Page 57 of Angel's Kiss
“For heaven’s sake, Adèle.” Christine buried her face in her hands. “I’m not beingstuck.”
“Of course not,” Adèle laughed. “Just like Gilda isn’t getting it from the duke before the story even starts. At least you know your noble’s real name.”
Christine stared at her friend for a beat before realizing who she meant and shook her head. “No. Oh no! Raoul isn’t – I mean—”
“Pity. Nobles have the best equipment I’ve found. Good breeding in every sense of the word. If the boy’s anything like Antoine, I’m sure he’d be quite the stallion between your thighs,” Adèle sighed, looking wistfully to the heavens. “That pretty cock of his is the only reason I keep that charlatan around.”
“Adèle!” Christine squawked.
“You wouldn’t think it was impressive when he’s at rest, but when he’s hard—”
Christine blanched. “When he’s...” Christine stopped herself as Adèle burst out laughing.
“My sweet girl, you really aren’t getting stuck, are you?” Adèle patted Christine’s shoulder. “I’ll tell you more about it over supper. Which youarehaving with me, no excuses.” The older woman turned away with a throaty chuckle.
Christine wanted to protest, but she had been ordered to go out to dinner, hadn’t she? She also wanted to scream, but she wasn’t sure about what. She wanted to roll herself into a ball and she wanted to sleep. And she wanted more than anything, though she tried to push away the desire, for Erik to kiss her again.
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Erik came through theauditorium, hidden in the orchestra pit, to see where the chandelier had been descended for maintenance. It wasn’t often that the workers lowered the great, gilded thing down from the ceiling to clean and inspect. It was quite a feat to relocate the 700-kilo mass, requiring the coordination of several stagehands attending the five counterweights that kept the chandelier hanging safely above the theater. Erik surveyed the empty seats and boxes, only to see that they were not entirely unoccupied.
To Erik’s surprise, the man he was most interested in seeing was already in Erik’s own box. Perhaps Armand Moncharmin wanted a meeting as well. Erik disappeared into the trap door in the orchestra and made his way to the ladder concealed in the hollow column leading to box five.
He remained hidden when he arrived at the box, observing the way that Moncharmin kept standing, sitting, and tidying the seats as he did. He bent to brush some dust off the edge of a railing.
“Madame Giry will keep the box in order, I assure you,” Erik said and took immense pleasure in watching Moncharmin leap in terror. “I do not recall making an appointment, Monsieur.”
“I wanted to reach out!” Moncharmin stammered. He spun slowly, looking around the box as if he could find the phantom that spoke. Erik did his best not to laugh. “I have a letter.” He held up the paper in his hand.
“Are you going to read it to me or leave me in suspense?”
“It’s ten thousand francs. I couldn’t find more, just yet, but Monsieur Poligny has assured me you will take it as a gesture of good will.”
“Leave it on the shelf,” Erik ordered and Moncharmin complied all too quickly.
“Of course Mademoiselle Daaé will sing Gilda and Marguerite from now on. I wanted to see if there was anything else you suggested. To improve the Opera.” Well, Erik liked that. Finally a manager had been taught his lesson.
“You should consider replacing the gas with electric lights, it’s much safer. And wouldn’t you like our Opera to be the talk of the continent?” Erik bit back a chuckle as Moncharmin fumbled in his jacket for a paper and pencil and began taking notes. “Though you will need to turn the chandelier off if you intend to mount Wagner within the year.”
“Wagner?” Moncharmin scoffed. “We’d have a riot!”
“Not if you start off easy.Lohengrinperhaps. Paris has an appetite for something new, and their greatest theater should give it to them.”
The man was sweating and pale now, so overcome it was almost pathetic. “And you think your Christine could sing Elsa?”
“By the end of the year, perhaps. She could share the role.” Erik mused. It would be a challenge, but to bring new music to the people... Christine could do it. “It is simply a suggestion. Perhaps at the next gala she could try something new. Test the claque.”
“I’ll consider it,” Moncharmin muttered. “We won’t announce another gala until the masquerade. And only ifRigolettogoes over well.”
“I look forward to the next triumph, Monsieur,” Erik intoned. He watched Moncharmin nod and rush from the box. He waited a safe time to take his salary – or ill-gotten gains as the Daroga would call them – and stow the envelope in his inner pocket.
His instinct was to go directly to the rehearsal studio, but it had been a while since he had properly inspected the state of his kingdom. He looked in on the dancers, with their mothers hovering in the corners while the Opera’s resident painter, Monsieur Degas, sketched them in charcoal. Erik wondered if the man would ever draw Christine and how easy it would be to steal the work. He was holding a small fortune in his pocket; perhaps he could buy it.
He checked in on the other painters of the Opera: the scenery artists, finishing their work on thetrompe-l’oeilthat would serve as the distant hills of Mantua in a few nights’ time. Next, costumers shining coats of armor, then the stagehands arguing in the flies. It was apparently a disaster up there since their chief had gone missing again. How tragic.
At last Erik came to the rehearsal studios, just in time to hear the duke and Gilda in a duet. Fontana was in good form today, Erik noted from the hall as he waited for the incandescent beauty of his pupil’s voice to find his ears. And Christine’s entrance came...late. An error she had never made. Erik stood straighter in his hiding place. Her support was off as well, and though her pitch was good, there was hesitance in her voice.
The piano stopped as Gabriel rapped on his music stand. “Mademoiselle, let us try again, from your entrance. On four.” Again, Erik waited, and again, Christine entered a half-beat off, no conviction in her voice.
