault was on display and every voice shouted at me what was unacceptable. I heard each one day and night, year after year, the voices never quieting. They told me to take my own life, to spare the world my wretchedness. I would have rather been pelted with stones and rotten fruit than been subjected to the cruelty and enduring echoes of their words.
"You have my most sincere apolgies as well as the reassurance I will be more conscious of my behavior, for Sunny Julia's long-time friend."
"Julie Sunshine," she corrected me. At last she smiled. "My Julie Sunshine."
OoO
I followed Hermine into the theater lobby where the de Chagny children were chasing each other up the marble staircase, screaming at the top of their lungs. Several programs were strewn out across the floor in the middle of the lobby, most likely props for some game they had invented while waiting for their father to finish his duties.
"Mademoiselle Meanie!" they shouted once they spotted us.
"Fifteen minutes, darlings," Hermine promised. "Unless you continue screaming like stuck pigs and then it will be three times as long."
They both clapped their hands over their mouths and went quietly up the stairs where they sat at the top and waved as we walked into the theater.
Raoul de Chagny stood on the stage before a wooden podium in the midst of a speech. Behind him were two banners: one for the charity benefit in honor of Christine as well as the artwork Claude had designed on behalf of the performances I would conduct in several weeks. I was depicted with my back to the audience and my music surrounding me while Christine stood with arms outstretched, greeting the crowd.
My heart stuttered seeing both banners across from one another. It stirred feelings within me that I had not expected to experience, rousings of a life that seemed so distant.
For years every aria I composed was tailored to Chrstine's voice, each leading role in an opera designed for her and her alone. There was an entire crate of music beneath the desk in my bedroom, undoubtedly collecting dust and dog hair, a tomb of sorts for the music I had dedicated to Christine.
"The funds raised for the benefit will support my family's continued dedication to the bettering of lives for young girls orphaned like my wife Christine. It is my hope that the home formerly known as The Elise will impact dozens of children each year and provide them with an education and the skills needed for a better future. I appreciate your time."
There was a small crowd in attendance–perhaps a dozen people at most–all of them with notebooks in hand as they jotted down key notes regarding the benefit performance. They offered a round of applause as he finished speaking.
Raoul shifted his weight when he saw us enter through the back of the theater. "And now that you have suffered through my ramblings, gentlemen," he said. "I am quite pleased to introduce you to the mysterious composer himself, Monsieur E.M. Kire."
My heart leapt into my throat, every muscle in my body tense. I froze where I stood at the very back of the theater, my mind racing as the reporters turned to follow Raoul's gaze to where I stood in the shadows.
The door behind me clattered shut, the banners on the stage fluttering with the change in airflow. The theater stilled, not a single word uttered or sound made in a space designed to be filled with singing and music. The silence was far more than I could bear and my feet felt as though they were nailed to the ground.
Hermine took my frozen stance as her cue to entertain the onlookers. She threw her hands out and waved to the reporters.
"Hello, you dashing fellows," she said, garnering their full attention. The weeping woman from the carriage ride disappeared, replaced by the performer who commanded the room with ease. "Good afternoon! My, my aren't you all a handsome bunch. I would call you gentlemen, but we all know that as reporters you are far similar to barbarians than gentlemen."
The members of the press chuckled to themselves, elbowing one another as she sauntered down the middle aisle toward where they stood. She blew kisses and addressed two or three men by name, flashing a generous smile to her audience.
"Comte de Chagny! What an absolute pleasure to have you gracing Paris with your presence," Hermine said.
"The pleasure is mine, Mademoiselle Leach."
"Isn't he wonderful?" Hermine asked the crowd. "By all means, another round of applause for one of the finest men in all of France."
Raoul offered a bow in response and met her at the side of the stage where he assisted her up the stairs. They shared a brief, private conversation, both of them grinning at one another, before Hermine took her place beside him at the podium.
Hermine glanced over her shoulder at the banners behind them, pausing for a long moment on the one of Christine while Raoul gazed across the expanse of seats to where I still stood, my legs still ledden and heart pounding.
Agonizing seconds ticked by and I remained stock still, unprepared to stand before an audience.
When I failed to walk to the stage, Raoul cleared his throat and placed both hands on the podium as he leaned forward. "Gentlemen, I cannot express how deeply honored I am to introduce you to one of the finest composers I've had not only the pleasure of hearing, but of also knowing for quite some time."
"How did the two of you meet?" one of the reporters in attendance asked.
Raoul's gaze momentarily landed on the audience, then back at me. His lips were quirked into an easy smile and I swallowed, my ears ringing.
"If you would be so kind as to indulge me with a bit of storytelling, my mother and father were supporters of the arts. My earliest memories from my childhood were holding my mother's hand as we marched into the theater to watch the latest opera from our private box. At the time, I doubt I appreciated the experience as much as I should have, but all those years of attending plays, operas, and symphonies meant that I've had the pleasure of meeting many artists, musicians, vocalists, and composers," he answered smoothly. "While I'm not certain what we discussed when we were first acquainted, I can tell you that more recently I've had many discussions with Monsieur Kire in recent months."
I gripped the back of the last aisle seat in the theater, steadying myself. Raoul had the full attention of a dozen reporters, all of them jotting down his words. I wondered if he truly had forgotten the first time we had stood face-to-face, when he had thought I was simply a man who could be cajoled with a reasonable conversation. Or how a decade later, after an evening out drinking with his friends, he had decided to forgo pleasantries and make certain I paid for my past outside of the Wisteria Hotel.
He took a breath, his gaze settling on me. He could have said anything at all from insults to accusations and there would not have been a damned thing I could do.
"Most notable," Raoul continued. "Monsieur Kire has been instrumental in revitalizing the home for girls." The reporters chuckled and Roaul cleared his throat. "An unintended pun, I assure you. As I was saying, one of the children who called The Elise her temporary home has been reunited with her older brother, thanks in part to Monsieur Kire. His name is Claude Gillis and he is the artist responsible for designing the banner you see to my right."
There was a murmur through the crowd as they jotted down the name.
"I do believe my mother, Margarita de Chagny, would have thoroughly enjoyed a night of E. M. Kire's music, particularly the opera that almost share's her name: Margarite." He knocked on the podium with his fist, glancing over his shoulder at the banner of Christine. For a brief moment his expression changed, confidence wavering as a shadow of longing and regret passed over his features. "Now, without further ado, Monsieur Le Blanc has a stack of contracts to be signed so that the Grand Palace can officially announce these upcoming performances and their talented vocalists from around Europe."
Le Blanc stepped out from the wings with Adrian Agard at his heels. Applause greeted them while Raoul walked down the stairs, his exit unnoticed as two other men walked onto the stage carrying a table and two chairs. From the wings where Adrian and Antonio had emerged, several other people peeked out, most likely vocalists signing their contracts as well.
"You are extraordinarily late," Raoul said quietly as he approached me.
"I didn't want to interrupt your speech with a timely entrance," I dryly responded.
Raoul grunted, apparently unimpressed with my sardonic answer. "Mademoiselle Leach asked if I could keep the reporters entertained for thirty minutes while she retrieved you, which is truly the only reason I was on the stage in the first place." He looked at his pocket watch. "I believe they were bored after the first five of my rambling on about The Elise, but they were polite enough to humor me for the full forty-six minutes I was on stage."
Inwardly I cringed at my tardiness. "You said the home is being renamed?" I questioned in an attempt to change the subject.
Raoul turned from me and gazed back at the stage. He visibly swallowed, longing evident in his light eyes. "Yes, when I return there in October the name change will be official."
"What will you call it?"
"The Daae," he said, his tone more solemn than before. He was looking at the banner again, the image of his wife with her arms extended. "The Christine Daae Home for Children. Once there is additional staff in place, there will be room to accept thirty children, both boys and girls ranging from infants to seventeen years of age. The plan is to have another dormitory added next spring as well as a studio for dance as long as Madame Giry is willing to offer her expertise. I've also considered a music room if perhaps there is a composer willing to suggest some instruments. Violins, cellos…"
"Xylophones are easier to learn," I said. It was the only instrument outside of drums that had ever interested Alex when he was younger. He took to them immediately, fascinated by the different sounds while he improved his motor skills by striking the bars. "But a variety of instruments would be best. A piano, drums, flutes…"
He smiled without looking at me and I couldn't guess what went through his mind. Perhaps he wondered what madness had led to our strange arrangement. I doubted he considered me a friend or a business associate. If anything, he most likely thought of me as a burdensome pain in the ass. "A list of your suggestions would be very much appreciated," he stiffly answered.
"If the music room is completed when I pay a visit to Claude, I will make notations and have suitable instruments sent. A donation made on behalf of Alexandre."
"Perhaps an in-depth discussion for another time," Raoul said as he gestured toward the front of the theater. He looked annoyed and I decided not to question him. "They appear to be ready for you."
The stage was lined with just as many performers as there were reporters. I followed Raoul to the stage where the vocalists who had auditioned for the performance politely applauded while the theater conductor, Adrian Agard, took to the podium.
I caught sight of Rachelle Debutee off to the side still with a boy who looked to be about Alex's age tugging at her arm, most likely bored to death by the speeches he'd been forced to sit through.
Madame Debutee looked away when our eyes met. She whispered something to the boy, who gave a heavy sigh and sat by her feet, his arms crossed.
"Monsieur Kire," Antonio said tightly as I approached him. Adrian had begun introducing the vocalists while they awaited the opportunity to sign their contracts for the press. "I do hope nothing was the matter that caused your delay."
"Matters that required my attention prior to my holiday," I said.
"When do you leave again?"
"In a matter of hours."
Antonio made a face. "Ah, my apologies. I am grateful you were able to witness the signings and accept your own contract today."
I looked over his shoulder at the woman with the boy. The two of them were wearing what I assumed was their best clothing, and although she was not on the stage with the rest of the performers, she was still in attendance to watch the signing. "You have a contract for Debutee, correct?"
Antonio shifted his weight. "I do not, I'm afraid. You did not send a list of your final selections by nine this morning as you previously promised, which I suppose is because you are preparing for your holiday. Adrian and I made up the final list as best we could."
I sighed. "Surely you have extra contracts on hand?"
"Yes, but–"
"Draw one up for her," I ordered.
Antonio narrowed his eyes. "Monsieur Kire, with all due respect for you and your music–"
"She signs today," I firmly said. "Respectfully singing a selection from my musical catalog."
"The programs are already set to print. I'm not certain there is room for another solo."
"There will be," I assured him.
Antonio took a step closer and leaned forward. "She is a member of the chorus," he said tightly.
I looked past him at the banner of Christine, who had spent several years as a chorus girl and member of the ballet troupe, her true potential unknown to the theater management. "For one night, she will have a solo."
Antonio sighed and stormed off, muttering to himself as he walked to the table and snatched up a folder, which he rifled through in apparent search of an extra contract.
"Monsieur Kire," I heard a feminine voice whisper.
Rachelle Deputee nervously smiled back at me, offering a brisk wave of her hand. I walked behind the line of people on the stage to where she stood in the stage-left wings.
"Madame," I said. Her son gawked up at me, his round face dotted with freckles and dark blonde hair in his eyes. He was a rather husky child, his cheeks full and hands quite thick.
"I wanted to thank you for allowing me to complete the song I chose for the audition," she said.
Her cheeks were bright red, eyes averted. I wasn't sure if she was simply nervous in my presence or if the mask frightened her once we stood face-to-face.
"I enjoyed your selection," I said. "Quite fitting for your voice."
She met my eye and grinned. "I am so glad to hear that." She curtsied not once, but twice. "Forgive me, I was not expecting you to walk over here."
I furrowed my brow. "I must have been mistaken. I thought you were waving at me to come over and speak with you."
"I did wave to you and I do wish to speak with you but I didn't think you would come over to this side of the stage," she said, gesturing toward the other vocalists, the first of which had taken a seat to sign their contract. "Not with Groff, Heinz, Leach…my goodness, what a talented group of singers here to perform your work. I cannot wait to listen to them perform your music."
"Do you wish to be one of them?"
Rachelle chuckled. She stared up at me, her smile fading the longer she looked at me. "To be one of them?" she questioned. "Me?"
I nodded. "There is a piece of music called Enchantment–" I started to say.
Rachelle gasped. "Enchantment of Starlight?"
I turned my head to the side. It was an aria I had originally written with Cathedra di Carlo in mind, but the arrangement had been inserted into The Soldier and the Shell years later for the second act when the soldier Emile's mother sought the return of her son from his doomed voyage, pleading with the sea. It was written for someone older, like Cathedra, whose voice had a certain richness to it that younger sopranos didn't yet possess in their youth.
"You are familiar with the aria then?"
The boy at her feet hugged her leg. "I could sing it backwards," she said, nodding at her son. "Isn't that so, Julian? A song you have heard hundreds of times."
The child nodded, pressing his cheek to his mother's leg.
"You want me to sing this for you?" Rachelle questioned.
"I would prefer it if you sang it to the entire theater for three nights in October."
Her blush deepened, her hand firmly over her heart. "This cannot be real," she said, her voice filled with excitement. "Surely, the composer himself is not asking me to perform his music?"
Her reaction both amused me and reminded me of Claude's reaction when we had first met. "I certainly hope you will accept as Le Blanc is preparing your contract as we speak."
"Goodness me," Rachelle said under her breath. "I would be honored. Beyond honored, really. I don't know how to properly express how I feel."
The boy curiously looked up at me, his chubby arms still firmly around his mother's leg.
"Are you the oldest or the youngest of the three?" I asked.
"Youngest," he said, his face smashed into his mother's knee.
"How did you know I have three children?" Rachelle asked.
"Three sons and a cat," I said.
"Thomas!" the little boy said. "He's all black with white feet."
I nodded, looking down at the child still wrapped around his mother's leg. "Yes, Thomas the cat. I presume he is quite the prestigious feline if he was mentioned?"
The boy hid once more, but nodded to answer my question.
"Antonio presented your bio during the auditions," I said to Rachelle.
"Then you are aware I have no experience singing a solo."
I shrugged. "I have no experience conducting and yet I will be leading an orchestra. I suppose we will both be doing the unexpected for three evenings."
Rachelle grinned from ear to ear and curtsied. "Thank you, Monsieur Kire. I look forward to working with you."
