She knew the music, and opened her mouth to sing, pushing her breath out as her angel had taught her, keeping her mouth rounded and her notes long and true until the end. As her song poured forth-hesitant at first, then a bit wobbly, then soft, then louder and clearer-Christine basked in the wonder of the most exciting moment of her seventeen years.
She closed her eyes, every detail of the beautiful Opera House printed on her memory, but in her imagination, she added people filling the rows of stalls that curved in an easy arch in front of the pit, and in the gallery beyond. The high, domed ceiling of the auditorium was painted with Lenepveu's colorful rendition of the Muses, dancing gracefully in a circle of clouds. In the center of the painting stretched a long chain from which hung a magnificent crystal chandelier.
Boxes with crimson interiors adorned the walls of the auditorium, the closest ones near enough that Christine would be able to see the detail of any female spectator's gown. Massive gold columns separated the boxes, and the front of each balcony was decorated with an ornate design of flowers, fleurs-de-lis, and cherubs. Above Christine's head, over the proscenium, trumpeted more angels with their elegant instruments.
Even if the managers did not let her sing tonight, she was standing on the stage and
If this was to be her only chance,
When she finished singing, Christine could not resist making a grand curtsy, though there was no audience to see her. When she straightened up, she glanced first at Madame Giry-whose stern face held the barest sketch of approval-and then at the skeptical Monsieur Richard.
He was smiling.
Now, as they prepared for the evening performance that was to celebrate the Opera House's two new managers, as well as its new patrons, Madame stood behind Christine and surveyed her in the floor-to-ceiling mirror.
"You look beautiful, Christine," she told her, critically examining her from the fall of the gown to the pile of dark hair at the top of her head. Their eyes met above the three busy costumiers that poked and prodded at Christine's headdress, her shoes, her flounces. "He will be very pleased."
At the mention of
"It is my greatest hope that I shall do so." She was looking at the mirror directly in front of her, the item that dominated the small, narrow dressing room. The room
"Come, now, you have done with the fussing!" Madame snapped at the frithering girls, who seemed to have noticed a change in the air and were casting about in fright. "Out!"
She shepherded everyone out and, with her hand on the door, turned to look at Christine. "He wishes a moment with you before you sing."
Christine was startled. Their lessons, where he taught her to master her untutored voice and to feel the music throughout her entire being, occurred in the chapel, where she prayed for her father and mother, and where he had first spoken to her, or in the conservatoire. But never had he communicated with her at any other time. Would he speak to her now?
Madame was gone, and Christine stood in front of the mirror, looking at herself and the long expanse of empty chamber behind her. The light burned low and warm, yet the shadows loomed tall into the curved ceiling.
She felt him. He was there, her
The air trembled and the gas lamps blinked out with a soft
And then… something light and warm, heavy and gentle, brushed over the back of her shoulders, along the curved edge of the back of her dress. She released her breath, and the warmth closed over her skin. Her heart beat rapidly; he was there! He was in the room with her!