Of Phantoms and Angels

I. Mme Cartelle

     Dedicated to ErikPhantom; the Phantom of the Opera, the Angel of Music, a genius, and an all-around great person.

     Well, if you're reading this, then you made it through the first chapter. Thank you for sticking with it. I'd love to hear how it was. And, in case you were wondering, the french in this novel is my own, with a few small exceptions. If you have trouble with it, Google Translate is a wonderful tool for those who know how to use it properly. You can also leave a comment, and I'll give you a translation.

Hoping you are all well,

~ JM

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     Lilienne sat on the dusty wood floor of the dance hall among the other ballerinas, with wisps of hair escaping their tight buns and a flush across their faces; a typical mid-practice composure. They took this blessed opportunity to unlace their slippers and gingerly rub their feet, relaxedly gossiping on the dance hall floor.

     "Alright, ladies, on your feet! Ten minutes is up!"

     That was Madame Cartelle's signature greeting to her students. It was always a wonder to the young dancers how she managed to emanate such exhilarating energy, even after their fourth hour of dance. All the girls retied their slippers and pulled themselves en pointe, withholding their groans- everyone knew how Mme Cartelle felt about groaning.

     "Vite! Vite! If we don't get started, then you can all stay until midnight! Into your previous formation!"

     They all ran about, putting themselves in position to rehearse their opening number in the opera Hannibal, Lilienne fitting herself in and raising her arms in delicate wait. Mme Cartelle counted them in, then sat the way she did- reclining against her desk with her hands behind her back, eyes narrowed into slits and lips pursed as she critiqued their every movement- every turn of the ankle, every bat of the eye. She shouted her abuse as they danced.

     "Marcella, lift your arms! Gabrielle, turn out those feet! Annette, you look like a chicken with your knees bent like that! Come ladies, you must keep your rhythm!"

     Which was exceedingly difficult on sore feet while she yelled over them. Finally, when she'd had enough, she cut them off. They all dropped to the floor, half listening to her as they nursed their feet.

     "You call that dancing? How am I supposed to present you in the opera next week? Clearly you've not been practicing."

     "But we have been." One girl, Brigitte, spoke up, "We've been practicing for hours everyday. We think all the numbers are perfect."

     "Perfect, eh?" She raised an eyebrow in her menacing way, "An art so fine such as ballet can never be perfect. So, I suggest you keep practicing- unless you want a bad review next week. And remember; if it doesn't hurt-"

     "-You're not doing it right." All the dancers finished for her. It was a phrase which she ingrained in them from the beginning, and one which they all hated, for it often sent them to bed with an aching body.

     "Now, out of my dance hall! I have another class."

     She mercifully shooed them away. All the girls sorely stood, gathering their things and walking exhaustedly and dejectedly from the hall, chattering amongst themselves.

     "The blisters just won't go away..."

     "This is the third pair of slippers I've danced my way through this season..."

     Lilienne listened to it all as she gingerly pulled her slippers from her feet, carefully binding them with the laces. Walking more on her heels, she began to stumble from the hall, trailing behind her fellow classmates.

     "Oh Lilienne, would you stay for a moment?"

     The voice of Mme Cartelle gripped her from behind, making her freeze. Lilienne's stomach dropped like a stone as she turned about to face the strict, thin faced woman- it was never a good thing when Mme Cartelle wished to speak to you alone. She timidly approached her teacher.

     "Oui, Mme Cartelle?"

     She spoke in her quiet manner, and the woman took her time with her, examining the girl up and down as she walked in slow circles around her. Lilienne's heart quickened and her sore muscles tensed.

     "You have been working very hard, I can tell."

     "Yes, Madame."

     "But you are not progressing as I had hoped."

     "I have been trying very hard, Madame." Lilienne kept her head bowed and her eyes averted.

     "I moved you up to the advanced class because I thought you could handle the challenge. Can you handle the challenge?" She stopped her pacing, and Lilienne could imagine the look on her face, demanding and skeptical.

     "Yes, Madame."

     "If I don't see improvements, you will be moved back down with the novice class."

     "Yes, Madame."

     "You are dismissed."

     "Merci, Madame."

     With this, Lilienne finally hurried from the dance hall. The younger girls were just beginning to arrive, and she pushed through the crowd of tutus and tights. She ignored how her body hurt and the threat her teacher had just made, concentrating solely on returning to her room.

     Once returned to the safety of her quarters, she collapsed onto her bed, first sliding her thin tights down her legs, then unwrapping the dampened bindings from around her feet. She removed her frilly skirt and leotard, sighing in relieved satisfaction as the air met her warm skin. She let it prick at her exposed body as she hung it all up together, cooling and calming her.

     She slipped a fresh pair of stockings over her legs and pulled a dress about her; it was simple and modest, in a faded blue that buttoned down the front and tied into a bow at her back. She brushed out her hair and tied it back in her standard braid before slipping her feet into a pair of comfortable shoes.

     She left her room again- lunch would be served by this time, and she knew that everyone who wasn't trapped in a rehearsal would be gorging themselves; so Lilienne, a book in tote, ventured the opposite direction of the performer's dining hall. She scampered through narrow corridors and up several creaking flights of stairs until she could hear none of the noise.

     She sat in utter relief, feeling for the first time today at ease. She hated meals because everyone was crammed close together. She hated dancing in front of the other ballerinas in class for fear of their judgments. So, in all the years she'd lived in the Paris Opera, she'd learned to escape it; to find those secret and secluded places where nobody knew to look for her. Calmness overtaking her, she slid to the floor, crossing her legs and opening her book, relishing in this small freedom.

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