Unmasqued Page 5

“It is a foolish superstition,” Richard replied. “Sorelli has insisted on placing a horseshoe on the table of the foyer de la danse for each performer to touch before setting onstage. She claims it is a talisman against the evil of the ghost. A ghost which does not exist.” He shook his head, the cord from his monocle wagging in time.

  The comte raised his eyebrows. “One does not consider La Sorelli as endowed with much common sense, although the dancer certainly is not lacking in other areas of endowment.” He watched Christine over the rim of his goblet.

  She looked away, focusing her attention on Raoul’s warm thigh brushing against hers, and the fact that his face and hands were much more elegant and comforting than the intense expression on his brother’s face. She realized, suddenly, that it was fortunate that she had caught the eye of the younger brother before that of the elder one.

  “Theater folk are mad—pardonnez-moi, mademoiselle—they have too many of these absurd superstitions. It is ridiculous. We nearly had to cancel the plans for Faust, which is to open next week, because of the scenery.” Moncharmin began to rapidly chew his bite of bread as though agitated or embarrassed.

  “The scenery?” Raoul was mystified. “Was there a fear that it should fall? Is it not merely a painted backdrop?”

  “Oh, no, no…did you not notice, my lord, that the scenery has real doors and windows? And corners and alcoves? It is the new style, to make the set more realistic, and we spent twenty thousand francs to build the Heaven set for Faust in order to keep our theater ahead of its competitors…and they refused to even rehearse with it.” Moncharmin's bread was being ravaged. Crumbs sprayed. Crust dangled. “I cannot begin to understand this business.”

  “It is the blue,” Christine ventured to speak. Everyone looked at her, even Moncharmin. But then he flickered away. The comte's attention did not. “The blue on the scenery—the sky. No one in the theater will perform with a scenery that is blue, for it brings misfortune. Death or loss of money.”

  “Death? Is that so?” The comte's gray blue eyes swept over her in that arrogant, calculating way that made Christine think of the protectors. But there was not one hint of fatherliness in his whole attitude.

  Raoul did not seem to notice. “How did you resolve it, then?”

  “It was insisted that we add silver ornamentation to the set—another cost, of course.” Moncharmin reached to mangle the loaf of bread in the center of the table. “Another five thousand francs.”

  The comte smoothly changed the subject. “I did not mention how delightful it is to see you again, Miss Daaé. I am told we met briefly some years ago, when you and my little brother romped at the beach in Perros-Guirec. Not a very fashionable place, but one near my aunt's home, where Raoul was raised.”

  “You remind me of a bittersweet time, Comte de Chagny,” Christine replied. That summer in Brittany was the last summer she had with her father. “My father died that following winter, when I was ten.”

  “It was Madame Valerius who raised you then, was it not?” added Raoul.

  “Yes, she and her husband, the professor of music at the National Academy of Music in the Opera House, were friends and admirers of my father, who was a great violinist. They were kind enough to keep me with them until I was able to enroll at the conservatoire.” From then, it was an easy path for her to find her way to the chorus and ballet corps, all the time hoping for the chance to advance further.

  To find her place.

  Had she found it now?

  “That day you met her at the seashore, I rescued her black scarf from the surf, Philippe,” Raoul added. “Do you recall being there, now that I have reminded you?”

  “Indeed I do,” Philippe replied, his attention focused on Christine. “I do remember the girl, who has now grown to be such a beautiful young woman. It is no surprise, Raoul, that you have determined to reawaken your acquaintance with her. If I did not already have a countess, I would be so inclined.” He gave a brief nod, meant to imply tribute to Christine. But she saw the look in his eyes and knew better.

  From the time she was twelve and joined the chorus for a mere eight hundred francs per annum, she had lived in the dormitory at the Opera House, sharing a room with the other dancers. Living in such a casual, communal environment, she’d been exposed early on to the sexual interactions between men and women through whispered conversations, spying in dressing rooms, and her own clumsy, groping experience with one of the props boys that eventually led to her own deflowering.

  And then of course, there had been Madame Giry, who spoke frankly of such liaisons and experience, and urged her girls to make their own decisions and taught them how to utilize their feminine power to the best of their ability. And how to be certain they were not gotten with child, and what to do if they should be.

  Christine had witnessed the coquettish ways dancers and singers of all ranks—both men and women—teased and flirted with the admirers who came backstage to the foyer de la danse after the performances. She saw the hungry way the men looked at the dancers, at times with admiration, as Raoul did with her…and at other times with a condescending desire. As the comte did now.

  She looked at his ungloved hand holding the wineglass, three of his fingers bearing heavy, jeweled rings, and imagined that hand on her flesh. It would be cold, and demanding, she knew; it would not allow her to shrink away, to flinch. Christine watched as he trickled his fingers, blunt tipped and thick, over the side of his glass as if to call attention to them.

  She tore her gaze away, and it skittered upward and was trapped. By calculating grayish blue eyes. He nodded once, then turned his attention to the others at the table. He spoke no more to her that night. He did not even acknowledge her presence with anything but an occasional searing stare. After the meal was finished, Raoul excused himself and Christine and sent for his carriage.

  When they returned to the Opera House, Christine found herself looking at the huge marble theater in a different light. Since joining the corps de ballet, she’d hardly ever seen the facade of the famous columned building, for most often, her comings and goings were relegated to the back, where the dormitories were located. But now, as the sun was rising over the creamy Paris skyline, Raoul drove his carriage around the front of the Opera House, to the side rotunda where he would normally enter the building. Christine looked up at the colossal sculpture of Apollo, holding the globe of the earth up toward the sky, and she suddenly felt as though she were just as high and powerful as he.

  When Raoul realized he had made a mistake, he sent her a rueful smile and drove the horses around to the back of the building. It was a long walk to the dormitories, and at last Christine realized how exhausted she was.

  “When shall I see you next?” asked Raoul, stopping at her door. Although he had dragged her up against him only hours ago, and ravaged her mouth as though starving, he seemed to have shed that intensity and now looked upon her as something delicate and breakable. Something out of reach, something to be worshipped.

  “When do you wish to?” she asked.

  “Now. Tonight. Tomorrow. The morning.” He took her hands, his eyes soft and luminous in the low gaslight in the hall. “Forever.”

  Christine laughed lightly and pulled gently away. “Such strong words, Raoul, and we barely know each other.”

  “I have known you for years, Christine, and I have never forgotten you…It was only fate that pulled us apart and brought us back together. If my brother had not become the Opera House’s new patron, I should not have been here tonight to see you sing and to have renewed my acquaintance with you.” He tilted his head gently, as though to better look in her eyes. “Do you not feel you know me? Don’t you feel the connection between us?”

  “Yes, I do feel a connection: the memory of a lovely summer all those years ago. From such a happy time in my life,” she replied. “I feel as though you are an old friend. Someone comfortable, familiar.”

  Not someone who unsettled her, or burned her. No, not Raoul.

 
; Raoul did not burn her.

  “You see?” Raoul broke into a beam of a smile. “I feel the same, Christine. I shall speak to my brother—”

  “The comte?”The warmth that had begun to swell in her filtered away. “Why must you speak to him?

  “Because if I wish to court you” —he smiled, wide and brilliant, like a young boy— “I must ensure he will approve.”

  “But you are a Chagny! He will never allow you to court me. I am not…you cannot.”

  “I shall court you anyway, in secret if I must,” Raoul told her fiercely. “I am the younger son. I do not need to wed for my family. It is becoming more accepted for actresses to marry well. And you are no Blanche d’Antigny.” He spoke of the Parisian actress who had been driven from the Russian stage because of her immorality.

  Perhaps he was right. Perhaps it was becoming more accepted. More possible. Could she ever aspire to being the wife of a vicomte, little Christine Daaé, daughter of a violinist?

  She thought of Marie Bière, the singer who had not had the benefit of Madame Giry’s mentorship, but had found her way nevertheless. Marie had been freed after her arrest for attempting to murder her rich lover, when he had left her pregnant and destitute. Even the courts had found in her favor, she, an actress! Perhaps times were changing.

  But Raoul was still speaking earnestly, holding her hands and looking at her with his blue eyes. “My brother will approve. He spoke of your beauty and grace, and I saw that he found your company quite enjoyable at dinner. He would never have spoken to you so informally if he had not.”

  Christine felt a chill over the back of her neck. There was no doubt that the Comte de Chagny found her attractive. And his informal comment had felt more like a bearbaiting than conversation. Still. Raoul made her feel comfortable and happy, and he was the personification of a rare memory of happiness.

  She was the beautiful singing lady now, wanted and loved by all. There would be no more loneliness.

  Perhaps someday, she would even enter the Opera House auditorium through the huge, sweeping staircase.

  ~*~

  “Monsieur Moncharmin,” called Madame Giry, seeing the flare of his dark cloak as he disappeared around the corner early the morning after Christine Daaé’s maiden solo performance. “Please wait for a moment.”

  When she caught up with him, she saw that his little round cheeks had turned apple red, and that he avoided looking her in the eye. However, his attention seemed to be caught and trapped by her generous bosom, covered modestly by her high-necked gown, but jutting out like a wide shelf, nevertheless.

  Bien. This would make her task much easier. She gave a large, shuddering breath, sending her breasts jiggling mightily.

  “Yes, Madame Giry?” he asked in a choked voice.

  “I have something for you, monsieur. It is a letter.” She handed him the stiff parchment, folded over and closed with a bloodred seal. Armand Moncharmin’s name was written on it in sharp, bold black ink.

  “What is this?” Armand was peering at the seal, no doubt trying to discern the intertwining initials on it. “O.Q.?”

  “It says O.G. For ‘Opera Ghost.’”

  This statement garnered her the first full-faced look from the portly man. “Opera Ghost? Mon Dieu, what lunacy are you speaking of? That imbecilic rumor that caused Carlotta to run out on us last evening?”

  “The Opera Ghost. Surely Messieurs Debienne and Poligny told you about their contract with him when they turned the house over to you?”

  “Contract?” Armand had broken the seal and was scanning the letter. As Madame Giry was well aware of its contents, she refrained from speaking. “Salary? Box Five? What is this?” He appeared to have no problems looking her in the eye now that the subject of finances had been broached.

  “It is very simple. The Opera Ghost wishes to have his monthly salary paid, which, for this month, you owe him approximately twenty-three thousand francs. Debienne and Poligny did pay him for the first ten days, as I believe he noted.

  “The Opera Ghost also insists that you continue to keep Box Five—you know it, the one just next to the stage—available for him at all times. He was quite annoyed last evening when he attempted to enter the box and learned that you had let it out. In turn, he will keep his end of the bargain by keeping out of your way. In other words, you will need to continue the contract he had with the previous managers in order to be left in peace, which, I must say, he sorely wishes to do.”

  “We cannot—twenty-four thousand francs? Box Five? We cannot afford to do that!” Armand sputtered.

  “But I do not see how you cannot,” Madame Giry told him gently. She really was looking forward to getting him out of those trousers. He was no more substantial than a plump teddy bear—even with all of his bluff and bluster. She could not hold back a smile at the thought. Perhaps…”

  “Shall I take you to see Box Five?” she asked. Erik would not mind; he normally did not come up from his underground lair during the morning hours. Madame Giry slipped her arm under Armand’s and gently but firmly turned him in the proper direction. She was taller than he was, helped by the heels of her shoes and also genetics, and the top of his head came just to her chin. That would be a lovely change, to have a man with such easy access to her very sensitive breasts. Perhaps, in order to give the poor man some warning of the delights to come, she would endeavor to trip and stumble against him when they walked down the steps from the managers’ offices, where they were now, to the foyer of the Opera House.

  After all, she had not obtained the coveted position of the Opera Houses ballet mistress by being shy and retiring. Indeed, she had been a magnificent dancer in her day and perhaps could have gone on to be as renowned as La Sorelli if not for the unfortunate injury to her left ankle fifteen years ago.

  She could still dance, of course, but her ankle could not hold her weight as well, and Maude would do nothing if she could not do it perfectly. Thus, partly because of her talent and her reputation for hard work and perfection, and partly because she had grown up helping her mother at the ballet school, she was able to attain the position as the ballet mistress at the conservatoire. And when the Opera House was inaugurated a decade ago, Maude brought some of her rats with her to the new theater. Of course, it had not hurt that she had demonstrated her other…skills to the messieurs Debienne and Poligny for years. They had had quite a comfortable arrangement.

  “I am quite certain I know which one is Box Five. It is the one that has always been reserved by Debienne and Poligny,” Armand replied, but he did not sound convinced. Perhaps it was the massive shelf of her jutting breasts that had distracted him. But, no, to Maude’s annoyance, he was back on another topic almost immediately. “And what is this about Christine Daaé? I can barely read the creature’s writing.”

  “Miss Daaé is the Opera Ghost's protégée, and he merely suggests—”she put gentle emphasis on that word “—that she be afforded the same types of roles and attention as La Carlotta has had. In fact, that was why he was particularly annoyed that his box was occupied last night. He wished to see her debut performance.”

  “Miss Daaé, his protégée?” Armand repeated as Maude steered him down the wide sweep of marble steps that led to the main salon of the Opera House.

  “Of course. The ghost is quite a musical genius, and he has been tutoring her for the last several months.”

  “Tutoring her?”

  Maude resisted a sigh. His continued repetition of every phrase she uttered was becoming tiresome. Best to fill that mouth with something other than confused words, and the sooner the better.

  “Now, Monsieur Armand,” she said patiently. “Let me explain to you, as I am certain that you are wondering even though you have not asked…how I’ve come to know so much about the Opera Ghost.”

  He looked at her in surprise; apparently, he had not thought to wonder any such thing. Maude sighed. Apparently, the man's head was filled with numbers and nothing else. Well, she would quickly change t
hat.

  “Oui, madame, I should like to know.”

  “I have been given the responsibility by the Opera Ghost to steward his box—Five, of course—and to make certain it is always ready for him. He prefers me and no one else to enter the box. Ah. And here we are, Monsieur Armand.”

  She opened the door to Box Five with a flourish.

  Armand stepped in hesitantly, and Maude followed him. The box was more of a circle than a square, for the balcony edge was round, and it curved around into a small room. The only wall of the little chamber that was straight was the one from which they’d entered.

  There were six seats in the box, the last row set back in the shadows to provide privacy for the occupants. Behind the last row, between it and the door, was a narrow strip of floor, just wide enough to accommodate a person who might wish for a horizontal surface, as Maude had occasion to know.

  The box was dark except for the faint glow of light that eked into the theater from the narrow stained-glass windows, one on each wall of the building. The filtered light showed only the suggestion of rows of humped seats and the bare curve of the other eleven private boxes. The stage was dark as a tomb; it was too early for any of the rehearsals or stagehands to be moving about.

  Theater was a night business.

  She and Armand were perfectly alone.

  “Now, Monsieur Armand,” said Maude, taking matters into her own hands without hesitation, “let us dispense with that letter and discuss what is really important.” She plucked the parchment from his fingers and let it flutter to the floor.

  “What…what is it that you mean…” Armand should have ended the statement with a question mark, but instead, his voice trailed off into nothing as Maude closed her hand around the front of his trousers.

  “Why, this, Monsieur Armand.” Ahh, yes. His little John was quite interested in becoming the really important topic of conversation.

  “But…Madame Giry!” Armand’s voice cracked like that of a boy turning to man…but he did not move from her proximity. No…he did not move away, but he did not move closer. His breathing sharpened, however, and Maude recognized this as progress for her shy teddy bear.