Silver -chp 4-

-Chapter 4-
It had been a little over three months since Rosette had been employed at the Opera House.  It had taken her very little time to learn of many of the passageways that cut through the building to help her get from point 'A' to point 'B.'  She learned quickly, and the staff found her to be of great use.  This of course did not surprise Rosette.  She had said she would be useful, and she was a woman of her word.
Her relationship with Adele and several of the other ballerinas and chorus members began to bloom and grow.  Adele saw Rosette as a sort of sisterly figure.  Relationships with Corinne, however, were not so easy.  She was the stubborn, proud one of the ballerinas.  Constantly in the company of a new, wealthy and doting suitor, she saw herself as above the rank of the other girls.  This often sparked heated arguments between her and Rosette, for the two women' idea of status differed greatly.  Rosette saw status as something to be based off of character.  Corinne saw it, as did most of the rest of France, as something to be based off of monetary wealth.  The two eventually decided to avoid each other as often as possible.  
Rosette met Andrea daily, be it for breakfast or lunch or while the young man was running errands for his master.  Andrea's relationship with the two younger apprentices was going along quite smoothly.  The two young boys were curious when it came to Andrea's mask, but seeing as how the young man ate separately from them, by his own request, there had been no incidents.  Overall, he was quite happy.
During their outings together, Andrea had come to request his sister that she wear dresses like she used to.  Since becoming a 'jack-of-all-trades' at the Opera House, Rosette had since purchased a pair of black work trousers and fashioned for herself two simple white blouses.  This ensemble was much more functional, especially when she had to help with the ropes and the backdrops, thus requiring her to work in the ladders and cat-walks, and tricky business when heavy twirling skirts get in the way.  Rosette had found nothing wrong with her new form of dressing; the blouses she made where functional and still fairly feminine, for they each had a square neck and a small amount of ruffle on the cuffs (thanks to Adele's insistence).  However, to please her brother, Rosette always wore a dress when she went out with him.  
Now it came to pass that there was a new diva soprano at the Opera House.  Though not nearly as hard to get along with as those prima donnas of the past, she was still proud and vain.  Madame Margot Antonin was an attractive woman of thirty years.  She was tall, pale, and slender, the perfect representation of the French idea of beauty!  Her blue-gray eyes were lined with thick lashes, and her cheeks and lips were always tinged with rouge.  Her massive amounts of wavy chestnut hair was always meticulously and perfectly arranged to compliment her delicate features.  
Her voice was powerful and seductive.  It had the power to entrance an audience, much like Christine Daae's voice.  However, Margot Antonin's voice entranced and enthralled in a completely different way.  To have her play a role such a Charles Gounod's Margarita, the innocent love interest in 'Faust,' or Offenbach's Olympia, the child-like mechanical doll in 'Tales of Hoffman,' would not have been the roles for her.  A role such as Puccini's Tosca, or Rossini's Armida was more suited to the diva.
It was, however, 'The Tales of Hoffman' that the cast was rehearsing on this day.  Opening night was June 17th, but five days away.  Madame Antonin was to play the Muse, Hoffman's constant companion throughout the opera.  A perfectionist by nature, Madame Antonin was working relentlessly and driving the maestro almost ruthlessly in order to have her solos magnificent!  Her voice boomed with crescendos, quivered with vibrato, and laughed with trills, leaving the massive auditorium to seem perfectly frozen when the music ceased.
"Bravo, Madame, bravo!" called the maestro from the pit.  Margot cleared her throat once, smiled, and brushed a lock of hair behind her ear.
Rosette, who had been helping two of the artists backstage finish the backdrop for the brothel scene, could not help but wince as the maestro praised the diva.  It was true, the woman had a beautiful voice.  However, her last measure had been, in short, terribly flat.  She was surprised that the soprano had not caught the sour notes.  Rosette herself had never received any formal training.  She simply had an ear for music, as did her brother.  It was something they had inherited from their father, she always presumed.  
"A quick respite, maestro," called Margot as she moved towards the seat that had been prepared for her.  As the singer took her seat, the two painters stood up and looked at Rosette.
"Why don't we follow the diva's lead?" said one of them, winking.  "My wrist is killing me.  We shall resume in ten?  Oui, that would be nice," he answered himself, walking off.  His partner followed him, leaving Rosette.  
She finished applying a few details to the violet curtain she had painted, then stood up.  Tucking a short, bothersome dark curl behind her ear, she spotted the diva, who was shooing away one of her assistants.  Biting her lip once, Rosette approached the woman.  She knew she was going to regret what was about to happen.
"Madame has a lovely voice," Rosette said politely, smiling.  It was always best to praise the lion before pulling at its whiskers.  
Margot smiled at the young woman and nodded.
"Merci," she replied simply.
"However," Rosette hesitated.  The diva's head snapped up as she eyed the girl.  "Please do not think me impertinent…" Rosette continued.  "It is only that, on your last measure, you were, I'm afraid to say, flat."    
Madame Antonin raised a perfectly groomed eyebrow, but was silent.  After a moment's pause, she stood up, and walked towards the edge of the stage, sending her massive, green silk and emerald velvet skirts twirling around her.  She motioned for Rosette to follow.  As the two stood on the edge of the stage, staring down into the orchestra pit, Margot looped Rosette's arm around her own and petted her hand once.  The younger woman was somewhat confused by the gesture.
"Monsieur," Margot called.  "Maestro!" she called once more.  The skittish young man who responded to the title looked up curiously.  Seeing the diva addressing him, he smoothed the front of his jacket and smiled pleasantly up at her.
"Oui, Madame?"
"It has been brought to my attention by this young woman that the last measure of my solo was flat.  Now then, why is it that it took this girl to inform me of my mistake, when my maestro should have been the first to correct me?  Did you fail to point out the flaw because you wish that I might humiliate myself in front of the entire Paris nobility?  Or did you simply fail to inform me of the flat notes because you are incompetent and did not catch them yourself?"  Her voice was stern and hard.
The young man, now perspiring greatly, was pale.  With wide, watery eyes, he stared at Margot, then at Rosette.  A nervous laugh spilled itself from his dry lips.
"Madame, please do not be so cruel.  You were not flat at all.  Who is this girl to tell you that you were?  She is a stagehand and chorus member.  She has not the training that you or I have."
Margot raised her eyebrows once more.  Her tone never faltered.  It kept that firm, cold edge.  
"It does not take a physician to be able to tell that someone is injured or ill, nor does it take a professor to see that someone is stupid.  Likewise, I doubt that it takes a musical genius to realize that a note is being sung improperly.  However, if you want your proof…"  Her eyes moved to Rosette.  Opening her mouth, she sang a single note.  "My dear," she said after having sung the note, "I want you to sing the seventh of that scale.  The note I sang is the tonic."
Rosette stared blankly at the woman for a long while.  The diva's arm was still looped with the hers, and the older woman's eyes never moved away from Rosette's face, nor did her calm, expectant expression ever change.  Finally, Rosette opened her mouth and sang the major seventh that had been requested of her.  Margot gave an approving smile then turned her dark eyes to the maestro.
"She can pick a note easily enough.  She can hear the flat.  Do your job, or I'll see to it someone more competent takes your place."
With that, she released Rosette and moved to center stage once more.  The maestro, obviously shaken and painfully nervous, qued the music, and Madame Antonin's voice rang once more through the auditorium.  Rosette stood there, somewhat stunned by what had just happened.
After the rehearsal, Margot fastened her fur-lined shrug around her shoulders and, followed by her little posse of assistants, made her way to the exit.  As she strolled through the backstage passages, she spotted Rosette who was carefully painting details on the face of a mannequin.  
"Mademoiselle!" Margot called to her.  Rosette looked up.  
"Oui?" she answered, setting down her brush and wiping her hands on her trousers as she approached Madame Antonin.  
"What is your name?" was the simple question.
"Rosette Elie, Madame."
"Ah.  A lovely name.  You have a sweet voice.  I shall see you again sometime.  Good afternoon."  With a nod, the diva swirled out of the door, followed by her group.  Rosette was still stunned, but she smiled and resumed her work.
-
Erik had dressed himself today.  He felt that he might at least wander the corridors under and above the stage to while away his hours in hell.  Offenbach's 'The Tales of Hoffman' was to be the next performance.  He smirked.  That soprano Madame Margot Antonin was to play the role of the muse.  It was a perfect role for the woman.  The muse was inspiration and corruption, genius and madness.  Again, Erik smirked.  Perhaps the Muse was the perfect role for him.
Floating across the lake and winding his way up the series of staircases, the Opera Ghost twisted and snaked his way through the series of trap doors that the original architects had built, as well as the few he had added on to the structure.  He soon found himself suspended high above the stage by a small platform attached on either end by a rope.  It would be a frightening place to stand for any stagehand, but for Erik is was second nature.  From this spot, no one would see him.  He winced as the diva butchered the last measure of her aria.  How foul!  How vile!  He hissed beneath the mask as she sang again the last line and again hit the wrong notes of the last measure.  
His attention was diverted, however, when one of the stage hands, and young woman, addressed the soprano.  He watched and listened closely as the error was made known, the maestro assailed, and the stagehand thanked.  Surprised, the Opera Ghost caught himself smiling when the diva sang the measure properly, then threatened the maestro.  
Golden eyes left the diva and cowering maestro and followed the young woman who had made known the flaw.  She had watched the scene patiently, and was now once again painting her backdrop.  From what Erik could see, the woman was not exceptionally beautiful, but she was by no means plain.  Her hair was somewhat odd: it was dark and wavy and… short.  How strange.  But what did it matter to him?  The woman could have had hair spun of pure sunlight and he would not have cared.  He had seen true beauty, and he knew he would see it never again.
Finally, the diva and her cohorts left.  The maestro too departed with the musicians.  Looking around him, moving from platform to platform, Erik saw that there was no one else on stage or back stage.  There was only the young woman, diligently working on the mannequin that was to be a doll in the toyshop scene of the opera.  He watched her work for a quarter of an hour, then sighed.  A small smile played on his lips.  The girl should have been commended for her fine work in detecting the notes that would have ruined the whole production.  
"Well done, bea," he called down to her, using ventriloquism to make his voice sound like a whisper coming from every direction.  Rosette started, causing her hand to slip and make a small dark line across the dolls' forehead.  She looked everywhere around her for the source of the voice, and called out for someone to answer her.  But there was no one there to see, nor was there anyone there to answer her.
"Oooh," she sighed when her eyes finally came back to the mannequin.  Putting down her brush, Rosette jumped off of the stool she had been perched on, and stretched.  Her eyes still searched in the folds of the curtains and the shadows of the sets for anyone that might be there.  Finally assuming the voice came from her weariness, she made her way to the dormitories.  
Above, in the ropes and narrow walkways, a set of golden eyes followed her every movement, then vanished.