Chapter 32
Sure enough, on the second morning of January, I was summoned to an urgent meeting in the managers’ office.
No part of me wanted to go. I couldn’t think of a single good reason a singer who no longer worked for the company should be called in.
Erik’s voice echoed in my head with every step I took toward the Opéra Populaire.
Your chains are still mine. You will sing for me.
The words became a chant, a litany, a mantra, making my limbs jangly and my stomach so nauseous that when I finally arrived at the corner of the Rue Scribe and the Rue Auber, I stood beside a streetlamp, pressing a hand to my middle and praying for the strength to go inside.
“Christine?”
Raoul stood on the far side of the street, bundled against the cold in a greatcoat and my favorite of his cashmere scarves. He waited for a hansom cab to pass by before crossing to me. I watched his approach, feeling my unease spread and expand.
On the night of the masquerade, after Madame Giry had brought me back to the hall, Raoul had taken me home.
It had been a tense carriage ride as he silently seethed, tightly holding on to my hand and rubbing the spot where his ring should have been.
He’d bidden me a terse good night, and I hadn’t seen him since.
But he seemed in better spirits this morning, even bending down to give my cheek a quick kiss in greeting. “What a pleasant surprise. How did you know I would be here?”
“I didn’t,” I admitted, and pulled out the telegram I’d received.
He scanned the short missive and laughed. “I had almost the exact same thing delivered to the town house this morning. Though they were a bit more flowery with their language in mine.”
There was a break in traffic, and Raoul gestured for us to cross the street.
“Did they say what they wanted?”
He made a sound of incredulity. “Christine…there are only a handful of things it could be.”
I didn’t like the way his tone darkened, but I could only follow after him as he jogged up the steps to the Populaire. He held the door open for me, hurrying us both inside to get out of the chill. “Raoul, could we talk about the other night? Please?”
He shook his head, schooling his expression into a more pleasant neutral. “There’s nothing to discuss. It was…” He sighed. “You were right. You didn’t want to go to the party, and I made you, and now here we are.”
“Here we are,” I echoed, and stared up the grand staircase, feeling miserable.
When we arrived at the second floor, Monsieur Firmin and Monsieur André were in the midst of an argument so terrible we could hear their sharp bickering all the way down the hall.
Monsieur André sounded apoplectic. “He says we need another first bassoon. We only just hired the poor man during Il Muto because he told us to!”
“And what about this here?” Monsieur Firmin struck his fist against something. “He wants to sack half the chorus. Says the lot of them are off pitch!”
Raoul glanced down at me, suddenly looking concerned. “What are we about to walk into? I feel as though I’ve been called to the headmaster’s office.”
Carlotta came around the corner, barreling by us in a blur of dark brocades, feathered trim, and clacking heels before throwing wide the office door. “Outrage!” she screamed, stepping inside. “Every bit of this is an outrage!”
Quieter footsteps echoed down the hall, and we turned to see Ubaldo.
“Ah, buongiorno,” he said, cheerful and out of breath as he doffed his bowler hat to me. “Happy New Year to you both.”
“Happy New Year,” Raoul responded, and pointed toward the office. “What’s all that about?”
“Have you seen the size of my part?” Carlotta’s screeching was impossible not to overhear.
Ubaldo let out a sigh. “This year already feels like a decade.” He paused and fixed a stern look upon his face before ducking in, clutching a torn envelope with a familiar wax seal. “Just look at this—it’s an insult!” he cried.
“Not you as well,” we heard Monsieur Firmin mutter.
Raoul loosened the knot of his scarf and studied the door. “There’s no time like the present, I suppose.”
“I don’t want to go in,” I admitted, whispering. “What if we run?”
It had been a lighthearted suggestion, an attempt to make him smile, but he only stared at me with a strange expression clouding his face before stepping inside. There was nothing for me to do but follow.
I’d never had cause to visit the managers’ office before. Every piece of furniture felt too large and intentionally imposing. Tall mahogany wainscoting trimmed the walls, and several posters of past productions hung in enormous gilt frames.
Two large desks were in the center of the room, pushed together so that the men might spend the day glaring at one another, and several wingback chairs filled the rest of the space. It was only after ten in the morning, but the office already smelled of cigars and port.
“Oh, here she is,” Carlotta sniped, turning as we entered. “Our darling little flower.”
Monsieur Firmin hurried to rise from his seat.
He looked completely disheveled: His jacket was missing, and his shirtsleeves were rolled to his elbows.
His hair stuck out in all directions as if he’d been tugging at it, and dark circles rimmed his eyes.
“Miss Daaé! Monsieur le Vicomte. Welcome, welcome. So good of you to join us. Thank you for your haste. You know how much we appreciate you both.”
I glanced at Raoul. Whatever I’d expected, it had not been…this.
Monsieur André crossed to us and placed a fawning hand on my back. “Marvelous to see you. Simply marvelous.”
From her chair, Carlotta rolled her eyes heavenward. “Just get on with it!”
Monsieur André shuffled a series of papers about before finding a large bound manuscript. He clutched it to his chest before handing it to me. “Congratulations are in order. It seems you have secured the largest role in our new production of Don Juan Triumphant.”
I looked at the object in my hands, dumbstruck.
It was a score. Erik’s score.
Slowly, I shook my head and set the music back on the desk. I couldn’t bear to look at it. I didn’t want to even touch it.
Carlotta let out a bitter tfft. “This is absolute lunacy. The casting. The music. Have you even read the score? Do you know its demands? Of course not! If you did, you would know that Christine Daaé doesn’t have the voice to pull it off. We all know it. Look! Look! Even she knows she can’t—”
“Signora, please,” Monsieur Firmin snarled.
“I’m not a fool!” she insisted. “I see what’s happening here. This little ingénue finds herself a powerful lover, and you all move heaven and earth to please her.”
“How dare you!” I hurled the words at her as if they were physical weapons. “You evil woman!”
“You think I’m blind?” she roared, turning on me.
“This isn’t my fault!”
“Not yours,” Carlotta agreed, casting a vicious side-eye toward Raoul.
“Not mine either,” Raoul snapped.
Monsieur André stepped between them. “Neither of them had anything to do with this casting. I assure you, they’ve been in the dark as much as the rest of us. No. This decision—like so many other of these artistic choices—comes down from the composer.”
“The composer?” Carlotta echoed, fear and fury warring upon her face. “That beast?”
Erik. Erik had written this. Erik had cast me.
“ ‘Artistic choices,’ ” Ubaldo minced, waving his copy of the score in the air. “Can you really call this gibberish art?”
Your chains are still mine. You will sing for me.
“No,” I declared, shaking my head. “I’m not going to sing this. Give the role to Carlotta. I don’t want any part in this plot. I’m done.”
“You’re backing out?” Carlotta’s eyes flashed across everyone gathered in the room. “You all heard her say it!”
“Miss Daaé, surely you don’t mean that,” Monsieur Firmin sputtered as his face took on a ghastly shade of green.
“You have a duty,” Monsieur André said. “Dash it all! Think of your contract. Think of your responsibilities!”
“No contract in the world could make me sing this.” I crossed to Raoul, feeling tears begin to well in my eyes. “They can’t force me to do this, can they?”
Raoul looked stricken. He drew me near, creating a safe space for us. “Of course not. You’ve no obligation to them,” he said. “They can’t make you do anything,” he added, shooting daggers toward the managers.
“Messieurs?”
Everyone whipped around to find Madame Giry standing in the office doorway, holding out a white envelope. I noticed the way she studiously avoided my stare.
“Another note,” she announced.
Everyone groaned.
Monsieur André waved a careless hand toward her. “Just go on and read it.”
Before she moved to comply, Madame Giry glanced at me. Holding my gaze with an inscrutable look, she slipped her thumb under the envelope’s flap and broke the heavy wax seal. Erik’s letter was several pages thick.
“Fondest greetings to you all,” she began, and it annoyed me how strong and clear her voice was.
Every part of me was shaking.
“A few instructions just before rehearsals start.”
Monsieur Firmin let out a snort of derision.
“Carlotta, though blessedly relegated to a much-diminished role, must be taught to act. Her normal trick of strutting round the stage will no longer suffice.”
The soprano let out a strangled sound, ready to defend herself, but Madame Giry continued on, without allowing for comments.
“Our Don Juan must attempt to lose some weight.” Here, she did pause, to offer Ubaldo a sympathetic expression. “It’s not healthy in a man of Piangi’s age.”
From his chair, Ubaldo sniffed, even as he sucked in a deep breath, attempting to make himself look smaller.
She whipped toward the managers next. They’d returned to their desks and stood shoulder to shoulder, as if about to march into war. Madame Giry’s already sharp figure stiffened, preparing for the blow to come.
“And my managers must learn that their place is in an office, not the arts.”