Chapter 3
“Seigneur, daignez permettre à votre humble servante de s’agenouiller devant vous!” Carlotta trilled hours later as we began the second scene of Act IV.
We dancers were spread across downstage in a deep V formation, like a flock of migrating geese.
Scattered throughout our lines were dozens of supernumeraries—silent members of the company who neither sang nor danced but took up space like living scenic pieces—frozen in dramatic leering poses as we waited to begin tormenting Marguerite at prayer.
Giant pillars of painted marble rose all around us, sprouting from trapdoors on hydraulic lifts, as a soaring cathedral took shape.
It was a spectacle amazing to behold…the first dozen times you saw it.
Now, I could only think of how the mechanisms caused the whole stage to rumble.
I could feel the vibrations through the floor, an uncomfortable hum that seemed to center in my aching knees.
There were still nearly two acts left, but the corps had most of the fourth off. Meg and I usually shared a croissant and cups of tea in the greenroom as we waited for our next entrance. In my mind, I was already there.
From upstage center, a massive scenic unit was wheeled out—part staircase, part altar.
It rolled into place as a rose window, painted to look just like stained glass, flew down from the fly loft, like magic.
From my position, I noticed that the chocks, meant to secure the wheels at their new mark, had not been set.
The whole structure swayed uneasily as the chorus—sixty singers strong—descended, hurrying down the treads in their haste to complete the blocking in the allotted measures.
“Marguerite!” they sang ominously.
“Qui m’appelle?” Carlotta answered.
I dared a quick glance back into the darkened house behind me, certain someone else had noticed the impending disaster and would call a halt to the rehearsal. Our chief répétiteur, Monsieur Reyer, perhaps. Certainly, the conductor, Maestro Messenger.
But the music went on, everyone rushing about to hit their marks, to hit their notes.
And then it happened.
As the last chorus member came off the stairs, the entire structure pivoted and went careening into one of the cathedral arches. High above us, the column began to split.
“It’s the Phantom!” Meg screamed, jumping up as the altar groaned her way. Other dancers and company members fled as the broken piece of column splintered away. Caught on a rigging rope, it swung back and forth, a nightmarish pendulum ready to slice anyone in its vicinity.
I wanted to run but could only stare up in horror. My feet felt immovable and my costume, so airy and ethereal, had become dead weight, holding me to the floor.
Carlotta was too far downstage, too lost in her lyrics, to notice the chaos erupting around her. It wasn’t until Maestro Messenger stopped conducting, covering his mouth with dread, that she paused, brow furrowing as she prepared to lay into him.
The jagged shard snapped free, ending my daze and spurring me to action.
“Carlotta, run!” I cried, racing toward her. I crashed into her, and we went toppling into a papier-maché confessional.
The sound of the arch hitting the stage was deafening. It boomed all around us, thunder and madness. Dust and splinters of wood kicked up, stinging our eyes.
“Get this beast away from me!” Carlotta shrieked. “She’s trying to kill me!” The beading on her gown raked open welts all over my skin as she fought to free herself.
“I saved you,” I protested, ducking under her flailing bejeweled fists.
In the tussle, her veiled headdress came loose. Carlotta ripped the costume piece off and flung it downstage, just missing a cellist in the orchestra pit.
“You, again!” she cried, recognizing me.
“Me,” I agreed unhappily.
I struggled to stand as stagehands rushed on, followed by Carlotta’s entourage of handlers. She had a retinue—of dressers and make-up artists, a maid, and her aging mother—who trailed after her almost everywhere she went, cooing and fawning.
Though he wasn’t meant to be on for another two scenes, Ubaldo wandered out, looking up at the broken arch with wonder.
“What the devil is going on?” Monsieur Lefèvre demanded, skittering his way up the temporary stairs placed at the front of house during technical rehearsals for quick access.
“It was the Phantom. I’d stake my life upon it,” declared the chief flyman, Joseph Buquet, running onto the stage, out of breath from his race down from the rail. “The stairs were set, but they shifted anyhow. Surely the work of the Opera Ghost.”
“They weren’t,” I said, daring to disagree and join in on a conversation I had absolutely no right to be a part of. “I saw the wheels from my position. They were free.”
Joseph’s eyes flashed murderously, and he looked as if he might strike me. “My crew would never—”
“They did,” I insisted, unsure of where this rush of bravery had come from. I’d never so much as raised my voice during a rehearsal before, but it felt vitally important that the truth be told.
“Stupid girl doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” he said to Monsieur Lefèvre before shouting for more men. “I’d never be so careless. As if a ballerina understands anything we do!”
It took seven stagehands to lift the broken scenery and carry it offstage. Ubaldo made motions to help before giving up and joining a group of choristers huddled beside one of the wing’s velvet drapes.
Watching the men strain under the massive weight of the arch sent a shiver of horror through me, and suddenly, I was trembling all over, a delayed burst of shock and adrenaline.
That could have crushed me, I realized belatedly. I could have died.
Apparently coming to the same conclusion, Carlotta flung herself at her mother, sobbing into her shoulder with great heaving cries, loud enough to ensure that the rest of rehearsal would not continue.
“You’re fools! Every last one of you,” she screamed, her voice cracking with an alarming hitch. “And you!” she spat, whirling around on me. “It will be a wonder if I ever walk again. My foot is ruined!” She pulled up her skirts, exposing an admittedly swollen ankle. “It’s all your fault!”
My jaw dropped. “If I hadn’t gotten you out of the way, you’d be suffering from things much worse than a sprain!”
“Miss Daaé,” Monsieur Lefèvre said, noticing me. “It seems we’ve spoken more in the last twenty-four hours than we have in your entire tenure at the Opéra Populaire. Curious, isn’t it?”
“I told you!” Carlotta said, jabbing a wickedly manicured finger at me. “She is trying to steal my role out from under me.”
“I’m not,” I denied, feeling the weight of too many hostile eyes upon me.
Carlotta and Monsieur Lefèvre.
Joseph Buquet and his crew of stagehands.
The chorus. The supers.
Even the corps de ballet.
I took a nervous step backward, feeling the heat of the footlights lick at my ankles.
Part of me wanted to keep on going, right off the stage and into the orchestra pit.
Disappearing into the bowels of the opera sounded like a welcome reprieve.
“I—I’m not,” I stammered again. “I was only trying to help. I’m just a dancer. I would never—”
“If such ‘help’ continues, you’ll find yourself not even that!” Monsieur Lefèvre threatened. “In all my years as a manager—”
Carlotta cut him off with another wail, clutching her ankle. “It is too much! The pain! The pain! I cannot go on!” Without warning, she collapsed into the arms of her maid, confident she would be caught.
Ubaldo rushed to her side, barking orders as the group of women carried her offstage. The rest of the company shifted their attention to front of house, waiting for instruction. From the pit, Maestro Messenger let out a sigh of exasperation and began dismissing the orchestra for the night.
“Miss Daaé, a word?” Monsieur Lefèvre said as everyone began to shuffle back to their dressing rooms.
I noticed the dark silhouette of Madame Giry, watching from the wings. I wished with all my might that she would come rescue me, but she only gave us a long, unreadable stare before stalking after a group of dancers, clearing her throat as she prepared to give notes.
I turned to Monsieur Lefèvre, apprehension roiling in my gut. “You must believe me, monsieur, I didn’t mean for Carlotta to get hurt. Truly. I was trying to help her. The staircase shifted so quickly, and she didn’t notice—”
“Oh, quiet, girl!” he barked. “Anyone with eyes could see you were rushing to her aid, not her demise.”
I blinked, stunned by his change of tone.
“I’m quite grateful for your quick reflexes.
Had you not been there…” He shuddered, scratching his neck, and I saw a flash of painfully red hives hidden under his cravat.
“That said, I cannot have another instance of you upsetting her. She nearly screamed herself hoarse with those histrionics. Opening night is in just three days’ time, and we fly without a safety net here, Miss Daaé, as you know.
I cannot afford to have her worried some ballet girl is trying to take her place! ”
“But I’m not!” I protested, feeling a flush of heat rise in my chest. “Monsieur Lefèvre, I promise to you that I’d never. Never!”
“Quiet!”
Tears welled in my eyes. I wasn’t trying to take Carlotta’s role. The thought had never once even crossed my mind.
Had it?
It was true she had everything I’d furtively longed for. The soprano lead in every opera we performed, a besotted audience and a dazzling wardrobe, dozens of suitors lining up at the stage door each night to profess their adoration. And her voice…
Though it wasn’t what it once had been, it still was commanding.
Much more than I ever could claim. To have an entire auditorium focused upon your every breath, gasping as you hit notes as high as the angels above.
To become one with the music itself. I fell asleep each night dreaming such dizzying desires.
But still…
I could no sooner take on her role than I could the president of France.