What had begun at the start of the year as speculative gossip had, by the summer, become looked upon as a certainty. Lefèvre, with his usual disregard for the intelligence and perception of theatre folk, denied the entire business until the bitter end. But no empty reassurances on his part could disguise his anxiousness to quit his station. Nor could he hide the well-dressed men who began to intrude on the rehearsals, getting in the way of the performers and befouling the air with cigar smoke…
I remember very clearly the day I met MM. Firmin and André. They stand out so prominently from the other gentlemen who examined the workings of the Opera because on seeing them I was reminded of Philippe Avenaut’s assertion that M. Lefèvre, when left to himself, would inevitably make the worst possible decision in any matter.
They arrived in the ballet studio as the younger apprentices were warming up at the barre, and in no time at all were making thorough nuisances of themselves. Determined to examine the girls up close they walked up and down the rows, distracting the dancers with their proximity. It wasn’t the best position for the gentlemen either, for they were obliged to dodge the battements and degagés of the girls around them. Finally, one young apprentice managed to kick M. Firmin directly on his seat, inducing a hearty laugh from the class and prompting the three gentlemen to take my suggestion to watch the proceedings at a distance.
After the class, M. Lefèvre introduced his "business colleagues" to me (did he really think I would believe nothing had brought these men but a mere curiosity in their associate’s employment?), identifying me as "our most estimable mistress of ballet." I wonder if his adulation was meant to impress the prospective buyers. I know it didn’t affect me any.
M. André did, at first, seem to be amiable—but then he was obviously making a conscious effort to be so. "Mme. Adele Giry," he greeted me warmly, heartily clasping my extended hand. "A name not entirely unfamiliar to me. I have heard Philippe Avenaut quite depends upon you in his absence. Fortunate man, isn’t he? To study at the feet of Petipa himself…how marvelous it must be! I dare say, he feels much the same way I did when I had the supreme honor of meeting the glorious Jenny Lind—did you ever have the opportunity to work with her?"
"I’m afraid not," I replied, concealing both amusement and distaste, "for as a dancer, I had little occasion to work with those in the vocalist’s sphere."
"Quite true, quite true. More’s the pity, though—such a wonderfully charming woman, to say nothing of her—good Heaven!" he broke off, glancing behind me. "Can that be Mlle. Lisbet Manneheim who just entered?" I confirmed it, and he sighed rapturously. "How wonderful! The most exquisite dancer in all of France—save perhaps, Madame, your own splendid daughter, whom I hope to have the fortune of making the acquaintance of. To think, only three years ago I was watching her celebrated Giselle, and now to be standing within twenty yards of her! I must introduce myself—excuse me—" And without so much as a by-your-leave he abandoned me for more renowned society, leaving me in the company of his colleague Firmin.
Unlike André, M. Firmin didn’t seem very eager to make acquaintances with the stars of the Opera—or anyone else, for that matter. "Does there really need to be so many of them?" he asked me gruffly.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Dancers, Madame, dancers! Do you really need all these girls? Seems like an awful waste of salary money to me."
"The stage of the Opera is a large one," I reminded him, "we need a large cast to fill it."
"I don’t see why. Surely a small company of high quality is more preferable to a large and ungainly one."
"Forgive me, Monsieur, but I would hardly call any member of the ballet corps ungainly. Besides," I added slyly, for I quickly saw the way Firmin’s mind worked, "reducing the company would cause several complications. To begin with, our patrons would be less impressed with our productions. Secondly, where the ballet is concerned, the dances were designed with a certain number of performers in mind. If the chorus were lessened, we would have to alter the dance accordingly, which would involve a large amount of otherwise extraneous rehearsal."
"Indeed." His face arranged itself in a scowl, an expression which it was evidently very familiar with. "Blast it, there must be some way to increase the profits of this place! Lefèvre!" he bellowed, summoning the man from another corner of the room. "I’ve calculated every obvious expense of this company, and the margin of income should be several thousand a year more than what you’ve given us. What are we missing?"
"Some of the company’s expenses are not so obvious," I murmured cryptically.
"What the devil is that supposed to mean?"
"Oh, just minor expenses, petty cash here and there, nothing serious," Lefèvre added hastily before ushering me away from the buyer. "Now, Madame, he’s just running some accounts for me; he doesn’t need you tossing riddles at him," he hissed.
"If you say so," I replied with a shrug. If Lefèvre wished to conceal certain idiosyncrasies about the Opera House from his clients until after they signed on the dotted line, what was that to me?
They came around several more times after that, the frequency of their visits speaking louder than Lefèvre’s poor attempts to keep the company in the dark. So it didn’t surprise me when some weeks later Erik asked me what I knew of the men who had decided to take the company off M. Lefèvre’s hands.
"I’ll give you the good news first, as I’m afraid there’s precious little of it," I responded. "Giles André does have a good knowledge of music and stage production—a fortunate thing, since his partner not only does not know one note from another, but doesn’t care either. In other circumstances, he might easily have been superior to Lefèvre."
His eyes widened inquiringly. "But?"
"He’s somewhat obsessed with the notion of notoriety. His entire value of a person’s worth is based solely upon the previous acclaim they have received. Moreover, he sees acquaintance with such celebrity as an asset, and goes out of his way to obtain it. He didn’t look twice at most of the corps, but he fawned over Meg and Lisbet, and he flirted with Carlotta in a way that would have been obscene in a man half his age. Her Ladyship, of course, relished every second of it."
He shuddered. "That is a thought I could have done entirely without," he said. "What did Carlotta’s pet tenor have to say about that?"
"Ubaldo Piangi? Nothing, of course…the man would not condemn his precious diva even if he caught her tumbling chorus boys in her dressing room. He has to be the greatest weakling to walk across that stage; I’m certain that’s why Carlotta likes him."
"Come now, Madame, Carlotta doesn’t adore him simply for his timidity," he retorted impishly. "The fact that he worships the ground she walks on is of great value to her." I laughed in agreement. "And what of Richard Firmin?"
"M. Firmin," I said in deliberately neutral tones, "is a practical man of business, and is wholly unencumbered by any aesthetic or artistic sense that might impede his judgment. He greatly prides himself on his sense of economy, and considers himself unparalleled in his talent for thrift and prudence."
"You mean to say he’s a parsimonious skinflint."
"Only to the point of making Shylock seem a philanthropist, and Silas Marner a spendthrift," I replied with a snort.
"And without their excuse, for both those men came to avarice when they suffered injustice," he remarked thoughtfully. "This does present a problem, though. Men who are overly attached to money are almost invariably great fools, but they are also less inclined to…superstition."
"Firmin fits both of those criteria," I agreed. "As a ‘practical’ man, he has no use for that which cannot be seen or touched…or spent. And he has no concept of the fact that in the theatre one has to spend money in order to make it. He’s already made more than a few enemies with his salary cuts, and Mme. Lefarge quit the company altogether when he adjusted her contract."
"Is that so?" He pressed his fingertips together, a habit of his more pensive moods. "Mme. Lefarge was Carlotta’s understudy, correct?"
"And she endured a great deal of grief as such," I confirmed. "Signora Carlotta does not like to think that she can be replaced, and the very necessity of an understudy is an insult to her." I sighed with pity. "I feel for M. Reyer. He’s hard-pressed enough trying to put together the gala performance for Firmin and André, and now he has to go about finding another poor soul to act as Carlotta’s understudy."
His eyes narrowed. "I would have thought a gala would be a simple thing to arrange. Throw together a few scenes from the repertoire, a few rehearsals, and it’s done."
It wasn’t like him to be unaware of the happenings at the Opera, but I didn’t make an issue of it. After all, his time had been otherwise engaged of late. "Under normal circumstances, you would be right," I replied. "But the prospective management is already muddying the works. M. André is determined to have the entire third act of Hannibal as the centerpiece of the night—no small feat, considering the production is only partially staged at present! Reyer’s been behaving like some horrible vestige of the American slave trade, and as it is it will take every minute we have to get the affair on its feet a week from tomorrow."
He was very quiet for a time, his eyes distant thunderheads as he remained regally still in his usual chair. Finally he spoke. "Who are the current understudies for the corps de ballet?"
"Claire-Marie and Natasha — Natasha is the more accomplished of the two, and could possibly fill any position at a moment’s notice."
"Excellent. Then she should be well-equipped to perform in the gala next week."
"Why should she perform…oh." I paused to cope with the meaning of his cryptic words. "She must be quite proficient to excel with so brief a tutelage," I continued delicately. "Not much more than three months, unless I am mistaken."
"Not much more than that," he agreed, his words curiously wistful.
"Forgive my impertinence, but are you certain she is ready? Foolish question," I admitted, as he threw me an irritated glance which spoke volumes.
"Indeed," he replied. "Are you reluctant to see her leave your chorus?"
"A little, but it is of no consequence," I said, stroking the solid, reassuring line of my ebony staff. "All children grow up in their time, and even those dearest to us are certain to leave in one manner or another. I wish her good fortune—and you as well, for I fear you shall be in need of it. I would not be doing my duty to you, Erik, if I did not say that I believe Firmin and André will not be as easily prevailed upon as their predecessor was."
"You forget, Madame," he said, leaning forward ominously, "I can be very persuasive."
Although the timbre of that declaration chilled me, I couldn’t help but feel a touch of gratification at the potential comeuppance of two very ridiculous men.
Firmin and André would have a very unforgettable welcome to the Palais Garnier…
Go on to Chapter 15
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