Page 69 of Angel's Kiss
“What’s happened?” Julianne’s voice cut through Christine’s worry as she strode into the room, costumes in hand. “Aren’t you excited for a premiere?”
“Just get me dressed,” Christine muttered.
She avoided her reflection in the great mirror while Julianne laced her into her intricate gown of silver and purple, laces all up the arms and flared bits at the shoulder. For her it was a beautiful frock, for Gilda it was no better than chains. She did not speak to Julianne much as she helped her with her make-up and the braids in her hair, and she warmed up automatically once her friend was gone, barely thinking about the exercises. Erik had already sung with her today. They had sung Mozart and she had almost swooned to hear his Don Giovanni ask for her Zerlina’s hand.
“Five minutes!” a stagehand’s voice called from beyond the door and Christine steadied herself. How was she to sing tonight with this tempest in her mind? She closed her eyes, hoping to keep back her tears, and a telltale prickle danced down her spine.
“You will be wonderful.” The voice of her angel, as always, seemed to come from all around her, even though she knew he was simply a man behind a mirror. She let out a sigh of relief at the sound.
“I am sorry, if I have hurt or deceived you, I will try to make it right when I can. But now, tonight, do not think of my wrongs. Think of our music and live in that.”
“I will,” she replied like a prayer.
She floated in the memory of his voice to her place backstage. Much as with her role as Marguerite, Gilda was not needed for much of Act I. It was later, after the duke’s hunchback jester was cursed and encountered the assassin Sparafucile, that it was revealed Rigoletto kept a daughter locked away from the terrible attentions of men.
Christine thought of Gilda as she waited backstage, hidden in a dark corner among the flats and curtains; of how trapped she had to feel. Christine pitied the poor girl as she became her. And then, finally, she was free as she began to sing.
She sang of the name of her beloved,caro nome,conscious of the terrible irony that the soaring notes of joy were inspired by a lie. It was not Guailtier Malde that had courted Gilda, it was the duke who would steal her and defile her. And yet, Gilda was ready to give her life to save the man who took her virtue. She was ready to die, but was it even her choice? Her father, Rigoletto the jester, was the one who had been cursed. Not her. She was just a victim of a man’s folly and hate.
Still she sang on, letting her heart soar with the notes, not even hearing the applause when she was done. The patrons cheering and the thousands of people watching did not matter. She didn’t sing for them. She sang for Erik as no one ever had. Her heart surged, because she knew that whoever he had touched before, they had not given him this. Only she would give him her soul in song.
––––––––
Erik stayed for theentire ovation, watching from the shadows of box five on the grand tier. The crowd was rapturous for all the leads, Fontana’s rakish count, and Rameau’s cursed hunchback. But the volume of the applause doubled when Christine bowed. She had been more fantastic than he could ever have hoped, and the crowd stayed on their feet clapping for a full five minutes before the great red and gold curtain fell for good.
There was no chance tonight that he would be able to spirit Christine away before she had to parade herself through theSalon du Danseamong the patrons and well-wishers. At least from there Erik could watch her, pretend he was the one on her arm, smiling in pride as the bourgeois and boring kowtowed before her.
It was to his hiding place behind one of the salon mirrors that Erik stole, not to Christine’s dressing room. He did not need the temptation of her bare skin at the moment. He did not want to think about what sort of conversation awaited them when they were alone either. There was still so much she didn’t know, so much he didn’t want to tell her. He wanted to exist just a little while longer in the light of her compassion before she learned how little he deserved it.
One by one people filtered into the grand chamber, many of the ballet dancers still in their white skirts of toile, calves scandalously exposed to the leers of the patrons at their sides. Men and women from the chorus mingled as well: dour basses, vacant-eyed tenors, scheming sopranos, and altos who were too smart for all of this but usually passed beyond anyone’s notice.
The directors came next, with Gerard Gabriel looking relieved, and Henri Mercier looking exhausted. As usual, Charles La Roche of the ballet thought himself too important to be there. Perhaps he did not like the reminders that his dancers of barely fifteen years of age were being handed off to interested patrons by chaperones acting as little more than pimps.
Claude Bosarge received a smattering of applause when he stepped in. It would have been more had the musicians of the orchestra been invited to soirées such as this, but lowlyinstrumentalistswould be a stain on the glittering assemblage. Finally came the managers. Moncharmin was bubbly with excitement and Richard frowned like the marble bust of a dead Roman. The only life he conjured was to nod at the richest patrons.
Erik didn’t look too closely at the patrons; or tried not to. But he could not help his interest when a particular pair of men entered. It was that boy, the so-calledVicomtewho continued to dog Christine’s steps along with his blustering brother. The brother went immediately to Sorelli, shooing away thepetits ratsthat had congregated around the prima ballerina. But the boy looked around the room expectantly, eyes keen and curious. Did he hope to annoy Christine once again?
The boy and the rest of the crowd turned to the door when a murmur went up and Christine entered, on Robert Rameau’s arm. It was like sunrise, as well as Erik could remember it. She was radiant in a gown of red taffeta, edged with lace and beads. Her white gloves reached up to her elbows, but the gown’s small sleeves exposed her pale shoulders and Erik could only dream of what a pleasure it would be to kiss that vulnerable skin. To think, barely a week ago he had been afraid to even touch her...
The fantasy faded the instant he saw the boy race towards Christine, an expression of adoration on his face. What was he doing? Erik watched as Christine’s expression fell when she saw him and he adopted his haughtiest attitude with Rameau. Was he asking her to talk alone?
Christine demurred, but the boy was insistent. Erik tried to read their lips, a skill he had never truly mastered, but he could tell when the boy said something callous and insulting to Rameau. Even so, Christine nodded for the bass to leave. And then she did not resist as the boy led her away from the crowd and, serendipitously, towards the corner where Erik was concealed.
“This isn’t private,” Christine protested, looking nervously around them at the crowd and then at the mirrored wall. Did she know her angel was there? Was that why she was so nervous?
“I don’t care.” The boy grasped Christine’s gloved hands, pulling her closer as he implored her. “I’ve made it clear before, I don’t care who knows my feelings for you or my intentions.” Erik frowned in the dark. What on earth did that little scoundrel intend?
“Please, not here,” Christine whined.
“Christine, I’m sorry for overstepping the other night,” the boy went on, ignoring her and taking her hand.
“Raoul, please.” Erik did not like the way Christine said the name, plaintive and overcome.
“You drive me to wildness; you must know that.” There was real ardor in the words, and Erik considered if he might be able to break through the mirror that separated him from this rival and choke the life from the boy right there. “You let me court you, take you to dinner, and play the suitor...”
The world went out of focus. What was that boy talking about? Taking her to supper? How many times had Christine seen the little lout?
“I know I should not have kissed you. I’m sorry for being so forward.”
