But Christine proved especially difficult. By that I don’t mean she was ever contrary or rebellious—indeed, I don’t think I’ve ever met a more compliant creature—but that she refused any attempts to bring her out of her despair. I tried to extend a motherly hand to her, Lord knows I did, but all my efforts were met with a gentle refusal and a half-hearted reassurance that I mustn’t worry for her. Meg also did her best to coax Christine out of her shell with kindness and friendship, and with no better luck. She even invited Christine to supper on one occasion, but between the two of us we could gather no more than an impression of intense sorrow and longing for something eternally out of reach.
"I don’t know how she can bear it," I mentioned to Meg afterwards, "Such melancholy cannot come to good; I’m half afraid she might do herself a harm."
"No, Christine’s as good a Catholic as I’ve seen; she’d never dare such an extreme measure," she assured me. "But I must agree with you about the rest. I think she’s determined not to burden anyone else with her grief, and so refuses all ministrations which might alleviate her of it."
"A very noble intention, but one I fear will only lead to her own destruction." I fixed my attention on mending the hem to one of my gowns, the dip and pull of the needle strangely calming. "It isn’t healthy, allowing sorrow to press upon one’s soul and denying all attempts of relief. Madness springs from such behavior."
"It might be easier if the other dancers were kinder to her," Meg observed, "but I think she suffers all the more because of their contempt." And she was right, for whatever problems Christine Daaé had when she came to the Opera, they were certainly compounded by the cruelty of Violette and her cronies.
Violette St. Denis had been admitted to the ballet chorus about a year before, and wasted no time in making me rue that day. I’d dealt with willful insolence before, but never before had I encountered such a vain and impudent girl. As if this were not trying enough, she took a depraved pleasure in playing the dancers against one another. Over the months of her employment, the chorus divided into two factions: those who had the dubious honor of Violette’s favor and followed her like so many doting spaniels, and those who became victims of that coterie. Worst of all, she was terribly clever. She maintained a charming and sweet air in the presence of one whom she wished to impress, but once that person had gone she would drop the façade and lecture on his faults to anyone who cared to listen. And once I had made it perfectly clear I would not tolerate her behavior in my presence, she resolved the problem by the simple expedient of going behind my back. I did what I could, but it’s quite difficult to punish someone if you don’t catch her in the act.
But shrewd though she was, even Violette made mistakes. One day, as I approached the studio to conduct rehearsal, the doors burst and I was greeted by the sight of Christine stumbling out into the hallway. She did not notice my presence but fled past me down the corridor, the sound of her choked sobs the only explanation I needed. Livid, I strode into the studio, cutting off the laughter within as every girl turned to me in surprise and disquietude.
"Well?" Silence greeted my demand. "Don’t pretend ignorance; Christine went past me in the hall. Who’s responsible?"
No verbal response was issued. But Meg bent over, ostensibly adjusting the ribbon on one of her slippers, and with a nearly imperceptible but distinct gesture identified the culprit.
As I’d thought, the most obvious suspect. "Violette, come into my office for a moment."
Everyone looked at me in surprise, clearly suspecting I had pulled the name from their thoughts. Violette acquiesced with a show of docility, but dropped the charade as soon as the office door shut behind us.
"You’ve no right to do this," she accused. As soon as she had learned I would not be fooled by her artifice, Violette ceased all pretense of respect. "I’ve done nothing wrong, you always blame me—"
"Call it a logical deduction," I said dryly. "You’ve the makings of a fine dancer, Violette, I fail to see why you continue to lessen yourself in this manner."
"Perhaps I should fawn over you like your daughter, or that twit Daaé," she spat.
"Do they? They’re not very good at it, sycophancy doesn’t work if it goes unnoticed."
"It’s all her fault, anyway," Violette sniffed, giving a toss to her raven curls. "Christine thinks she’s so much better than anyone else; she doesn’t say anything to anyone and refuses to join us on our outings—"
"Like the time you put knots in the slippers of all the apprentice dancers?" I interrupted.
She blenched momentarily, confirming the indictment. "That was the Opera Ghost," she stammered.
"The Opera Ghost rarely wastes his time playing pranks on harmless young girls," I remarked coolly. Besides, who do you think told me about the ordeal to begin with?
"Perhaps you should look in Mlle. Daaé’s room for evidence," she said with silk in her voice. "It wouldn’t surprise me one bit; I’ve long suspected she’s the one responsible for the tricks being played on me in my dressing room."
"Or perhaps that same Phantom is expressing his disapproval of your behavior," I reminded her ominously.
"Don’t patronize me," she sneered, "I’m not fooled by your sinister airs. You behave all cold and fearful when really you can’t bear the fact that I’m prettier and more clever and you’re nothing but a dried-up old hag."
"Old I may be, and dried up," I said as I rose stiffly, "But at least I shall not be mucking out the dressing rooms for the next week."
"You can’t do that," Violette scoffed, though fear was behind her eyes.
"You may think yourself pretty and clever, Mlle. St. Denis," I told her icily, "but do not imagine that you can insult me, malign your fellow dancers, and cause fights with impunity. That which goes around comes around, especially in the theatre. And most especially in this Opera House."
I brushed past her into the studio, where the rest of the chorus sat expectantly. "I’m going to fetch Christine," I announced. "Meg and Lisbet will oversee the rehearsal until I return. If I hear of any more foolishness, I’ll see to it you scrub every inch of floor from the cellar lake to the roof. Is that clear?"
They assented, well aware that I did not waste time with idle threats. I abandoned them without further word and headed for the dressing-room area.
But Christine was not in her suite, nor had anyone I encountered taken notice of her path. I started to worry that she might have left the building, but as I crossed near the stage I heard a voice raised in song, and I directed my steps towards it. There were no rehearsals scheduled for the singers at this hour…
The shadows concealed the enormity of the auditorium, and work lights cast sickly yellow pools at irregular intervals. In one lighted space near the front of the stage stood Christine, her eyes closed on tears and mournful notes pouring from her lips. It was a simple sound, lacking in confidence, but so resonant and sincere that it moved me all the more. I walked onto the stage, my steps echoing unnaturally in the empty space and startling Christine to silence.
"No, don’t apologize," I said, seeing the contrition in her face, "I don’t blame you for wishing to leave an…uncomfortable situation." I drew nearer to her, mystified by this revelation of unknown talent. "That was very beautiful…I didn’t know you sang."
"I used to all the time, but now it only comes to me when I’m alone, and very happy…or very sad." The pain in her voice told me the second circumstance was more frequent.
"I must say, I’m surprised you didn’t chose a vocal career instead of ballet," I commented.
"I did dream of being a prima donna, once. I even took some lessons at the Conservatore…but I just couldn’t get the technique right, and the singing-master eventually gave up and told me I’d never have a career in opera. And then…then Father died, and it seemed all the music had gone out of my life…"
I lay a consoling arm across her shoulders and guided her upstage to a wood and papier-mâché bench, a property for some garden scene or another. "I wish I’d known your father. I saw him perform once, and he seemed as good a man as he was a musician. You must have loved him very much."
"He was my everything," she whispered, sinking onto the bench. "We traveled around a lot when I was younger, performing in village fairs and the like, and he was often the only company I had."
"Your mother—?"
"She passed away when I was very young; I never knew her. Not that I minded it one bit—he had so many stories and songs and games that I never despaired for other companionship." Her memories brought some color back into her face, and for the first time I saw her smile. "We went from town to town, sleeping in haylofts or under the stars…It was the most exiting adventure a child could imagine. Sometimes we heard thunder or wind or howling wolves, and it frightened me. But Father…would take me in his arms and tell me my favorite stories until I forgot to be afraid."
"What sort of stories?" I pressed. This unanticipated disclosure intrigued me, and I was reluctant to allow Christine to slip back into her customary silence.
"Oh, old legends from our homeland, fairy-tales, and the like. But my favorite…" She paused, blushing with embarrassment. "Never mind, you’ll think it foolish."
"I never think childhood memories are foolish," I assured her. "And I promise, I won’t repeat a word of this to another soul, if that’s what you wish."
"Well…" She gnawed her lip in hesitation, then summoned the courage. "Father would tell me of an angel—the Angel of Music, who watches over and inspires all the musicians of the world. He said that as long as a person lives with music in their soul, the Angel is with them, guiding them in their ways and comforting them in their dark hours. Sometimes, when I lay down to sleep, I would pretend the Angel was standing at the foot of my bed, sheltering me in his wings and singing with the most beautiful voice under Heaven." She blinked back a nostalgic tear. "I always loved that story, even after I’d gotten too old for other fables. I think, in a way, Father really believed in him. When he was…after he became ill, he would say that he would remember me to the Angel of Music, and send him down so that I’d never be lonely without him." She shook her head, and the tears came free. "But I never heard him again, not even in my sleep. Like the rest of my dreams, he vanished when Father died."
"I understand. Meg became the whole of my life when she was born, and if something happened to her—" I shuddered and pushed the thought away. "But still, I can’t help but think that we best honor the departed by trying to be happy despite their absence, for surely that’s what they would wish for us."
"Perhaps." She lifted her sorrow-lined face. "In a way I know you’re right, that Father would want me to go on without him. But I don’t know how. It’s been so long, I can’t find the way back alone and…oh, Mme. Giry, I’m not sure if I believe in angels anymore."
Nothing I could think of to say seemed appropriate, so I let her rest against my shoulder as I gazed out into the darkness. There’s something magical about an empty theatre; the memories of past glory and the anticipation of future triumphs hang like fine perfume in the air and fill the vast space with tangible energy. As we sat there, I could almost imagine that the silence was a sentient creature, creeping around us and listening to our every word with intense curiosity. I relished the sensation for a moment before breaking the spell. "I must get back to rehearsal. If you’d rather not attend today—"
"No. I won’t let them frighten me away." The tilt of her chin suddenly took a determined cast, and the sudden strength behind her eyes surprised me.
"That’s the spirit," I encouraged her, taking her arm like an old friend as the stillness watched us leave.
Go on to Chapter 12
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