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charleygirlTitle: Beyond the Green Baize Door 14/?
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 1487
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Erik the Phantom, Madame Giry, Carlotta
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: The Opera Populaire's prima donna receives some unwelcome attention from the resident ghost...
CONFOUNDING CARLOTTA
“I am-a telling you, I will not-a stand for any more of these... stupido games! You are my manager, you should find ‘oever is be’ind them an-a get rid of ‘im!”
Antoinette was practically swept aside as La Carlotta came storming through, chased by Monsieur Lefevre and scattering stagehands and ballerinas in her wake. Despite her ample frame and heavy, over-decorated skirts, she could move at a considerable pace when it suited her and had absolutely no consideration for anyone who might happen to get in her way. Madame Giry had once seen a traction engine driven with much the same attitude and a very similar effect. All those with any sense of self-preservation jumped to one side when the temperamental diva was on the rampage: her swinging parasol caught the legs of the unwary; Lefevre ducked before the bobbing fox tails of her stole smacked him in the face.
“It was a prank, Signora, nothing more than a childish prank,” the manager said in what he obviously hoped was a conciliatory tone. “You may be sure that I will get to the bottom of it, and when I do the culprit will be dealt with severely. Most severely.”
“An-a do you call all of these... these indignities pranks?” Carlotta demanded. “First the fish ‘eads in-a the dressing table and then all of my costumes shrinking? I cannot fit into anything!”
“I am not entirely sure they all shrank, Signora,” Lefevre muttered. A snigger, hastily smothered, came from somewhere behind.
She glared at him. “What-a was that?”
“Oh, nothing, nothing! I will of course look into all of these... inconveniences.”
“See that-a you do. Any more of them and I will-a be going back to Milan. They know ‘ow to treat a star of my... my...” Carlotta struggled for the French. She snapped her fingers impatiently, obviously expecting a suitable prompt.
“Magnitude?” offered Madame Giry with a raised eyebrow.
Oblivious to the sarcasm, the Prima Donna nodded. “Si, si! They treat Carlotta properly at La Scala. This place, it is full of... of sciocchi! Idioti!” Abandoning French entirely, she moved off again, barrelling along the corridor, keeping up a constant stream of invective as she went.
A low chuckle ran around the walls. Starting at one side of the passage it bounced back and forth, up and down. Hearing it, one of the ballet rats startled, peering around her with wide eyes. “The Ghost! He’s here!” she cried.
“Don’t be so ridiculous, Chantelle,” Antoinette snapped. “Be about your business, girl!”
The dancer scuttled off, leaving Madame Giry alone in the shadows. Well, almost alone. She could feel a presence nearby; it came as no surprise to her that he was behind the recent annoyances plaguing Carlotta. Leaning into a corner near to the apparent source of the laughter, she said quietly, “Really, Erik, is this sort of behaviour not beneath you?”
“You must allow a Phantom his amusements, Madame.” His voice brushed her left ear; though she couldn’t see him, he was somewhere nearby, probably inside the wall. He had secret tunnels all over the theatre, one of which no doubt opened into Carlotta’s dressing room.
“Fish heads? Surely you have more finesse than that.”
“Crude, but effective. It saved the kitchen boy having to dispose of them and Carlotta’s performance certainly stinks.” His amusement at the trick was obvious. Antoinette had never asked his age but guessed that he was at least of her own if not older; in spite of that, he sometimes reminded her of a particularly malevolent schoolboy.
“Why Carlotta, and why now? She has been here for two years, and has been a thorn in your side all that time,” she pointed out. “Why pick on her now?”
Erik’s voice became immediately serious. “Does she not deserve a little attention from the resident ghost?” he enquired silkily.
Madame Giry watched the diva berate one of the young runners who had unwisely stepped in her way; the poor lad was practically quaking beneath an angry and virtually incomprehensible tirade of Italian. “She is a dreadful woman, but if she leaves the theatre will struggle. Lefevre will never find another Prima Donna at such short notice, and the production will make a loss. That is not good for business.”
“I care little for business. That harpy destroys every score put before her. Her presence here is an insult to music.”
“If the Opera fails, there will be no music. Have you considered that?” Antoinette asked.
He did not reply. Carlotta, clipping the unfortunate boy round the ear with her gloves, disappeared into her dressing room. A few moments later, there was a startled scream, making the two ballet rats that happened to be passing jump like frightened rabbits. The costumes they were carrying tumbled to the floor in a profusion of satin and gauze, sequins bouncing left and right. Madame Giry realised that it was Meg and Christine, evidently assisting the wardrobe mistress – Madame Michon, following them, gave a squawk of alarm and hurriedly began to gather up the half-finished garments before they could be damaged any further.
Before she had a chance to retrieve more than a handful, the dressing room door flew open and Carlotta practically catapulted back into the corridor, her face black with anger and something large and worryingly like a human head swinging by its hair in her hand. She ignored Madame Michon’s cries, walking straight into the mess of fabric on the floor and trampling some of the poor woman’s hard work. Christine had to snatch her hand away to avoid it being crushed beneath the Prima Donna’s heel.
“What is this?” Carlotta screeched, waving the offending item. “What is it? Is it a prank? Is it?”
“It looks like the donkey’s head from A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” said Meg as Lefevre and some of the stagehands came running round the corner, having heard the fuss. The manager took the thing from Carlotta and Madame Giry could finally see it clearly: it was indeed the head of Bottom the donkey from Mendelssohn’s ballet, but it had been expertly made up with rouged cheeks, long eyelashes and brilliant carmine lips. It was also wearing one of Carlotta’s elaborately-curled wigs. Christine stared at it in astonishment; Meg stifled a giggle and even Antoinette had to cover her traitorous mouth with one hand in order to maintain her stern expression. She knew exactly who was responsible, and she would be having words with him later.
“I do not-a care where it came from, I want to know ‘oo did it!” Carlotta was a formidable sight, her hands planted on her hips and her face twisted in fury. Had she been given a helmet and some wings, she would have made an excellent Valkyrie in Wagner’s opera of the same name. “Where is he? Bring ‘im to me and I will-a show ‘im he cannot play ‘is games with Carlotta!”
Lefevre handed the donkey’s head to Buquet, who was standing behind him. The head fly-man passed it in turn to his assistant, who gave it to the carpenter to his left. The man dropped it discreetly into the wicker basket that housed the laundry. “I am sorry, Signora, but there will have to be an enquiry,” the manager said. “I cannot just pin the blame upon anyone!”
“Then that is it, the last straw that is breaking the camel’s back!” Carlotta declared, shaking an angry fist under his nose. “That is it. The end. No more La Carlotta at the Opera Populaire. I go bye-bye!”
“Signora!” Lefevre gave chase once more as she stalked off, throwing her fox fur over her shoulder and calling out to Piangi. “Signora, please! Let us at least discuss this - !”
“There is-a nothing to discuss! Out of my way, toad!” The diva knocked Christine aside as the girl struggled back to her feet, her arms full of tutus. The dresses scattered on the ground once more, and Christine, red to the roots of her hair, knelt to begin again.
Madame Giry did not miss the angry growl which came from within the walls. It ran round the corridor, gaining volume as it went. Meg shivered and glanced at her mother; Antoinette shook her head. She bent to help the two girls and the wardrobe mistress collect the ruined costumes.
They heard no more from the Phantom as they worked, but though he was quiet for some time afterwards the tricks played on Carlotta did not stop. If anything, they escalated, until the poor woman was almost afraid to look over her shoulder. It was not until years later, at the opening of the disastrous Il Muto, as Erik’s voice rang through the theatre, that Antoinette realised the Prima Donna had made herself a deadly enemy that day.
“A toad, Madam? Perhaps it is you who are the toad!”
The Opera Ghost never forgets.
Author: charleygirl
Word Count: 1487
Rating: G
Genre: General, Drama
Characters Involved: Erik the Phantom, Madame Giry, Carlotta
Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera is the creation of Gaston Leroux but probably these days copyright to Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Summary: The Opera Populaire's prima donna receives some unwelcome attention from the resident ghost...
CONFOUNDING CARLOTTA
“I am-a telling you, I will not-a stand for any more of these... stupido games! You are my manager, you should find ‘oever is be’ind them an-a get rid of ‘im!”
Antoinette was practically swept aside as La Carlotta came storming through, chased by Monsieur Lefevre and scattering stagehands and ballerinas in her wake. Despite her ample frame and heavy, over-decorated skirts, she could move at a considerable pace when it suited her and had absolutely no consideration for anyone who might happen to get in her way. Madame Giry had once seen a traction engine driven with much the same attitude and a very similar effect. All those with any sense of self-preservation jumped to one side when the temperamental diva was on the rampage: her swinging parasol caught the legs of the unwary; Lefevre ducked before the bobbing fox tails of her stole smacked him in the face.
“It was a prank, Signora, nothing more than a childish prank,” the manager said in what he obviously hoped was a conciliatory tone. “You may be sure that I will get to the bottom of it, and when I do the culprit will be dealt with severely. Most severely.”
“An-a do you call all of these... these indignities pranks?” Carlotta demanded. “First the fish ‘eads in-a the dressing table and then all of my costumes shrinking? I cannot fit into anything!”
“I am not entirely sure they all shrank, Signora,” Lefevre muttered. A snigger, hastily smothered, came from somewhere behind.
She glared at him. “What-a was that?”
“Oh, nothing, nothing! I will of course look into all of these... inconveniences.”
“See that-a you do. Any more of them and I will-a be going back to Milan. They know ‘ow to treat a star of my... my...” Carlotta struggled for the French. She snapped her fingers impatiently, obviously expecting a suitable prompt.
“Magnitude?” offered Madame Giry with a raised eyebrow.
Oblivious to the sarcasm, the Prima Donna nodded. “Si, si! They treat Carlotta properly at La Scala. This place, it is full of... of sciocchi! Idioti!” Abandoning French entirely, she moved off again, barrelling along the corridor, keeping up a constant stream of invective as she went.
A low chuckle ran around the walls. Starting at one side of the passage it bounced back and forth, up and down. Hearing it, one of the ballet rats startled, peering around her with wide eyes. “The Ghost! He’s here!” she cried.
“Don’t be so ridiculous, Chantelle,” Antoinette snapped. “Be about your business, girl!”
The dancer scuttled off, leaving Madame Giry alone in the shadows. Well, almost alone. She could feel a presence nearby; it came as no surprise to her that he was behind the recent annoyances plaguing Carlotta. Leaning into a corner near to the apparent source of the laughter, she said quietly, “Really, Erik, is this sort of behaviour not beneath you?”
“You must allow a Phantom his amusements, Madame.” His voice brushed her left ear; though she couldn’t see him, he was somewhere nearby, probably inside the wall. He had secret tunnels all over the theatre, one of which no doubt opened into Carlotta’s dressing room.
“Fish heads? Surely you have more finesse than that.”
“Crude, but effective. It saved the kitchen boy having to dispose of them and Carlotta’s performance certainly stinks.” His amusement at the trick was obvious. Antoinette had never asked his age but guessed that he was at least of her own if not older; in spite of that, he sometimes reminded her of a particularly malevolent schoolboy.
“Why Carlotta, and why now? She has been here for two years, and has been a thorn in your side all that time,” she pointed out. “Why pick on her now?”
Erik’s voice became immediately serious. “Does she not deserve a little attention from the resident ghost?” he enquired silkily.
Madame Giry watched the diva berate one of the young runners who had unwisely stepped in her way; the poor lad was practically quaking beneath an angry and virtually incomprehensible tirade of Italian. “She is a dreadful woman, but if she leaves the theatre will struggle. Lefevre will never find another Prima Donna at such short notice, and the production will make a loss. That is not good for business.”
“I care little for business. That harpy destroys every score put before her. Her presence here is an insult to music.”
“If the Opera fails, there will be no music. Have you considered that?” Antoinette asked.
He did not reply. Carlotta, clipping the unfortunate boy round the ear with her gloves, disappeared into her dressing room. A few moments later, there was a startled scream, making the two ballet rats that happened to be passing jump like frightened rabbits. The costumes they were carrying tumbled to the floor in a profusion of satin and gauze, sequins bouncing left and right. Madame Giry realised that it was Meg and Christine, evidently assisting the wardrobe mistress – Madame Michon, following them, gave a squawk of alarm and hurriedly began to gather up the half-finished garments before they could be damaged any further.
Before she had a chance to retrieve more than a handful, the dressing room door flew open and Carlotta practically catapulted back into the corridor, her face black with anger and something large and worryingly like a human head swinging by its hair in her hand. She ignored Madame Michon’s cries, walking straight into the mess of fabric on the floor and trampling some of the poor woman’s hard work. Christine had to snatch her hand away to avoid it being crushed beneath the Prima Donna’s heel.
“What is this?” Carlotta screeched, waving the offending item. “What is it? Is it a prank? Is it?”
“It looks like the donkey’s head from A Midsummer Night’s Dream,” said Meg as Lefevre and some of the stagehands came running round the corner, having heard the fuss. The manager took the thing from Carlotta and Madame Giry could finally see it clearly: it was indeed the head of Bottom the donkey from Mendelssohn’s ballet, but it had been expertly made up with rouged cheeks, long eyelashes and brilliant carmine lips. It was also wearing one of Carlotta’s elaborately-curled wigs. Christine stared at it in astonishment; Meg stifled a giggle and even Antoinette had to cover her traitorous mouth with one hand in order to maintain her stern expression. She knew exactly who was responsible, and she would be having words with him later.
“I do not-a care where it came from, I want to know ‘oo did it!” Carlotta was a formidable sight, her hands planted on her hips and her face twisted in fury. Had she been given a helmet and some wings, she would have made an excellent Valkyrie in Wagner’s opera of the same name. “Where is he? Bring ‘im to me and I will-a show ‘im he cannot play ‘is games with Carlotta!”
Lefevre handed the donkey’s head to Buquet, who was standing behind him. The head fly-man passed it in turn to his assistant, who gave it to the carpenter to his left. The man dropped it discreetly into the wicker basket that housed the laundry. “I am sorry, Signora, but there will have to be an enquiry,” the manager said. “I cannot just pin the blame upon anyone!”
“Then that is it, the last straw that is breaking the camel’s back!” Carlotta declared, shaking an angry fist under his nose. “That is it. The end. No more La Carlotta at the Opera Populaire. I go bye-bye!”
“Signora!” Lefevre gave chase once more as she stalked off, throwing her fox fur over her shoulder and calling out to Piangi. “Signora, please! Let us at least discuss this - !”
“There is-a nothing to discuss! Out of my way, toad!” The diva knocked Christine aside as the girl struggled back to her feet, her arms full of tutus. The dresses scattered on the ground once more, and Christine, red to the roots of her hair, knelt to begin again.
Madame Giry did not miss the angry growl which came from within the walls. It ran round the corridor, gaining volume as it went. Meg shivered and glanced at her mother; Antoinette shook her head. She bent to help the two girls and the wardrobe mistress collect the ruined costumes.
They heard no more from the Phantom as they worked, but though he was quiet for some time afterwards the tricks played on Carlotta did not stop. If anything, they escalated, until the poor woman was almost afraid to look over her shoulder. It was not until years later, at the opening of the disastrous Il Muto, as Erik’s voice rang through the theatre, that Antoinette realised the Prima Donna had made herself a deadly enemy that day.
“A toad, Madam? Perhaps it is you who are the toad!”
The Opera Ghost never forgets.
