(Important announcement from the author. Chanson de l’Ange has recently been signed with a traditional publisher who will be releasing the novel as a revised 4 part series in 2012. Although the unrevised version of Book One: The Bleeding Rose, is still being listed and sold on Amazon, please be aware that as a self published work the current edition contains many errors. The new 4 part series is currently undergoing editing.)
Greetings fans and friends! In an effort to demonstrate the extent of the changes and revisions I have made in the new 4 part revised edition of Chanson de l’Ange….I am posting a comparison of the exact same chapter from both the unrevised original edition, and the revised version. The new 4 part revised edition will be released by Treasureline Publishing in early 2012. The chapter I have chosen is Chapter Two The Bleeding Rose. First I will post the original version (from the book that many of you already own), and then following that I will post the very same chapter from Book One of the revised 4 part series. I hope this gives you all a better understanding of how the 2 versions differ, and also, WHY I decided to revise for my new publisher: So here we go! Please note that the unrevised chapter 2 was taken from my galley proof and is in an annoying format. Correcting it would have taken hours, so I hope you don’t mind reading it this way:
Chapter 2
The Bleeding Rose (from the original unrevised edition of Book One)
The night that followed my father’s burial seemed to drag on endlessly
as I huddled on the floor in my room, but sometime in the night I had
crawled back into bed and drifted off to sleep. Even in sleep I could not
escape the horrors of my father’s death, or the terrifying image of gnarly
trees and the frozen graveyard that haunted my dreams. I awoke fitfully
hour by hour, sitting up with a start, not remembering where I was or
what had brought me there; but gradually my weary body could not be
denied rest, and I snuggled down into the bedcovers exhausted, reciting
a prayer to St. Michael for protection.
Sunlight from the pink window awoke me, its rose-tinted rays casting
warmth across my bed. As my swollen eyes slowly opened and adjusted to
daylight, without warning the image of my father’s funeral assaulted me
like a blow to my stomach, and once again those waves of devastation sent
me reeling, blurring my eyes with tears and breaking my heart afresh.
“Oh . . . no . . . I can’t believe . . . I can’t believe he’s gone,” I cried,
clutching my fingers around the sheet. “Papa, my papa!”
Turning over onto my stomach, I buried my face in the pillow. How
could there be any more tears to cry, I asked myself; but on and on they
came without reprieve, wetting the bed linens, leaving my nose raw and
congested. Reaching for a handkerchief, I blew my nose until the pressure
ached in my ears. With no relief, I turned over onto my side, sobbing until
unexpectedly, my tearful gaze was drawn to the mirror. Raising myself on
one elbow, I hardly recognized the image reproduced by the great mirror
across the room. A stranger stared back at me, with a white anemic face
and dark circles under her eyes. Only months ago I had been a happy little
girl, flying kites with my father on the seashore, building sandcastles and
singing songs around the campfire. Now those happy days were grains of
sand that had slipped through my fingers.
The mirror reflected who I had become, what my father’s death had
made of me, and I doubted that I would ever smile or laugh again.
I tried to look away but somehow the mirror captivated my attention,
and I found myself pulled to its reflective power. In the dark of night, the
mirror had both fascinated and frightened me; but in the rosy glow of
morning it was merely a beautiful old piece of furniture. There were no
shadows or eerie reflections to be afraid of, and so while daubing my eyes
I scolded myself for behaving badly; and lay there sniffing and blowing
my nose until a soft tapping on the door disrupted my dark thoughts.
“Christine, are you alright, dear?” Madame Giry muttered from out
in the corridor. “I thought I heard you crying. May I come in?”
Very quickly, I sat up and tried to wipe away the tears with a
handkerchief, but my face was dreadfully red and puffy, so there was no use
pretending. “Yes, Madame,” I answered, clearing my throat and shocked
by the frailty of my own voice, “I’m awake now . . . you may come in.”
Madame entered with a smile, carrying a large tray of fruit, bread and
cheese. With one look at my condition, her brows knit together, and the
smile immediately gave way to concern as she set the tray on the bureau
and came swiftly to my side.
“Oh dear, my poor child. I never should have left you alone,” she
cried out. With regret threading her voice, she sat down on the bed and
held out her arms to me. I immediately flung myself into her embrace,
and with my head tucked beneath her chin she rocked me gently as I
softly cried into her blouse and fringed shawl.
“I can’t make it stop, Madame. It won’t stop.”
“I know darling. I know. It is hard,” Madame soothed me. “But you
must not be brave for our sake, Christine. It’s alright to cry, and even
though it hurts desperately, let the tears flow.”
Madame’s words made me cry harder, and into the softness of her
shawl I gave myself to the grief, letting it wash over me.
“There, there, child . . . you poor darling,” she consoled.
I was ashamed of my childish behavior, and grateful Madame had
come that morning. Father had always been affectionate with hugs and
kisses, but affection from a woman was a rarity in my life. Snuggling closer
into Madame’s arms, I closed my eyes, sniffling and sobbing. Unlike many
women I had known, Madame Giry did not speak with a high pitched
nasal voice. Her voice was soft and low and very pleasant to my sensitive
ears. She was a petite and delicately boned woman, and yet as she held
me in her arms, I could feel the physical strength from her years of dance.
She did not rush me away and we held each other for some moments,
until finally, my tears began to abate and I lifted my eyes to hers.
Her hands stroking my braids, Madame’s voice dropped just above
a whisper as she tried to explain herself. “I looked in on you a few times
last night, but you appeared to be sleeping, so I thought it best not to
disturb you. I’m so sorry, Christine. I should never have left you alone.
But your father insisted you would want your own room, and I suppose,
well, I simply wasn’t thinking clearly. But I promise, Meg and I will make
room for you in our apartment.”
Unsure how to reply, I merely lay my head against her chest, utterly
confused and afraid of all the unknowns waiting before me. It mattered little
whether I had my own room, or shared someone else’s. I knew only that
father was gone and nothing, not even prayers, would bring him back.
“I’m sorry, Madame, I do not mean to be a bother,” I apologized, as
she gave my face another pat with her handkerchief.
“Oh, Christine, you are no trouble at all,” she assured me. “We are
so happy you’ve come to live with us. As a matter of fact, Meg is beside
herself with excitement, and very anxious to meet you. But of course, if
you are not ready, we shall do it another day.”
I wasn’t ready for any of the changes happening around me, but Madame
was a lovely and kind woman, and I was curious about her daughter. Father
and I, traveling as often as we did, had never stayed in one place long enough
to make many friends. There were acquaintances and brief encounters with
girls my age, but my only real friend was a boy I met during last summer’s
holiday in Perros. I let my mind drift to Raoul de Chagny’s sweet face,
wondering what had become of him. Our time together was all too brief,
and it was doubtful that I would ever see him again.
Dislodging myself from Madame’s embrace, I nodded and tried to
sound cheerful. “I would like to meet her, Madame, but maybe I should
dress first.”
Her smile returning, Madame stroked the side of my cheek as she
stood to her feet. “Splendid!” she exclaimed, folding her hands together.
“You change and I’ll bring Meg with the tea things. The two of you two
can get acquainted over breakfast.”
Gracefully, Madame seemed to float across the carpet and out my
door. I stretched and yawned, looking about my room at the unfamiliar
furnishings, and then shuffled on my bare feet to the bureau, exploring
its drawers and compartments. Madame had unpacked all my things;
my few frocks and dresses folded and stacked neatly in the top drawer.
Setting aside stockings and a dark blue frock with a white lace collar,
I raised my arms and pulled the nightgown over my head. After I had
changed my pantalets and chemise, I slipped on the dress and fastened
the little buttons on the bodice. Finally, I tugged on my winter stockings,
and with a glance in the mirror, I realized that Madame had braided my
hair securely. So with no need to arrange my hair, I set about tidying the
room, making the bed and finally exploring the cedar trunk.
She had placed my boots and hat-boxes in the trunk, along with the
carpetbag containing father’s photograph, my silver locket, and music books.
Opening the bag, I searched until I found a little drawstring pouch; and
after untying the cords, I spilled the silver locket into my palm, then slipped
the necklace over my head. Closing the trunk, I turned to the mirror and
polished the locket with my dress sleeve. I wanted very much to open the
locket just for a moment, but I knew seeing his photograph would make
me cry again, and I didn’t want Madame’s daughter to see me crying.
As I stood gazing at the locket’s reflection in the mirror, I jumped
slightly when there was a knock on the door, followed by Madame’s pleasant
voice, announcing, “Christine, I’ve brought Meg with the tea.”
Turning away from the mirror, I was uneasy and shy about meeting
someone new, afraid she might not like me. But, as I cautiously opened
the door, my eyes fell upon the prettiest blond girl I had ever seen. She
carried a tray brimming with dainty tea cups and matching saucers.
Madame’s daughter was two years older than I, but we were nearly the
same height, and I couldn’t help comparing my dull brown eyes with the
flashing cornflower blue of Margaret’s. Her dimpled cheeks were flushed
pink as she tiptoed in white satin ballet slippers, wearing a tulle skirt
worn over a white dance camisole. Margaret’s hair was pulled back with
a wide satin ribbon, and a fringe of blonde bangs set off her blue eyes and
perfectly shaped brows. In her dance costume, she appeared older than
her age, and I felt myself dull and ungainly in her sunny presence.
Madame stood behind her daughter, grasping the handles of a
smaller tray, containing a steaming teapot, cream pitcher and sugar
bowl. “Christine, this is my daughter Margaret,” she said cheerily. “She
is training as a dancer at the academy.”
“Good morning, Margaret,” I said politely, as Madame and her
daughter swept past me into the room.
After setting the tray on the bureau next to the fruit and cheese, the
young girl spun on her toes and ran toward me with a flourish of pink
tulle and ribbons. Taking hold of my hands, she giggled and grinned,
“Please, everyone calls me Meg. I am so glad you have come to live with
us, Christine. We shall be great friends!”
“Thank you,” I said shyly, surprised by her outgoing demeanor.
Holding my hand, Meg led me to to the bureau where Madame Giry
was cutting a few slices of cheese and arranging them on a plate with fruit
and chunks of bread. “I’m a fraid this will have to do until lunch, girls,”
Madame informed us. “Cook is off this morning.”
I watched as Meg poured three cups of tea, then glanced up, “How
many lumps?” she asked. At first I wasn’t sure what she meant, and I
could not help but smile a little when I finally realized she was referring
to sugar. “Oh, just one, please,” I answered clumsily. Using a set of tiny
tongs, Meg dropped a cube of sugar into my teacup and offered it to me,
as Madame held out a plate of fruit and cheese.
“Oh no, Madame, I’m not at all hungry,” I told her, my stomach
still unsettled.
Her eyes were full of concern as she gently insisted, “Now, Christine,
you must eat something. Just a few bites and some tea, yes?”
Receiving the plate from her hands, I obediently broke off a piece of
bread as Madame sipped her tea. I still had no appetite, but nibbled the
bread and cheese to please her.
My heart was heavy, and from one moment to the next, I felt on the
verge of tears; but Meg brought much needed light into my otherwise
grim world, and I loved her immediately. The more time I spent with
Madame Giry, the more I felt comfortable in her presence; but there was
something about her that troubled me; she bore a certain aloofness with a
hint of mystery in her eyes. As Meg and I nibbled our breakfast, I watched
Madame through the corner of my eye, wondering why father had chosen
her to be my guardian, and how he had come to know her.
Half an hour later, setting her teacup down and making her way to
the door, Madame placed her arm around Meg’s shoulder and announced,
“Well girls, I have some business to attend to, so I shall leave you two
young ladies alone to get acquainted. And Meg, darling,” she added,
looking over her shoulder as she turned the doorknob, “how would it be
if you stayed with Christine for a few nights, while I make room for her
in our apartment?”
Nodding her head enthusiastically, Meg grabbed my hands and did
three little bounces on her slippered toes, “Oh yes, mama! I would love
to. That is, if it’s alright with Christine!”
“Yes, of course,” I answered, thinking how nice it would be to have
someone to talk with, in case I couldn’t sleep.
After Madame had left the room, Meg immediately drew me to
the bed where we sat together and chatted easily over tea and breakfast.
28 Paisley Swan Stewart
Despite my grief and the heaviness of heart, she managed to engage my
attention with her intriguing tales of the extravagant and often scandalous
life of the opera house. She spoke in awe of the twenty-one year old Italian
diva, La Carlotta, and of the many singers, actors and dancers who made
up the opera’s flamboyant company. She told me about the scandalous
romance between Carlotta and the tenor, Piangi, and of the opera’s
managers, Poligny and Debienne; two men who were apparently known
less for their refined musical taste than for their fat wallets and well stocked
liquor cabinets. I was enthralled by Meg’s eccentric stories, her blue eyes
growing larger and more luminous with each outrageous tale. She seemed
to have uncanny knowledge of the opera’s many secrets and intrigues,
and was anxious to avail me of them all. She giggled and shushed herself
for fear that Madame would catch us talking of unspeakable things, and
I found myself enchanted by her cheerful company.
Suddenly, looking around the room while leaning into me, Meg
cupped her hands over my ear and began to whisper a story that rivaled
even my father’s tales. “Christine,” she teased, her voice intense and eyes
wide, “did you know that the opera is haunted?”
“Haunted?” I questioned, leaning back and staring at her incredulously.
“You mean by a ghost?”
“Yes!” she enthused, obviously pleased about the information she was
about to impart.
“Strange things happen all the time that no one can explain!” she
informed me, her expression somber. As her eyes darted all around the
room and then back to me, I listened, enraptured and frightened all at
once by Meg’s tale of a creature she called the Opera Ghost.
According to Meg, the “ghost” pulled little pranks on the opera
company and its managers. In the beginning, they were small incidents,
missing sheet music and props disappearing from sets under construction.
Elaborate drawings appeared on previously blank canvases, and ballet girls
reported strange shadows in the third basement where discarded props
were stored. Food went missing from the kitchen, and articles of clothing
from the wardrobes were always being “misplaced”.
But when anonymous notes first appeared beneath the manager’s
office door, giving specific orders as to how the opera should be run
and demanding an extravagant salary, the joke began to wear thin, with
the entire opera house staff and its managers, Poligny and Debienne,
wondering who was responsible for the ruse.
I listened intently, remembering the stories father had read to Raoul
and me that summer by the sea. From the days of my earliest childhood,
I had loved the dark legends of ogres, goblins, and nisse who lived in the
enchanted Black Forest. Many nights we built large bonfires on Madame
Valleria’s beachfront property; and as Raoul and I huddled in blankets
by the fire, snacking on chocolates and dried fruit, father would play
his violin and mimic the voices of all the characters, his stories like little
plays; weaving his spell into our vivid imaginations.
My heart grew heavy as I remembered that lovely summer holiday,
and suddenly, Meg’s chirping voice faded as fresh tears rimmed my eyes.
Turning my gaze away from her, I thought it strange that she continued
to speak, but I no longer heard her words. My father had been healthy
then, his skin tanned from the sun, his wavy brown hair threaded with
golden strands, with a genuine smile lighting up his fine features. I needed
to recall what he looked like during that summer, for I was desperate to
forget the images of his deathbed.
Fingering my locket, I sadly remembered it all. That summer had
been like a dream, as we did whatever we wanted each and every day.
There were no worries over money or employment, and through Madame
Valleria’s generosity, father and I had lived like royalty; enjoying parties
and performances for her friends, sleeping in the most luxurious feather
beds, dining on the best food, and drinking the finest wines.
Suddenly, Meg’s voice broke through the fog of my recollections, and
I heard her repeating my name, “Christine, Christine,” she called out to
me. “Have you been listening at all? Are you feeling alright?”
Blinking back the tears, I looked up and replied, “I was just
remembering.”
“Were you thinking about your father, Christine?” Meg asked, taking
my hands in hers again, her eyes sincere.
“Yes,” I answered, lowering my chin so that she would not see me cry.
“I’m so sorry, Christine,” she spoke gently, sliding closer and placing
her arm around my shoulder. “Christine, mother says your father was a
great musician.”
As I absently looked at the violin case lying in the overstuffed chair,
Meg followed my gaze and inquired, “Is it yours, Christine?”
“No,” I answered bleakly. “It is . . . I mean, it was my father’s.
“Is it very beautiful?” the inquisitive girl pressed. “May I see it?
“If you like.”
I walked over to the chair and reverently picked up the violin case,
setting it carefully on the bed. As if it contained a priceless treasure, I
flipped open the brass fasteners and pulled the lid up slowly, revealing
an intricately hand-carved violin, nestled in blue velvet lining. Lovingly
30 Paisley Swan Stewart
stroking the instrument’s old pegbox and scrolled neck, I inhaled the
comforting aromas of rosin, wood, and lemon oil. The fingerboard was
scraped and worn down to bare wood where my father had skillfully
pressed the strings, and there were small chips around the F—holes. The
violin’s bow was rough and dull where he held the whalebone grip, and
the horsehair frayed with errant strands. I lifted the violin from the case
and tilted my head, tucking my chin onto the ebony chin rest. Plucking
a single string with my index finger, I paused as it softly reverberated.
Rising up from the bed, Meg joined me, looking down at the violin
and gently touching the scroll neck.
“Christine, it is very old, isn’t it,” she remarked with awe.
Caught up in the memory of father’s music, I began to softly hum
an old gypsy tune father and I had performed together in the markets
and squares; the bittersweet music rising and falling over my tongue, and
vibrating gently at the back of my throat as father had taught me. As I
hummed the tune, I felt prickles travel up my arms, and I was beginning
to think Meg’s stories of the haunted opera house had spooked me.
“Christine, what is that music?” Meg asked as I continued to hum
softly, my eyes drifting to the mirror.
“Just an old gypsy song, Meg,” I answered, plucking another string.
Her gaze fixed on me, Meg followed as I padded across the carpet
to stand before the mirror. Imitating my father’s performance stance, I
looked at my reflection, humming the song’s pretty refrain.
Standing just to the left of me, Meg’s voice dropped to a whisper as
she inquired, “Is it a song your father played?”
“Yes, many times. It is my favorite,” I answered with another pluck
on a string.
Stepping around until she stood between me and the mirror, Meg
placed her hand on my shoulder and questioned, “Will you sing it for
me, Christine, I mean the whole song?”
For years it had been my favorite song, and now it seemed almost a
sacrilege to sing it without my father. Making excuses, I responded to
her request, “I’m afraid my voice isn’t very good right now, Meg, with all
the crying, and well, I’d rather not.”
Not ready to drop the subject, Meg pressed me further, her fingers
gently tugging on my puffed sleeve. “But, Christine, wouldn’t your father
want you to sing it for him?” she suggested with a beguiling smile.
My hand grasping the violin’s neck, I lifted my chin off the rest, then
dangled the violin at my side. “Do you think he would hear me, Meg,”
Chanson de l’Ange 31
I questioned, slowly backing away from the mirror and moving toward
the bed.
“Of course, Christine!” she replied without hesitation. “Mama says my
grandpapa watches me dance from heaven, so why wouldn’t your father
be watching over you?” she asserted with startling confidence.
In much confusion, having very little confidence of my own, I
answered truthfully while placing the violin safely back inside its case.
“I’m not sure, Meg. I’ve prayed for him to hear me. But, do you really
think the dead can return?”
Leaning over the bed, I set the bow in its brackets as Meg came up
behind me. “Of course I do, Christine,” she affirmed cheerfully. “They
come back to look after their loved ones.”
Shutting the case and snapping the fasteners closed, I considered
her statement, desperate that it be true. With a heavy sigh, I turned
around to face Meg and acquiesced, “Well, I don’t suppose it would
hurt. If you are right, and he can hear from heaven, well, what would
be the harm?”
“Oh, Christine, what’s it called?” Meg asked me, as I turned away
from the bed and faced the mirror.
“The Bleeding Rose,” I answered.
As I moved across the carpet, Meg lowered herself onto the bed, her
hands folded in her lap. After clearing my throat, I softly hummed the
melody. I could hear the fatigue in my voice, and I knew I would not
sing it well; but with my fingers grasping the locket around my neck, and
with thoughts of my father, I began.
An Angel sent from heaven
Came to a garden fair
Searching for a flower
To wreath her golden hair
A lily grew in splendor
Radiant and white,
Dazzling in the sun
Shimmering of light . . .
I watched my own reflection in the mirror, my lips moving with the
words, my eyes rimmed with tears. Behind me, I could see Meg seated on
the bed, her chin upturned and her eyes downcast. There was the strangest
feeling around me, a tingling sensation on the top of my head, and for a
32 Paisley Swan Stewart
moment, I wondered if father was near. Was it merely my imagination,
or perhaps the fulfillment of father’s final promise to me, that he would
send an angel to guide and protect me? I wasn’t sure if it was just the
spooky old building or Meg’s stories fueling my fancy. I knew only that
I was compelled to sing.
When a single blood red rose,
Caught the angel’s eye
Dark and mysterious
She could not pass it by
Crimson petals beckoned
Beautiful and rare
The angel chose the red rose
To wreath her golden hair.
But when she picked the blossom
She was pierced by a savage thorn
Blood poured from the flower
The angel’s flesh was torn . . .
My voice became steady as I warmed to the song, and forgetting my
tiredness, I thought of my father looking down into my room through
a celestial portal. In my imagination, the ceiling of my room seemed to
dissolve, and the roof of the opera house vanished, revealing a brilliant
starlit sky and the very vaults of heaven. I drove my voice beyond my
grief, willing the song to reach higher and higher, soaring upward and
outward.
She cast it onto the ground
And crushed it with her toes
Choosing the pale white lily . . .
Instead of the bleeding rose.
With the song’s completion, I was riveted to the mirror, tears rolling
down my face with my heartbeat drumming in my ears. Jumping up from
the bed, Meg flitted across the room, throwing her arms around me as
if we had know each other forever, “Oh Christine, mama told me about
your beautiful voice, but, well I didn’t know you would sing like that!”
she declared breathlessly.
“Thank you, Meg,” was all I could say to her, using my sleeve to
wipe my eyes.
“Christine, your father must be so proud. Really, you sing like an
angel,” Meg praised.
Before I could utter a word in reply, the door opened and Madame
Giry breezed into my room with a set of large keys jingling in her hand.
She had changed from her morning gown into a fetching pearl gray frock
with a cuirasse bodice, and a graceful pleated train flowing down the back.
Her long braided hair had been twisted and coiled on top of her head,
with tortoise hair-picks pinning the coiffure in place.
Her smoky eyes immediately falling on the two of us with our arms
wrapped around each other in a sisterly hug, Madame sighed with a smile.
“I am so pleased you two are getting acquainted,” she observed. “I just
knew you would be like two peas in a pod.”
Grinning at her mother, Meg rose up on her toes and grasped my
hand, “Oh mama, you should hear Christine sing! She sounds like an
angel!” she exclaimed.
I could feel the blood rushing into my face and stared down at the floor
self-consciously, as Madame approached us, her train dragging behind
her. “So I’ve been told,” she said, one corner of her mouth turning up
into an elusive smile. “Perhaps, Christine, you will sing again later, but
for now, would you like to tour the opera house?”
Meg’s eyes widened as she awaited my reaction. In truth, my little
performance had drained me and I was tired; but I did not wish to
disappoint Meg or Madame, who were anxious to show me my new
home. And, I was curious about the opera house, having never seen a
world-class auditorium. “Thank you, Madame, that would be nice,” I
responded with forced enthusiasm.
Placing her arm around my shoulder, Madame leaned down, and
peering directly into my eyes, said, “After our tour and a bite of lunch,
perhaps you and Meg would like to nap this afternoon.”
“Yes, Madame,” I agreed with a nod.
The moment I stepped out from the narrow dark corridor of the ballet
dorms, and up into the bizarre and magical world of the opera’s bohemian
backstage, I was amazed and overwhelmed, for surely this was no place for
a ten year old girl. Tiered balconies, networking with spiral staircases and
catwalks, led to the upper regions of the theater’s backstage world; and
as Meg pointed out, all the way up to the opera’s roof. Ornately painted
dressing room doors, reserved for the principal cast, lined the main floor,
while the community dressing rooms for chorus and the corps d’ballet
were located in the stuffier upper levels.
Large open bays were utilized for every aspect of the opera’s production.
There was a gigantic workshop where plaster artisans formed molded figures
of animals, strange characters; and oversized statues whose eyes seemed to
watch from their empty sockets, following us as we toured their realm. The
room was coated in fine white dust, while disembodied heads and nude
forms hung from the rafters in various stages of painting and finish work.
The scenery bay, a vast structure at the farthest end of the backstage area, was
used to construct giant canvas flies, flats, and backdrops. Blank or partially
painted canvases and cans of dried paint and paintbrushes littered the floor,
with the atmosphere saturated by the fumes of turpentine and linseed oil.
As Madame Giry led us through the maze of studios and workshops,
I couldn’t help but feel the excitement of this colorful world to which I
now belonged. Though all was quiet, tomorrow the place would overflow
with activity as the cast, crew, and workers returned to prepare the opera
house for the Bal Masque, only five days hence.
We were just about to enter the wig room, when a rotund, red-faced
woman with a measuring tape draped around her neck came bounding
toward us. Her chubby arms overflowed with yards of colorful fabric and
costume pieces, stacked nearly to her double chin. As trims, tassels, and
beads spilled to the floor behind her, two giddy young women followed,
scooping up the mess as fast as they could.
“Madame Giry! Oh, Madame!” she shouted hysterically, nearly out
of breath.
Folding her hands calmly, Madame inquired, “What is it, Marie?”
“Madame, he has struck again!” the portly woman declared.
With a faint smile and a glint in her eyes, Madame questioned the
agitated woman. “Calm down, Marie, and tell me what has happened,”
she suggested patiently.
I was to learn that although Madame Giry was only the ballet mistress,
she was highly regarded, and even loved by members of the opera and
its company. If anything was amiss in any department, it was generally
Madame who was called upon to assist in catastrophes, and then expected
to resolve the crisis. Yet, she never received credit from the mangers when
her skill and patience had succeeded.
Neither were Madame’s talents limited to dance, as she was also known
for her good head in business affairs. As a gifted young woman, Madame
had dreamt of becoming a prima ballerina, but a whirlwind romance and
family tragedy had forced her to give up the stage and remain behind the
scenes. Unlike many women in her position, Madame did not grow bitter;
but rather, she embraced her duties, loving her students and serving as
mother to all. She was known never to speak of the tragedy which had
thwarted her dreams; and in fact, very little was known of Madame’s past.
There was an air of mystery beneath the dignified grace and poise which
set her apart from other women.
Madame Louise Giry had entered my life a year or so prior to father’s
illness, but I was only vaguely aware of their prior association. I knew
she sometimes managed his business affairs, and that she had helped him
procure a teaching position in Paris; but beyond that, she was the kind
woman my father had entrusted to become my legal guardian, and I was
learning to appreciate her.
Madame helped to steady the toppling bundles in Marie’s arms, as
the woman breathlessly told her tale. “Madame, it is him!” she exclaimed,
her eyes wide open with fear.
Meg took me by the hand and led me a few paces away. Whispering
in my ear, she announced with a playful grin, “It’s the Opera Ghost!”
We listened to Marie’s panicked account as spools of thread and trims
continued to tumble onto the floor.
“As you know, Madame, the mangers’ costumes for the ball have been
labeled and stored in the wardrobes until the unveiling on New Year’s
Eve,” Marie warbled.
“Yes, Marie, go on.”
“I was reviewing my checklist, Madame, preparing to make some last
minute alterations on Monsieur Debienne’s costume. But when I opened
the wardrobe to retrieve it, the costume had vanished!” she shouted.
“Monsieur Debienne’s costume is missing, Madame Louise!”
Shaking her head and stroking her chin, Madame’s eyes narrowed.
“Are you certain, Marie?” she asked. “Perhaps it has been misplaced.”
Still struggling to hold onto her goods, Marie adjusted the bundle and
grunted, “No, no, Madame, I have turned the wardrobes, dressing rooms,
and workshops upside down and inside out! I assure you the costume is
no where to be found.”
A small muscle jerked in Madame’s cheek; meanwhile Meg and I listened
with fascination. “Well then,” she said, “perhaps it is the Opera Ghost!”
Her eyes widening with her cheeks turning red, Marie spoke in
exasperation, “But why would he steal Monsieur Debienne’s costume,
Madame?”
“Well, Marie”, Madame Giry grinned with a wink, “I suppose he
approves of your skills with a needle and thread. In any case, my dear
lady, I’m sure it will turn up.”
“But what am I to tell Monsieur Debienne?” Marie questioned, as
her young helpers scooped up more of the sewing debris.
Thinking a moment, Madame regarded Marie’s bundle of supplies,
and then suggested, “Simply tell him the costume is not up to his standards
and let him wear last year’s pirate ensemble. Judging by the hangover
he woke up with last January first, I doubt he even remembers what he
wore!” Madame laughed.
Nodding her head and snorting with laughter, Marie agreed, “You
are probably right, Madame, right indeed!”
With another catastrophe averted, Marie and her helpers trotted
down the hall. Madame turned to Meg and me with a devious sparkle
in her eyes. “Come, come girls,” she clapped her hands, “we have much
more to show you!”
As we continued on the tour, I could not help my fascination with
this Opera Ghost, who apparently had a fairly intact sense of humor.
His pranks seemed perfectly harmless; but still, I disliked the idea of
someone sneaking about in the shadows. I furtively looked all around
our surroundings as Madame led us through a series of locked doors and
long hallways.
Having no sense of direction myself, I wondered how people managed
not to get lost. With so many levels with twists and turns, the building
was practically a maze. Finally, we arrived at the bottom of a short staircase
upholstered in deep red and lit with crystal wall sconces. Following
Madame’s graceful form upward, we reached the top of the stairs. Meg
grabbed my hand and grinned at me like a cheshire cat as Madame turned
to us. “Now, Christine,” she announced beaming at me, “you shall see
the heart of our lovely lady.”
With the click of lock and key, Madame opened a heavy mahogany
door and we entered into a small chamber, lavishly draped in rich red
velvet. Lush golden cords with fringes and tassels trimmed the heavy
hangings, and quilted velvet theater seats, arranged in a horse shoe, filled
the little alcove. With a grand gesture Madame pulled the thick cord,
and the front curtains opened onto a full view of the opera’s resplendent
auditorium. I stood wide-eyed, barely able to take it all in. Even with only
a few gas lamps lighting the auditorium, I was stunned by its grandeur
and golden opulence.
Father had taken me to small concert halls, but this was beyond
anything I’d ever seen in its beauty and scale. Wide-bellied balconies
beehived the theater’s perimeter, reaching nearly all the way up to the
ceiling. My gaze traveled the balconies, until leaning back with a soft
gasp, I caught sight of the tremendous chandelier which hung high above
the main floor. The blue and copper dome was frescoed with clouds and
cherubim, and despite the chandelier’s many glass globes still unlit, I could
imagine how they would sparkle when flickering with live flame. The
chandelier was strewn extravagantly with hundreds of tear-drop crystals
and strings of iridescent beads; and golden harps formed the framework
for its glittering six-tiered casement.
I leaned over the balustrade, looking down at the rows of theater
seats on the auditorium’s main floor, and let my eyes wander through the
entire theater until they fell on a spectacular stage, which was framed by a
carved relief of gold-leafed angels. Scarlet drapes fell in pleated swoops of
velvet trimmed with gold fringe across the Proscenium arch, and figures
of angels and gargoyles loomed above the orchestra pit.
Gold and copper statues of Isis, Amphitrite, Hebe, Pandora, Psyche,
Thetis, Pomona, and Daphne encrusted the theater walls, looking down
with cold indifference upon the world of mortals.
“She is magnificent, no?”
“Yes, Madame,” I whispered, in complete awe of my surroundings.
“And one day, Christine, you will perform on that stage,” Madame
spoke quietly, looking down at me as I stared ahead. It was said as a
statement of fact, but I could not comprehend ever doing such a thing.
My thoughts were suddenly interrupted as Meg began bouncing on
her toes and clapping her hands together. Blurting out for all to hear,
Meg squealed, “Mama, if we go down to the stage, Christine could sing
her song right now!”
Standing there mortified by Meg’s suggestion, I looked to Madame
for an escape; but was surprised to see from her smile that she was not
at all shocked by Meg’s request. “Why, I think that is a wonderful idea,
Meg! I would love to hear Christine sing.”
“But, Madame,” I protested, “here, on this stage? Now? But I can’t!”
Leaning down to me, her eyes intent on mine, she placed her hand
on my shoulder and spoke in a whisper, “of course you can, Christine.
No one will hear you but the two of us. We have the theater to ourselves
until tomorrow.”
I gazed about the huge theater, overwhelmed by its size and the very
notion that I would dare sing on a stage where famous opera singers had
performed. Compared to those illustrious ladies and gentlemen, my voice
would surely sound dreadful. Singing at fairs was one thing, but singing
on that stage was out of the question.
Shaking my head and lifting my face to hers, I objected, “but Madame,
I’m not good enough for such a stage.”
Placing her arm around me, Madame steered me toward the door
and turned the knob, with Meg following behind, chattering in approval
of her mother’s comments. “Nonsense, Christine, my dear. I have it on
good authority that you sing like an angel. And in any case, your voice
training shall begin after the New Year, so why not give it a try? It will
take your mind off unpleasant things.”
We started down the stairs, and I found myself extremely nervous
as Meg and Madame led me to the main floor. “Yes, Christine, sing for
your father, like you did this morning!” Meg persisted, tiptoeing down
the corridor, which led underneath the stage.
In spite of my nerves, I felt somewhat obligated to fulfill their wishes.
After all, they had taken me in and had shown me nothing but kindness
since my arrival. With my stomach in knots and weariness creeping into
my body, I decided I’d best be done with it. “Well I suppose I could, if
you will stay here with me,” I gave in, tugging on Madame’s sleeve.
“Of course we will,” Madame assured me. “You’ve nothing to fear
from this auditorium, Christine. It was your father’s dream that you live
and perform here. I promise you, he would be so very proud.” Pausing
before we entered through the door, I nodded and sighed to myself as
Madame led the way to the stage.
Standing under the catwalk, I leaned back to gawk at the complex
system of pulleys, flywheels, and cables high overhead. Meg’s hand in
mine, she practically dragged me onto the stage, where I continued to gaze
upward, feeling utterly dwarfed by the massive backstage environment.
Looking down at my feet, I took notice of markings and patterns etched
into the stage floor, and wondered how the trap doors could possibly open
and close without injuring the actor. I had an uncanny sense of the magic
and illusion surrounding me, and wrapped my arms about my body as a
gust of cool air swooped down upon us from the rafters.
“How about right here?” Meg suggested, leading me to the footlights
where I could look down into the orchestra pit. From that vantage point,
the auditorium’s rows of theater seats and stacked balconies gave the
impression of a giant city rising up around me. I held my breath as Meg
and Madame’s footsteps echoed into the wings, where they motioned
for me to begin.
Her hands folded together at her waist, Madame smiled and nodded
her head in my direction, “Do not be afraid, Christine,” she encouraged
me, “it’s just the three of us now.”
“And your father!” Meg blurted out, garnering her mother’s frown.
Staring down at my feet, with chills spreading up my arms and my
heart pounding, I sang the song I had sung for Meg earlier that morning.
I sang The Bleeding Rose.
And here now is the revised edition of the very same chapter (please note that this was copied directly from my manuscript and has not yet been formatted or edited by my publisher….so there still may be typos and other errors) GAHHHHHH! Lost all my indentations by posting in wordpress!
Chapter 2
The Bleeding Rose (from the revised edition in the 4 part series)
The night of my father’s burial seemed to drag on endlessly as I huddled on the floor in my room, but sometime in the night I had crawled back into bed and drifted off to sleep….yet even in sleep I could not escape the horrors of my father’s death nor the terrifying image of the frozen graveyard. I awoke fitfully hour by hour, sitting up with a start, not remembering where I was or what had brought me there…but gradually, exhausted, I snuggled down into the bed covers, reciting a prayer to St. Michael.
The next morning, sunlight from the pink window awakened me, its rose-tinted rays casting warmth across my bed. As my swollen eyes slowly opened and adjusted to daylight, without warning the image of my father’s funeral assaulted me like a blow to my stomach, and once again those waves of devastation broke my heart afresh.
“Oh…no…I can’t believe…I can’t believe he’s gone,” I cried, clutching my fingers around the sheet. “Papa, my papa!”
Turning over onto my stomach, I buried my face in the pillow. I couldn’t understand how the tears kept coming, but on and on they rolled down my face, without reprieve, wetting the bed linens and leaving my nose raw and congested. Reaching for a handkerchief, I blew my nose until the pressure made my ears ache. With no relief, I turned over onto my side, sobbing until unexpectedly, my tearful gaze was drawn to the great mirror across the room. Rising up on one elbow, I looked at my reflection and hardly recognized myself. A stranger stared back at me, with a white anemic face and dark circles under her eyes. Only months ago I had been a happy little girl, flying kites with my father on the seashore, collecting shells and singing songs around the campfire. Now those happy days were grains of sand that had slipped through my fingers.
The mirror seemed to show me who I had become, what my father’s death had made of me, and I doubted that I would ever smile or laugh again. I tried to look away but somehow the mirror captivated my attention and I found myself pulled to its reflective power. In the dark of night, the mirror had both fascinated and frightened me, but in the rosy glow of morning it was merely a beautiful old piece of furniture. There were no shadows or eerie reflections to be afraid of, and so I scolded myself for behaving like a child and lay there sniffing and blowing my nose until a soft tapping on the door disrupted my dark thoughts.
“Christine, are you alright, dear?” Madame Giry muttered from out in the corridor. “I thought I heard you crying…may I come in?”
Very quickly, I sat up and tried to wipe away the tears with a handkerchief, but my face was dreadfully red and puffy, so what was the use of pretending?
“Yes, Madame,” I answered, clearing my throat and shocked by the frailty of my own voice. “I’m awake now…you may come in.”
Madame entered with a smile, carrying a large tray of fruit, bread and cheese. With one look at my condition, her brows knit together and the smile immediately gave way to a look of concern as she sat the tray on the bureau and came swiftly to my side.
“Oh dear, my poor child. I never should have left you alone!” she cried out. With regret threading her voice, she sat down on the bed and held out her arms to me. I immediately flung myself into her embrace, and with my head tucked beneath her chin she rocked me gently as I softly cried into her fringed shawl.
“I can’t make it stop, Madame. It won’t stop!”
“I know, darling. I know. It is hard,” Madame soothed me. “But you must not be brave for our sake, Christine. It’s alright to cry, and even though it hurts desperately…let the tears flow.”
Madame’s words made me cry harder, and into the softness of her shawl I gave myself over to the grief, letting it wash over me.
“There, there, child…you poor darling,” she consoled me.
Father had always been affectionate with hugs and kisses, but affection from a woman was a rarity in my life. Snuggling closer into Madame’s arms, I closed my eyes, sniffling and sobbing. Unlike many women I had known, Madame Giry did not speak with a high pitched nasal voice. Her voice had a soft, low register and was very pleasant to my sensitive ears. She was a petite and delicately boned woman, and yet as she held me in her arms I could feel the physical strength from her years of dance.
She did not rush me away and we held each other for some moments until finally, my tears began to abate and I lifted my eyes to hers. With her hands stroking my braids, Madame’s voice dropped just above a whisper as she tried to explain herself.
“I looked in on you a few times last night, but you appeared to be sleeping so I thought it best not to disturb you. I’m so sorry, Christine. I should never have left you alone. But your father insisted you would want your own room, and I suppose, well…I simply wasn’t thinking clearly,” she said with a hint of sadness. “But I promise, Meg and I will make room for you in our apartment and you may move in with us immediately.”
Unsure how to reply, I merely laid my head against her chest, utterly confused and afraid of a life without my father. It mattered little now, whether I had my own room or shared someone else’s. I knew only that father was gone and nothing, not even prayers, would bring him back.
“I’m sorry, Madame, I do not mean to be a bother,” I apologized, as she gave my face another pat with her handkerchief.
“Oh, Christine, you are no trouble at all,” she assured me. “We are so happy you’ve come to live with us. As a matter of fact, Meg is beside herself with excitement and very anxious to meet you. But of course, if you are not ready we shall do it another day.”
I wasn’t ready for any of the changes happening around me, but Madame was a lovely and kind woman, and I was curious about her daughter. Father and I, traveling as often as we had, had never stayed in one place long enough to make many friends. There were acquaintances and brief encounters with girls my age, but my only real friend was a boy I had met during last summer’s holiday in Perros. Closing my eyes, I let my mind drift to Raoul de Chagny’s sweet face, wondering what had become of him. Our time together had been all too brief, and I doubted that I would ever see him again.
Dislodging myself from Madame’s embrace, I nodded and tried to sound cheerful as I said, “I would like to meet her, Madame, but maybe I should dress first.”
With her smile returning, Madame stroked the side of my cheek as she stood to her feet. “Splendid!” she exclaimed, folding her hands together. “You change and I’ll bring Meg with the tea things. The two of you two can get acquainted over breakfast.”
As I watched her leave, Madame seemed to float across the carpet and out my door. I stretched and yawned, looking about my room at the unfamiliar furnishings, then shuffled on my bare feet to the bureau, exploring its drawers and compartments. Madame had already folded and stacked my few frocks and dresses neatly in the top drawer. Setting aside heavy stockings and a dark blue frock with a white lace collar, I raised my arms and pulled the nightgown off over my head. After I had changed my pantalets and chemise, I slipped on the dress and fastened the little buttons on the bodice. Finally, I tugged on my winter stockings, and with a glance in the mirror, I set about tidying the room, making the bed and finally exploring the cedar trunk.
She had placed my boots and hat-boxes in the trunk, along with the carpetbag containing father’s photograph, my silver locket, and my music books. Opening the bag, I searched until I found a little drawstring pouch. After untying the cords, I spilled the silver locket into my palm, then slipped the necklace over my head. Closing the trunk, I turned to the mirror and polished the locket with my sleeve. I wanted very much to open the locket just for a moment, but I knew that seeing his photograph would make me cry again, and I didn’t want Madame’s daughter to see me crying. I stood gazing at the locket in the mirror and jumped slightly when there was a knock on the door, with Madame’s pleasant voice announcing, “Christine, I’ve brought Meg with the tea.”
Turning away from the mirror, I was uneasy and shy about meeting someone new, afraid she might not like me, but as I cautiously opened the door my eyes fell upon the prettiest blond girl I had ever seen! She carried a tray brimming with dainty tea cups and matching saucers.
Madame’s daughter was two years older than I, but we were nearly the same height, and I couldn’t help comparing my dull brown eyes with the flashing cornflower blue of Margaret’s. Her dimpled cheeks flushed pink as she tiptoed in white satin ballet slippers, wearing a tulle skirt over a white dance camisole. Margaret’s hair was pulled back with a wide satin ribbon, and a fringe of blonde bangs set off her blue eyes and perfectly shaped brows. In her dance costume she appeared older than her age, and I felt myself dull and ungainly in her sunny presence.
Madame stood behind her daughter, grasping the handles of a smaller tray that contained a steaming teapot, cream pitcher and sugar bowl. “Christine, this is my daughter, Margaret,” she said cheerily. “She is training as a dancer at the academy.”
“Good morning, Margaret,” I said politely, as Madame and her daughter swept past me into the room.
After setting the tray on the bureau next to the fruit and cheese, the young girl spun on her toes and ran toward me with a flourish of pink tulle and ribbons.
Taking hold of my hands, she giggled and said, “Please, everyone calls me Meg. I am so glad you have come to live with us, Christine. We shall be great friends!”
“Thank you,” I replied shyly, surprised by her outgoing demeanor.
Holding my hand, Meg led me to the bureau where Madame Giry was cutting a few slices of cheese, arranging them on a plate with fruit and chunks of bread.
“I’m afraid this will have to do until lunch, girls,” Madame informed us. “Cook is off this morning.”
I watched as Meg poured three cups of tea, then glanced up at me with a smile. “How many lumps?” she asked. At first I wasn’t sure what she meant and I could not help but smile a little when I finally realized she was referring to the sugar.
“Oh, just one, please,” I answered clumsily. Using a set of tiny tongs, Meg dropped a cube of sugar into my teacup and offered it to me, as Madame held out a plate of fruit and cheese.
My stomach was still unsettled, so I told her, “Oh no, Madame, I’m not at all hungry.”
I saw the concern in her expression as she gently insisted, “Now, Christine, you must eat something. Just a few bites and some tea, yes?”
Receiving the plate from her hands, I obediently broke off a piece of bread as Madame sipped her tea. I still had no appetite, but nibbled the bread and cheese to please her. My heart was heavy, and from one moment to the next I felt on the verge of tears, but meeting Meg had brought much needed light into my otherwise grim world, and I loved her immediately. The more time I spent with Madame Giry, the more comfortable I felt in her presence, but there was something about her that troubled me; a certain aloofness and a hint of mystery in her eyes. As Meg and I nibbled our breakfast, I watched Madame through the corner of my eye, wondering why Father had chosen her to be my guardian and how he had come to know her.
Half an hour later, setting her teacup down and making her way to the door, Madame placed her arm around Meg’s shoulder and announced, “Well girls, I have some business to attend to, so I shall leave you two young ladies alone to get acquainted…and Meg, darling,” she added, looking over her shoulder as she turned the doorknob, “how would it be if you stayed with Christine for a few nights while I make room for her in our apartment?”
Nodding her head enthusiastically, Meg grabbed my hands and did three little bounces on her slippered toes, “Oh yes, Mama! I would love to. That is, if it’s alright with Christine!”
“Yes, of course,” I answered.
After Madame had left the room, Meg immediately drew me to the bed where we sat together and chatted easily over tea and breakfast. Despite my grief and the heaviness of heart, she managed to engage my attention with her intriguing tales of the extravagant and often scandalous life of the opera house. She spoke in awe of the twenty-one year old Italian diva, La Carlotta, and of the many singers, actors and dancers who made up the opera’s flamboyant company.
She told me about the scandalous romance between Carlotta and the tenor, Piangi, and of the opera’s managers, Poligny and Debienne. According to Meg, these two men were known less for their refined musical taste than for their fat wallets. I was enthralled by Meg’s eccentric stories, her blue eyes growing larger and more luminous with each outrageous tale. She seemed to have uncanny knowledge of the opera’s many secrets and intrigues, and was anxious to avail me of them all. She giggled and shushed herself for fear that Madame would catch us talking of unspeakable things, and I found myself enchanted by her cheerful company.
Suddenly, looking around the room while leaning into me, Meg cupped her hands over my ear and began to whisper a story that rivaled even my father’s tales. “Christine,” she teased, her voice intense and eyes wide, “did you know that the opera is haunted?”
“Haunted?” I questioned, leaning back and staring at her incredulously. “You mean by a ghost?”
“Yes!” she enthused, obviously pleased about the information she was about to impart.
“Strange things happen all the time that no one can explain!” she informed me, her expression somber as her eyes darted all around the room and then back to me.
I listened, enraptured and frightened all at once by Meg’s tale of a creature she called the Opera Ghost. According to Meg, the “ghost” pulled little pranks on the opera company and its managers. In the beginning they had been small incidents, like missing sheet music and props that kept disappearing from sets under construction. Elaborate drawings would appear on previously blank canvases, and ballet girls had reported seeing strange shadows in the third basement where discarded props were stored. Food often went missing from the kitchen, and articles of clothing from the wardrobes were always being “misplaced”.
When anonymous notes first began to appear beneath the managers’ office door, giving specific orders as to how the opera should be run and demanding an extravagant salary, the joke began to wear thin, causing the entire opera house staff and its managers, Poligny and Debienne, to wonder who was responsible for the ruse.
Remembering the stories father had read to Raoul and me that summer by the sea, I was momentarily distracted from Meg’s gossip. On warm summer nights we had built large bonfires on Madame Valleria’s beachfront property, and as Raoul and I had huddled in blankets by the fire, snacking on chocolates and dried fruit, Father would play his violin and mimic the voices of all the characters. His stories were like little plays as he gently wove his spell into our vivid imaginations. From the days of my earliest childhood I had loved the dark legends of ogres, goblins, and nisse who lived in the enchanted Black Forest.
My heart began to grow heavy again as I remembered that lovely summer holiday, and suddenly, Meg’s chirping voice faded as fresh tears rimmed my eyes.
Turning my gaze away from her, I thought it strange that as she continued to speak I no longer heard her words. My father had been healthy back then, his skin tanned from the sun, his wavy brown hair threaded with golden strands, and a genuine smile lighting up his fine features. I was desperate to forget the images of his deathbed, and needed to recall what he had looked like during that magical summer.
Fingering my locket, I sadly remembered it all. That summer had been like a dream as we had done whatever we wanted each and every day. There had been no worries over money or employment during those blissful months. Through Madame Valleria’s generosity, Father and I had lived like royalty; enjoying parties and performances for her friends. We had slept in the most luxurious feather beds, dining on the best food, and drinking the finest wines.
Suddenly, Meg’s voice broke through my happy recollections, and I heard her repeating my name. “Christine, Christine,” she called out to me. “Have you been listening at all? Are you feeling alright?”
Blinking back the tears, I looked up and replied, “I was just remembering.”
“Were you thinking about your father, Christine?” Meg asked sincerely, grasping my hands.
“Yes,” I answered, lowering my chin so that she would not see me cry. “I’m so sorry, Christine,” she spoke gently, sliding closer and placing her arm around my shoulder. “Christine, Mother says your father was a great musician.”
As I absently looked at the violin case lying in the overstuffed chair, Meg followed my gaze and inquired, “Is it yours, Christine?”
“No,” I answered bleakly. “It is…I mean, it was my father’s.
“Is it very beautiful?” the inquisitive girl pressed. “May I see it?
“If you like.”
I walked over to the chair and reverently picked up the violin case, setting it carefully on the bed. As if it contained a priceless treasure, I flipped open the brass fasteners and pulled the lid up slowly, revealing an intricately hand-carved violin nestled in blue velvet lining. Lovingly stroking the instrument’s old pegbox and scrolled neck, I inhaled the comforting aromas of rosin, wood, and lemon oil. The fingerboard was scraped and worn down to bare wood where my father had skillfully pressed the strings, and there were small chips around the f-holes. The bow was rough and dull where he had held onto the whalebone grip, and the horsehair was frayed with errant strands. I lifted the violin from the case and tilted my head, tucking my chin onto the ebony chin rest. Plucking a single string with my index finger, I paused as it softly reverberated.
Rising up from the bed, Meg joined me and gently touched the scroll neck. “Christine, it is very old, isn’t it?” she remarked with awe.
Caught up in the memory of Father’s music, I began to softly hum an old gypsy tune we had performed together in the markets and squares. The bittersweet melody vibrated gently at the back of my throat as Father had taught me. As I hummed the tune, prickles traveled up my arms and I was beginning to think that Meg’s stories of the haunted opera house had spooked me.
“Christine, what is that music?” Meg asked as I continued to hum softly, my eyes drifting to the mirror.
“Just an old gypsy song, Meg,” I answered, plucking another string.
Meg followed as I padded across the carpet to stand before the mirror. Imitating my father’s performance stance, I looked at my reflection, humming the song’s pretty refrain. Standing just to the left of me, Meg’s voice dropped to a whisper as she inquired, “Is it a song your father played?”
“Yes, many times. It is my favorite,” I answered with another pluck on a string.
Stepping around until she stood between me and the mirror, Meg placed her hand on my shoulder and questioned, “Will you sing it for me, Christine, I mean the whole song?”
For years it had been my favorite song, and now it seemed almost a sacrilege to sing it without my father. Making excuses, I responded to her request, “I’m afraid my voice isn’t very good right now, Meg, with all the crying…and well, I’d rather not.”
Not ready to drop the subject, Meg pressed me further, her fingers gently tugging on my puffed sleeve. “But, Christine, wouldn’t your father want you to sing it for him?” she suggested with a beguiling smile.
Grasping the violin’s neck, I lifted my chin off the rest, then dangled the violin at my side. “Do you think he would hear me, Meg?” I questioned, slowly backing away from the mirror and moving toward the bed.
“Of course, Christine!” she replied without hesitation. “Mama says my grandpapa watches me dance from heaven, so why wouldn’t your father be watching over you?” she asserted with startling confidence.
Having very little confidence of my own, I placed the violin safely back inside its case. “I’m not sure, Meg. I’ve prayed for him to hear me. But do you really think the dead can return?” I asked her.
Leaning over the bed, I set the bow in its brackets as Meg came up behind me. “Of course I do, Christine,” she affirmed cheerfully. “They come back to look after their loved ones.”
Shutting the case and snapping the fasteners closed, I considered her statement, desperate for it to be true. Sighing heavily, I turned around to face Meg and acquiesced, “Well, I don’t suppose it would hurt. If you are right, and he can hear from heaven, well, what would be the harm?”
“Oh, Christine, what’s it called?” Meg asked me as I turned away from the bed and faced the mirror.
“The Bleeding Rose,” I answered.
As I moved across the carpet, Meg lowered herself onto the bed, folding her hands in her lap. After clearing my throat, I softly hummed the melody. I could already hear the fatigue in my voice and I knew I would not sing it well, but with my fingers grasping the locket around my neck, and with thoughts of my father, I began:
An Angel sent from heaven
Came to a garden fair
Searching for a flower
To wreath her golden hair
A lily grew in splendor
Radiant and white,
Dazzling in the sun
Shimmering of light…
I watched my own reflection in the mirror, mouthing the song lyrics as my eyes rimmed with tears. Behind me I could see Meg seated on the bed, her chin upturned and her eyes downcast. There was the strangest feeling around me, a tingling sensation on the top of my head…and for a moment I wondered if Father was near. Was this merely my imagination, or perhaps the fulfillment of his final promise that he would send an angel to guide and protect me? I wasn’t sure if it was just the spooky old building or Meg’s stories fueling my fancy. I knew only that I was compelled to sing.
When a single blood red rose
Caught the angel’s eye
Dark and mysterious
She could not pass it by
Crimson petals beckoned
Beautiful and rare
The angel chose the red rose
To wreath her golden hair
But when she plucked the blossom
Was pierced by savage thorn
Blood poured from the flower
The angel’s heart was torn…
My voice became more steady as I warmed to the song, and forgetting my fatigue, I thought of my father looking down into my room through a celestial portal. In my imagination, the ceiling of my room seemed to dissolve and the roof of the opera house vanished, revealing a brilliant starlit sky and the very vaults of heaven. I drove my voice beyond my grief, willing the song to reach higher and higher, soaring upward and outward.
She cast it onto the ground
And then she did dispose
Choosing the pale lily
Instead of the bleeding rose
With the song’s completion, I was riveted to the mirror, tears rolling down my face with my heartbeat drumming in my ears. Jumping up from the bed, Meg flitted across the room and threw her arms around me as if we had know each other forever. “Oh, Christine, Mama told me about your beautiful voice, but…well, I didn’t know you would sing like that!” she declared breathlessly.
“Thank you, Meg,” was all I could say to her, using my sleeve to wipe my eyes.
“Christine, your father must be so proud. Really, you sing like an angel!” Meg praised.
Before I could utter a word in reply, the door opened and Madame Giry breezed into my room with a set of large keys jingling in her hand. She had changed from her morning gown into a fetching pearl gray frock, with a cuirasse bodice and a graceful pleated train flowing down the back. Her braided hair had been twisted and coiled on top of her head, with tortoise shell hair-picks pinning the coiffure in place.
Her smoky eyes immediately fell on the two of us with our arms wrapped around each other in a sisterly hug, and she sighed with a smile. “I am so pleased you two are getting acquainted. I just knew you would be like two peas in a pod!” she said cheerily.
Grinning at her mother, Meg rose up on her toes and grasped my hand. “Oh Mama, you should hear Christine sing! She sounds like an angel!” she exclaimed.
I could feel the blood rushing into my face and stared down at the floor self-consciously as Madame approached us, her train dragging behind her. “So I’ve been told,” she said, one corner of her mouth turning up into an elusive smile. “Perhaps, Christine, you will sing again later but for now, would you like to tour the opera house?”
Meg’s eyes widened as she awaited my reaction. In truth, my little performance had drained me and I was tired. But I did not wish to disappoint Meg or Madame, who were obviously anxious to show me my new home…and I was curious about the opera house, having never seen a world-class auditorium.
“Thank you, Madame, that would be nice,” I responded with forced enthusiasm.
Placing her arm around my shoulder, Madame leaned down, and peering directly into my eyes, said, “This afternoon, after our tour and a bite of lunch, perhaps you and Meg would like to nap.”
“Yes, Madame,” I agreed with a nod.
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The moment I stepped out from the narrow, dark corridor of the ballet dormitory and up into the bizarre and magical world of the opera’s bohemian backstage, I was amazed and overwhelmed, for surely this was no place for a ten year old girl! Networked with spiral staircases and catwalks, tiered balconies led to the upper regions of the theater’s backstage world, and as Meg pointed out, all the way up to the opera’s roof. Reserved for the principal cast, ornately painted dressing room doors lined the main floor, while the community dressing rooms for chorus and the corps de ballet were located in the stuffier upper levels.
Large open bays were utilized for every facet of the opera’s production. There was a gigantic workshop where plaster artisans formed molded figures of animals and oversized statues, whose eyes seemed to watch from their empty sockets, following us as we toured their realm. Every surface was coated in fine white dust, while disembodied heads and nude forms hung from the rafters in various stages of painting and finish work. The scenery bay, a vast structure at the farthest end of the backstage area, was used to construct giant canvas flies and backdrops. Blank or partially painted canvases and paint supplies littered the floor, with the atmosphere saturated by turpentine and linseed oil fumes.
As Madame Giry led us through the maze of studios and workshops, I couldn’t help but feel the excitement of this colorful world to which I now belonged. Though all was quiet, tomorrow the place would overflow with activity as the cast, crew, and workers returned to prepare the opera house for the Bal Masque, only five days hence.
We were just about to enter the wig room when a rotund, red-faced woman with a measuring tape draped around her neck came bounding toward us. Her chubby arms overflowed with yards of colorful fabric and costume pieces, stacked nearly to her double chin. As trims, tassels, and beads spilled to the floor behind her, two giddy young women followed, scooping up the mess as fast as they could.
“Madame Giry! Oh, Madame!” she shouted hysterically, nearly out of breath.
Folding her hands calmly, Madame inquired, “What is it, Marie?”
“Madame, he has struck again!” the portly woman declared.
With a faint smile and a glint in her eyes, Madame questioned the agitated woman. “Calm down, Marie, and tell me what has happened.”
I was to learn that although Madame Giry was only the ballet mistress, she was highly regarded, and even loved, by members of the opera and its company. If anything was amiss in any department, it was generally Madame who was called upon to assist in catastrophes, and then expected to resolve the crisis. Yet she never received credit from the mangers when her skill and patience had succeeded.
Madame’s talents were not limited to dance. She was also known for her good head in business affairs. As a gifted young woman, Madame had dreamt of becoming a prima ballerina, but a whirlwind romance and family tragedy had forced her to give up the stage and remain behind the scenes. Unlike many women in her position, Madame had not grown bitter; but rather, she had embraced her duties, loving her students and serving as mother to all. She was known never to speak of the tragedy which had thwarted her dreams, and very little was known of Madame’s past. There was an air of mystery beneath the dignified grace and poise which set her apart from other women.
Madame Louise Giry had entered my life a year or so prior to father’s illness, but I was only vaguely aware of their prior association. I knew that she sometimes managed his business affairs, and that she had helped him procure a teaching position in Paris…but beyond that, she was the kind woman my father had entrusted to become my legal guardian, and I was beginning to feel more comfortable around her.
Madame then helped to steady the toppling bundles in Marie’s arms as the woman breathlessly told her tale. “Madame, it is him!” she exclaimed, her eyes wide open with fear.
Taking hold of my arm, Meg led me a few paces away where, whispering in my ear, she announced with a playful grin, “It’s the Opera Ghost!”
We listened to Marie’s panicked account as spools of thread and trims continued to tumble onto the floor.
“As you know, Madame, the mangers’ costumes for the ball have been labeled and stored in the wardrobes until the unveiling on New Year’s Eve,” Marie warbled.
“Yes, Marie, go on.”
“Well, this morning I was reviewing my checklist, Madame, preparing to make some last minute alterations on Monsieur Debienne’s costume. But when I opened the wardrobe to retrieve it, the costume had vanished!” she shouted. “Monsieur Debienne’s costume is missing, Madame Louise!”
Shaking her head and stroking her chin, Madame’s eyes narrowed. “Are you certain, Marie?” she asked. “Perhaps it has been misplaced.”
Still struggling to hold onto her goods, Marie adjusted the bundle and grunted, “No, no, Madame, I have turned the wardrobes, dressing rooms, and workshops upside down and inside out! I assure you the costume is nowhere to be found!”
A small muscle jerked in Madame’s cheek as Meg and I listened with fascination. “Well then,” she said, “perhaps it is the Opera Ghost!”
Marie’s eyes widened and her cheeks turned red as she spoke in exasperation, “But why would he steal Monsieur Debienne’s costume, Madame?”
“Well, Marie”, Madame Giry grinned with a wink, “I suppose he approves of your skills with a needle and thread…and in any case, my dear lady, I’m sure it will turn up.”
“But what am I to tell Monsieur Debienne?” Marie questioned, as her young helpers scooped up more of the sewing debris.
Thinking a moment, Madame regarded Marie’s bundle of supplies, and then suggested, “Simply tell him the costume is not up to his standards and let him wear last year’s pirate ensemble. Judging by the hangover he woke up with last January first, I doubt he even remembers what he wore!” Madame laughed.
Nodding her head and snorting with laughter, Marie agreed, “You are probably right, Madame, right indeed!”
With another catastrophe averted, Marie and her helpers trotted down the hall, as Madame turned to Meg and me with a devious sparkle in her eyes. “Come, come girls,” she clapped her hands, “we have much more to show you!”
We continued on the tour, and I could not help my fascination for this Opera Ghost, who apparently had a devilish sense of humor. His pranks seemed perfectly harmless…but still, I disliked the idea of someone sneaking about in the shadows. I furtively looked all around our surroundings as Madame led us through a series of locked doors and long hallways. With so many levels of twists and turns, the building was practically a maze, and having no sense of direction, I wondered how people managed not to get lost!
Finally, we arrived at a short staircase that was lavishly upholstered in deep red and lit by crystal wall sconces. Meg grabbed my hand and grinned at me like a Cheshire cat as we reached our destination. “Now, Christine,” Madame announced, beaming down at me, “you shall see the heart of our lovely lady.”
With the click of lock and key, Madame opened a heavy mahogany door and we entered into a small chamber draped with rich red velvet curtains. Lush golden cords with fringes and tassels trimmed the heavy hangings, and quilted velvet theater seats were arranged for as many as twelve patrons in the little alcove. With a grand gesture Madame pulled the thick cord and the front curtains opened onto a full view of the opera’s resplendent auditorium. I stood wide-eyed, barely able to take it all in, stunned by its grandeur and golden opulence even when lit by only a few gas lamps.
Father had occasionally taken me to small concert halls, but this was beyond anything I’d ever seen in its beauty and scale. Wide-bellied balconies beehived the theater’s perimeter, reaching nearly all the way up to the ceiling. My gaze traveled the balconies until, leaning back with a soft gasp, I caught sight of the tremendous chandelier high above the main floor. The blue and copper dome was frescoed with clouds and cherubim, and I could imagine how the chandelier would sparkle when lit with live flame. The fixture was strewn extravagantly with hundreds of tear-drop crystals and strings of iridescent beads, and golden harps formed the framework for its glittering six-tiered casement.
I leaned over the balustrade, looking down at the rows of theater seats on the auditorium’s main floor. I let my eyes wander through the entire theater until they fell on the spectacular stage, which was framed by a carved relief of gold-leafed angels. Scarlet drapes trimmed with gold fringe hung in graceful velvet pleats across the Proscenium arch, and figures of angels and gargoyles loomed above the orchestra pit.
Gold and copper statues of Isis, Amphitrite, Hebe, Pandora, Psyche, Thetis, Pomona, and Daphne encrusted the theater walls. These gods looked down with haughty indifference upon the world of mortals as Madame remarked, “She is magnificent, no?”
“Yes, Madame,” I whispered, in complete awe of my surroundings.
“And one day, Christine, you will perform on that stage,” she spoke quietly, looking down at me as I stared ahead. This was said as a statement of fact, but I could not comprehend ever doing such a thing. My thoughts were suddenly interrupted as Meg began bouncing on her toes and clapping her hands. Blurting out for all to hear, she squealed, “Mama, if we go down to the stage, Christine could sing her song right now!”
Mortified by Meg’s suggestion, I looked to Madame for an escape but was surprised to see from her smile that she was not at all shocked by Meg’s request.
“Why, I think that is a wonderful idea, Meg! I would love to hear Christine sing.”
“But, Madame,” I protested, “here, on this stage? Now? I can’t!”
Leaning down to me, Madame placed her hand on my shoulder and spoke in a whisper, “Of course you can, Christine. We have the theater to ourselves until tomorrow, and no one will hear you but the two of us.”
I gazed about the huge theater, overwhelmed by its size and the very notion that I would dare sing on a stage where famous opera singers had performed. Compared to those illustrious ladies and gentlemen, my voice would surely sound dreadful. Singing at fairs was one thing, but singing on that stage was out of the question.
Shaking my head and lifting my face to hers, I objected, “But Madame, I’m not good enough for such a stage!”
Placing her arm around me, Madame steered me toward the door and turned the knob, as Meg followed behind and chattered in approval of her mother’s comments.
“Nonsense, Christine, my dear. I have it on good authority that you sing like an angel. In any case, your voice training shall begin after the New Year, so why not give it a try? It might take your mind off unpleasant things.”
We started down the stairs and I found myself extremely nervous as Meg and Madame led me to the main floor.
“Yes, Christine, sing for your father like you did this morning!” Meg persisted, tiptoeing down the corridor that led underneath the stage. In spite of my nerves I felt somewhat obligated to fulfill their wishes because after all, they had taken me in and had shown me nothing but kindness.
With my stomach in knots and weariness creeping into my body, I decided I’d best be done with it.
“Well, I suppose I could, if you will stay here with me,” I gave in, tugging on Madame’s sleeve.
“Of course we will,” Madame assured me. “You’ve nothing to fear from this auditorium, Christine. It was your father’s dream that you live and perform here, and I promise you he would be so very proud.”
Pausing before we entered through the door, I nodded and sighed to myself as Madame led the way to the stage. Standing under the catwalk, I leaned back to gawk at the complex system of pulleys, flywheels, and cables high overhead. Meg took my hand and practically dragged me onto the stage, where I continued to gaze upward, feeling utterly dwarfed by the massive backstage environment.
Looking down at my feet, I took notice of markings and patterns etched into the stage floor and wondered how the trap doors could possibly open and close without injuring the actor. An uncanny sense of magic and illusion surrounded me, and I wrapped my arms about my body as a gust of cool air swooped down upon us from the rafters.
“How about right here?” Meg suggested, leading me closer to the footlights where I could look down into the orchestra pit. From that vantage point the auditorium’s rows of theater seats and balconies gave the impression of a giant city rising up around me, and I held my breath as Madame’s and Meg’s footsteps echoed into the wings. Folding her hands together at her waist, Madame smiled and nodded her head in my direction.
“Do not be afraid, Christine,” she encouraged me, “It’s just the three of us now.”
“And your father!” Meg blurted out, garnering her mother’s frown. Again, staring down at my feet, with chills spreading up my arms and my heart pounding, I began to sing The Bleeding Rose.