Chapter Text
The front right wheel of her cart had been bothering Christine since she had been assigned to the costume department by Carlotta Giudicelli Choleti, Opera Garnier's prima donna, three months ago. Pushing the broken cart proved to be a tiring task as she trailed after Carlotta, collecting every costume and napkin so nonchalantly discarded throughout the opera house, all the while the cart constantly steered to the right.
Christine sighed.
She was now busy in the washroom, cleaning the prima donna's laundry, a delicately embroidered white costume gown in hand from last month's scandalous opera "La Traviata."
Cold water numbed her flushed fingertips. The feeling was now moving toward her thin elbows. Nonetheless, she continued scrubbing the item against a wooden washboard.
Once again, the stagehand blamed the Phantom of the Opera for the disaster. The orchestra had sounded, indicating the start of the play. The Font curtains parted to reveal the opening scene of a lavish party and La Carlotta in the leading role as Violetta, surrounded by a dozen suitors. Christine and a few others had been watching from the offstage left side, hidden from the audience. The new manager, Alain Choleti, was nearby, watching the performance of his wife and handsome actors with a poor poker face.
Christine smiled to herself a little, finding the manager amusing.
He was obviously jealous of his wife, flirting so openly in front of the audience for all to see. They were an unusually open couple, pecking and cooing at each other like a pair of lovebirds all the time, ignoring the looks of people around them. Many found their actions disdainful, but Christine thought them romantic.
As the performance continued, La Carlotta danced, reaching for a wine goblet from the waiter but raising the whole tray instead, as the props appeared stuck together. The woman tried to return the tray to the alarmed actor as if nothing had happened but found the entire thing glued to her hand. Panicking, Prima Donna frantically tried to remove it so she could continue the performance, but to no avail.
The audience burst into thundering laughter as the waiter started tugging at the tray, getting stuck to the woman in the process, and now being forced to dance after La Carlotta.
Finally having enough, La Carlotta fled the stage right into her husband's hands, with the tray and waiter in tow, and started sobbing into his chest. The curtains closed, but the laughter still shook the opera house.
That poor woman. Christine felt bad for laughing then. The older woman didn't deserve such a cruel trick played on her a second time.
Christine inspected the gown in her hands. Satisfied, she gingerly squeezed it dry.
Inspector Ledoux, after a thorough investigation, revealed that the goblet, surprisingly, had been glued to the tray beneath. Who would have thought? He interrogated the entire theatre crew and found nothing. The criminal had apparently been very clever, as he left no trace.
Christine hummed.
The Phantom of the Opera was a myth she learned about as soon as she entered the Opera Garnier. A kind doorman by the name of Jean-Claude took pity on her and promised to ask for an audience with the new manager since the old manager, by the name of Carriere, resigned the very day she came to Paris.
He ushered her into the theatre hall right on time for Carriere's resignation speech.
As the older man welcomed Choleti to the rest of the staff, a letter fell from the walkway above and right into Carriere's hands. The temperature of the place changed instantly, visibly agitating the entire room. Carriere and Choleti abruptly left, and then the whispers started.
When the Phantom's terms were not met, he would haunt the opera house, forcing those who rebelled against him under his command. Doors slammed, and items disappeared.
Sometimes, even people vanished into thin air.
Le Fantome governed the entire establishment from the shadows, making sure that the opera was running smoothly and according to his every whim.
He also received a monthly salary of 20,000 francs in return for his services.
Christine scoffed.
Moving toward her cart, she discarded the white gown into the divider of the washed pile, reaching for a new, seemingly expensive bodice to clean next.
Why would a ghost need that much money? That was utter rubbish. A real ghost would have no use for it.
Unless the Phantom was a living man.
Christine was highly sceptical. The most likely explanation was that the elder staff members were bored and decided to scare newcomers for fun. It was a made-up story to keep youth in line.
As for the case of Madam Charlotta, she might have angered the stagehands, and they collectively decided to take their revenge on stage.
Twice. Christine was puzzled at how they didn't realise that their stunts could have a much worse effect on the opera house.
Christine washed the bodice quickly. She left it in the cart, reaching for a new crimson dress. A sharp pain shot through her right hand, and she flinched away.
A droplet of blood bloomed on the tip of Christine's index finger. It appears that she hadn't removed all the pins from the dress. She whipped the blood away.
Removing the pin, she carried the dress to the washing tub and started scrubbing in the icy water again.
Nonetheless, Christine reasoned that a job is preferable to no job at all. It was an honour to work for such a big production, no matter the position.
She came to Paris without a single franc left, only a letter and a dusty tote bag in hand.
Now she had a roof over her head, technically, it wasn't a roof since she stayed in the cellars that served as storage spaces, one warm meal per day in the canteen and a small salary she was meticulously trying to save for the upcoming winter.
Not to mention her mysteriously masked voice teacher, who startled her a week after she joined the opera and introduced himself under the pseudonym Maestro.
He offered her singing lessons free of charge under the condition that he remain anonymous by wearing a mask.
She tried to refrain from asking too many questions, but curiosity occasionally got the better of her. Every time she asked Maestro a semi-personal question, he would skillfully avert his attention to another matter, keeping the focus on their lessons.
Her late father had told her about many melodramatic artisans who lived in Paris and tried to express themselves in various ways through various means. After she remembered some of his stories, a simple mask fazed her the least. Paris was an eccentric city in and of itself.
With the laundry finally done, Christine organised clothes into a colour-coordinated order and started rubbing warmth into her numb hands.
At least her index finger didn't sting anymore.
She had agreed with Maestro on daily two-hour lessons from eight to ten in the evenings, excluding Sundays. She knew it was considerably late but had no other choice since she was working. She thought it was rude to inconvenience the man further, but he didn't seem to mind.
Maestro proceeded to reveal a stairway hidden behind a painting that connected the storage room to the dimly lit corridor on the second floor. He explained that the opera had many shortcuts used during construction that have since been forgotten. He then showed her into one of the less-used rooms, which she had previously thought was locked and off-limits.
Apparently not.
The room was empty besides a dresser, a few worn cellos, a large toolbox in one corner, and a beautiful mahogany piano in the centre.
Her Maestro was a gentle and precise teacher, he only approved of perfection, and she understood that.
He would occasionally dedicate an entire week's worth of classes to one intricate line in a music piece, making sure she executed it flawlessly.
In those lessons she wished to perish from boredom but did as he instructed anyways.
On particularly rough days right before the premieres, when she had to wait on hand and foot behind the stage with the costumes and spare props, he would pluck her right out of her queasy mood, bestowing a sea of calming words.
'Ever since I was a child, you are what I have been hearing in my dreams,' he once said to her.
Warmth spread across her cheeks.
She didn't know why she recalled that particular sentence.
Weird Parisians.
Bur Mestro wasn't a stranger to jokes either, making her chuckle on a few occasions. His blatantly dry sense of humour and occasional sarcasm had her stifling with laughter and left the man puzzled as to why she found his critiques so amusing. Christine smiled.
A loud chorus of feminine laughter rang outside the washroom, stopping her train of thought.
The ballet corp and chorus were not particularly fond of her. For what reason, she did not know, but she made it her task to talk less and avoid them as much as possible.
They always hung out in groups and were too loud for their own good.
She had to finish her errands quickly anyway. She never had time to mingle. Madam Charlotta demanded that her clothes and costumes be clean and ready for use by tomorrow morning.
She also had her lesson later. Maestro had assigned her the song called "Par Le Rang Et Par L'Opulence."
Pushing the cart, the faulty wheel steered to the right. Christine let out an irritated huff. She should ask one of the handymen to fix it.
As she entered the hall, a familiar voice rang from behind her.
"Christine?"
She was surprised to see the handsome face of Comte Philippe de Chagny heading her way.
Dressed impeccably from head to toe, as always. His blond hair was slightly longer than it had been when she had last seen him at the country fair a few months ago. He was visibly stunned, as was she.
He stood before her, studying her for a moment.
"It is you." he murmured, his eyes darting to the cart in front of her, and his expression shifted.
Christine's jaw set as she glanced toward the door. Seemingly, the entire ballet corp had gathered there together with the doorman, Jean-Claude. They appeared to be silently watching their interaction with great interest.
She shifted uncomfortably, brushing her blonde hair behind her ear.
"I- I swear I did not intend for you to be doing this." stuttered Philippe, grabbing her attention. He was gesturing to her cart.
It was true. At the fair, he had personally vowed to provide her with singing lessons at the Opera Garnier. He gave her his word, and she took it literally. How could he not know that the old manager had retired? He was the patron!
Since then, she learned that the Count made similar promises to numerous young women on a regular basis, trying to earn their favour.
Her stomach twisted.
"It's all right, monsieur, I'm honoured just to be here." she responded, trying to continue on her way. Having all the female members of the opera scrutinise her with their stares was unnerving. They were mocking her already, this would only add fuel to the fire.
The count put his foot against her cart, effectively stopping it. "No, you should be having singing lessons." he pressed on, still insisting, "It's what I promised you."
She glanced toward the mass occupying the doorway.
He had most likely promised something to every single one of them at one time or another. Christine didn't want to give off the false impression that she was involved with Philippe in any way. She wasn't deaf by any means, she was aware of his reputation among women of the upper class.
The last thing she needed on her back was promiscuous gossip. Christine held her tongue.
"You have a wonderful voice." he stated, a smile playing on his lips. "I know about these things, I come to the opera all the time."
Roaring laughter came from the gathered crowd in the doorway. Counts' smile faltered as he moved away. Christine flushed.
He comes to the opera for the beauty of faces rather than the beauty of music. She remembered the sea of love lockets that held his face in them.
Comte Philippe de Chagny never loved music and never would. In his eyes, the Palais Garnier was a place to rub shoulders with the aristocrats, flaunting achievements and women.
Christine's expression fell. If he ony knew music could be so much more.
"We will be at the bistro tonight!" squealed a woman in the crowd, and more giggles erupted in response.
The comte coughed, averting his gaze from Christine to their personal audience, a handsome smile plastered across his face. He straightened his back.
"Better than that, because I'm so happy to be back with all of you," he winked, and the girls giggled even louder. "I'm going to throw a party tonight for the entire company at the bistro!"
The women shrieked, clapping in excitement. De Chagny certainly knew how to animate a crowd.
This was her cue to leave before the women noticed, but the persistent comte stepped in front.
"Will you come with me, as my special guest?" he asked confidently. He must have gotten the wrong impression from her at some point. She should clear things up before it is too late.
The scowling face of her father entered her mind. He would have never allowed her to be in the company of a man such as de Cagney. The count didn't have the upper hand. She didn't owe him a favour in return since his promise failed, but she was glad it did. Maestro might not have proposed to teach her otherwise.
She remembered her teacher mentioning the bistro. It was a small restaurant reserved for more notable guests and opera stars, not far from the opera. Parties were held occasionally by wealthy patrons, and they would mingle among the renowned singers to boost their reputation and earn favours. Those who wished to perform would then be invited to the stage. It became a sort of tradition to sing.
It was a perfect place for novices like her to grab their chance to stand out and make a name for themselves. A cold feeling washed over her.
This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, she scolded herself. She wouldn't chicken out. She had to perform.
She knew that invitations were scarce. There was no telling how long it would take for such an opening to present itself again.
She looked at the expectant count in front of her. Having decided on her reply, she responded in a sure voice.
"Thank you for the invitation, monsieur." choosing to stay formal. "May I inquire about the time?"
Comte smiled in triumph.
"It starts at six tonight, until then, Christine." He nodded and turned, heading towards the door and the awaiting crowd. Girls swarmed him like bees around a flower.
The Parisians were an odd bunch.
Christine grabbed the cart and quickly strolled away. It was already two, which meant she didn't have much time.
She had to hang the clothes and find and inform Maestro right away.