Richard replied, "Carlotta was overset by an accident on the stage today, and it was decided she should rest her nerves this evening."
"An accident?" Raoul asked, concern in his face as he looked at Christine. "Somehow I had not considered the opera to be so dangerous."
"It is no more dangerous than crossing the street, unless one is foolish enough to believe in the stories about the ghost who haunts the theater," Richard grumbled.
"An opera ghost?" The comte was clearly amused. He drank again from his garnet-colored wine, and refilled the glass with a flourish.
"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.