Fantôme – Chapter 7, Part 1

The managers did as they had agreed, telling their billetiers once again not to sell Box Five, instead sending Remy out to the hotel in which an English actress was staying to offer her the box for the night, and from there to the hotel of an Indian princess who they wanted to be seen at the Opera the next night. When the other theatre denizens asked the Box Office workers what they felt of the changes and the constant back-and-forth, they simply shrugged – for what did it matter to them what their capricious managers thought, so long as they were paid? The Opera Ghost had never yet held dominion over the atrium or contacted them directly, so they simply followed the order of the day – although he stayed in their minds, and they were not willing to test where his boundary fell or ally themselves with this haphazard management if He were on the other side. This was agreed over the samovar in the back rooms and was an opinion cemented when the department was not sent a box of pastries or a case of oranges to apologise for the rapid changes.

And so, the Opera hustled and bustled along. For two weeks Box Five was inhabited by presences that were pointedly un-spectral, unless you happened to pick up a morning paper where you might see their less corporeal forms. Miss Phyllis Dare, the actress, had no complaints about the show as she gadded about happily between her own, gifted, box and those of the French aristocracy around her. She was seen well by the crowd and happily leaned forward to ensure that she was pictured in her own box as well as those of French society. Princess Duleep Singh rather rudely complained of a draft plaguing her in the box and rattling, hissing noises spoiling her night, but she complimented the singing and the staging and the show. Firmin Richard proclaimed that this was typical of an Oriental, and noted the heavy furs in her carriage, not knowing that the Princess has been born in Knightsbridge to a German mother, and knew a little something about cold weather. They spent the weeks courting celebrated guests, which was a pleasant diversion from day-to-day business that kept them busy. They worked apart, but poor Remy found himself run off his feet delivering scraps of paper, improperly sealed with a hasty fold, between the stage and the office, upon which were written the names of composers and salon-keepers around Paris, the receipt of which would make Richard or Moncharmin chuckle but beyond that a benefit was not tangible to Remy.

So it was so several weeks that the only fly in the ointment of running the Opera was the letters with scratchy penmanship and curse-red ink. One of these arrived daily, delivered by a fresh means, and the contents increasingly irate. They would all invariably find themselves thrown onto the fire without a second thought – after the first week, they were not even opened.

So it all was, until a gentleman named Lachenel came to the office.

‘I suppose that you are an employee of ours?’

‘Yes, sir, I am the head groom. I manage both stables, the training and the visiting.’

Richard looked up from the sofa. ‘Do we have horses of our own or it it just those of our patrons?’

Moncharmin answered for him: ‘We have eleven horses, my good man – how else would we have dressage on stage?’

‘I beg to interrupt, sir, but we only have seven horses.’

Moncharmin was distinctly less jolly at hearing this.

‘My good fellow, every week I order sufficient food for eleven horses. Are you telling me that there are in fact only seven? If this is the case, when I accompany you down I expect them all to be eighteen hands, or you can tell me exactly what happens to the feed, and show me an accounts-book for good measure. What did you come here for anyway?’

‘I came to ask you, sir, to fire all the grooms.’

‘All the grooms! Heaven forfend, first you tell me I have the wrong number of horses, then you tell me you want all your colleagues gone?’

‘Sir, they are terrible grooms! They feel that they are above such tasks as mucking out stalls and washing the animals, and instead they stand about smoking! I asked your predecessors before the thefts, but now all this has happened and I must say it has gone too far, they must all be replaced.’

‘Thefts? What thefts?’

The groom was clearly trying not to show his exasperation, but it must be said that he did not manage awfully well.

‘The horse thefts, sir.’

‘What – so how many horses do we have now?’

‘That’s just it, sir – you think we have eleven horses, but there are only seven because of the thefts.’

At this, Moncharmin exploded. ‘You are telling me that we have had four horses stolen?! How could you let such a thing happen? You shall be out along with the rest of the grooms, my man. I expect the whole story!’

Lachenel made a heavy sigh. ‘Sir, I spoke with your predecessors about all but the most recent one, but now they have taken noble Cesar, the best of our beasts, and it cannot stand!’

Moncharmin took off his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Richard, my fellow, move your feet. Monsieur, please sit down and tell me exactly what has happened.’

‘The horses have been taken one by one, one a month this year.’

‘And how have they been taken?’

‘There is no sign of force, sir – no scoring of hoofs in the mud, no forced locks or layabout rope threads. They are loyal animals, well-trained and attached to their handlers, so it must have been one of the grooms. The only way to steal a horse that way is to for it to trust you and allow you to lead it off.’

Moncharmin did not look up when he spoke. ‘And this is why you want all of the grooms gone?’

Lachenel was typically French in his gesture of exasperation. ‘Why, yes sir! If one of these cronies is guilty then they all are, besides being guilty of doing no work. Besides,’ he shrugged, ‘then we can spend the money that might have gone on investigating them on, uh, better horses.’

Moncharmin and Richard caught one another’s eyes. This time, Richard took up the mantle.

‘Better horses?’

‘Yes sir. If you are going to get a horse as good as Cesar, then it will cost a fair amount of…’ He spoke no more, only rubbed his fingers against his thumb and gestured at the men. Moncharmin sighed, and leaned back in his chair, rubbing his temples where the stems of his glasses had sat.

‘Right,’ said Moncharmin, defeated, ‘I suppose we are coming down to the stables to see for ourselves.’

***

At the same time the managers were embroiling themselves in horse drama, the great Carlotta, superior singer at the Opera, was rising above a drama of her own.

Coming to her dressing-room one day, she found a neatly folded letter on high-quality paper written in a spidery red hand. It was quite apart from all her other fan mail, placed right in front of her mirror. The principle was excited to read it, feeling that it was a declaration of love – for what else could that red ink mean? Madame spritzed herself and the room in scent, settled her ample figure into the chaise langue in her room, and pulled a fabulously expensive bonbon from a box before she lay back and broke the seal on the letter. What she read called forth a gasp, then a string of curses in Spanish.

Mademoiselle Carlotta, the letter read,

It is with some pleasure that I have heard you sing. Your vocal range is strong for a soprano and you are a forceful and convincing actress.

Despite these boons, or perhaps because of them, I ask you not to sing this coming Saturday night. I regret to tell you that the young Mademoiselle Daae will be vastly superior as Marguerite, and it would be beneficial for your career to step aside and gracefully welcome her to the stage. As strong as your performance is, Christine Daae will inhabit the song in a way that you are simply incapable of.

Your friends in Paris shall not see you destitute, and neither will I – whatever title you wish shall be yours upon marriage, and your marriage shall be a respectable career far moreso than your unremarkable singing deserves.

I hope that you will choose to recognise the truth and friendship in what I write; otherwise, I fear you shall be humiliated.

Yours,

O.G.

Yes, it was a string of curses brought forth by this letter, and the realisation that the little snake Daae had friends that should attempt to scare Carlotta. Why, any soprano at the top of her game ought to expect it, but Carlotta had thought Daae such a dull, quiet girl that she would not turn the head of any society man. Her pastoral, virgin charm was out of fashion – and besides, this ‘inhabitor of songs’ was certainly not and inhabitor of parties. Why, Carlotta had never seen the girl at so much as a restaurant, never mind an intimate salon.

No, this attack on Carlotta was beneath her; distinctly unthreatening and vulgar. The Prima Donna simply scrunched up the paper and dropped it on the ground beneath her chaise before moving to her dressing-table and picking up a pen. By writing to all of her friends and allies, Carlotta would show that she was not rattled; neither was she weak. This viper, this cuckoo, would be shown on Saturday when Carlotta delivered two breathtaking performances in front of a crowd of friends. Yes, Carlotta was not afraid to pack the Opera to the rafters with her admirers, then raise her voice to the heavens in her dismissal of little Christine Daae. What fool could she have put up to this?