Chapter Thirteen

It was several days before Meg was strong enough to return to the Opera Populaire. Christine, Catherine, and later Carlotta took turns caring for Meg, protecting her. It was hard for Meg to accept Carlotta. Seeing the deaths of Margrete and her then unborn child had branded her mind and heart, had put a new fear of pregnancies and labor into her soul. Knowing Carlotta's secret frightened her, and knowing that, like Margrete, Carlotta had already suffered a miscarriage put her in an even more nervous state. Hearing Carlotta talk of her new feelings, of her cravings, of the anticipating quickening of her son (she was sure that Piangi's first child would be a boy), among other things, made Meg's heart quicken, fearing that at any moment of any day, Carlotta, like Margrete, would unexpectedly go into labor and lose both her life and her baby's. Eventually, however, she was able to talk to the prima donna.

The day of Meg's return was only a week from the opening night of Il Muto, and everyone was busy getting ready. Elizabeth Auguste was practicing her role in “Shame, Shame, Shame,” since the managers refused to obey the Opera Ghost's orders to put Meg in the lead ballet role. Carlotta and Christine were back to the age-old rivalry on stage where they were trying to rehearse.

“Does she 'ava to touch me?” Carlotta shrieked, shoving Christine's hand from her jeweled bodice. Christine rolled her eyes.

“Carlotta, you are not God's gift to mankind. Just to Piangi,” she scoffed.

Carlotta gasped. “You little brat! I ama so sick of 'earing dat name! I 'ate 'im, so leave 'im out of dis!”

“I'm sorry, Carlotta,” Christine draweled, pretending to bow in fear before her. Although Carlotta and Meg were getting along, Carlotta still couldn't tolerate Christine, and Christine returned the sentiment.

Meg insisted on coming out to watch the rehearsals, and thought Catherine resisted her pleas at first, Meg finally won. “Go back to your ballerinas, Mother, and for god's sake let me dance!” she cried. Catherine threw her arms in the air and spun out of the room.

Meg hurried to dress, noticing that her bodice seemed a little bit tighter than usual. She dug her pointe shoes out from under her bed, and gently put them on. She stood gingerly on her toes, aware of how weak her ankles would be after not dancing for thirteen days. A smile crept onto her face, and she turned a graceful pike turn, her pointed foot to her other knee.

She threw caution to the wind, casting her arms out and pulling them in again to numerous pirouettes and pikes, finishing by leaping out the door in a very grand grande jete. It was so grand, in fact, that she could do no more. She thudded to the ground with a crash, and could not move. “Umm, help?” she whispered in pain, rubbing the spot in her thigh where she had just pulled the muscle nearly in two. She swallowed a groan as she massaged it. “Mother? Christine? Anyone? Help?!”

Around the corner, Raoul de Chagney was on his way to watch the rehearsal-turned-catfight on stage. Christine always did know how to make Carlotta angry. Even as a child, she had smirked and prodded at Carlotta until the diva could resist no more and went to tell someone in authority that she was being laughed at.

Then there was Meg. Meg, with her mother's body and talent, but obviously her father's temper. She'd never paid much attention to him as a child, so he'd never really noticed how beautiful she was. Her hair the color of spun gold framed skin of ivory, set with sapphire eyes and ruby lips. Unlike Christine, who was a mere three inches beneath him, Meg's head seemed like it would just touch his shoulder, her waist the perfect height to wrap his arms around.
They were both so beautiful, Christine with her tight chestnut curls and warm complexion, Meg with her glassy eyes and perfect figure. He knew he could easily get away with marrying either. But which? Christine was Christine and Meg was... “Meg?” he questioned, startling the injured ballerina. She jumped and grimaced noticably.

“Monsieur, I...”

“What are you doing, Meg?”

“I was... stretching, Monsiuer le Vicomte. Uh, yes, stretching!” Please don't some any closer, Raoul. Get Mother or Christine, but don't touch me!

“Shouldn't you be rehearsing?”

“I... well... the truth is, Monsiuer, I pulled my leg, and I can't move. I'd be much obliged if you'd get my mother for me... Madame Giry...”

“Meg, don't call me Monsieur,” he whispered. “My name is Raoul.”

She gulped, knowing what was coming. Her stomach starting to churn, her nerves growing raw. Her heart pounded, and her mind told her run, run, run. “Please get my mother.”

“Nonsense.” He scooped her up into his arms and held her close, caressing her hair. Her every thought was to resist, but she knew that no one could find out how afraid she now was, lest someone like Buquet find out, or worse, Andre himself. So she buried her head in his neck and sobbed gently. “Meg, what's wrong?” he murmured.

She was caught. Did she lie and dare suffer the consequences, or tell the truth and be labeled both coward and slut for her whole life? “Meg? Have I done something wrong?” He sounded concerned, but could she trust him? He must have girls all over the country!

“I... you love Christine, don't you?”

He sat her on a bed and knelt before her. “That depends. Do you love me?”

“I...”

“Because I've been deciding this for a long time.” He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a small velvet-covered box. “I need a wife to provide heirs, and it might as well be one I can be friends with, like you.”

Meg's heart beat a million messages a minute. Run, he just wants your body. He just needs heirs. Let Christine deal with the pain of childbirth. Mother never liked him anyway.
Oh, bother Mother. He's so damn handsome! But what if he's as cruel as....

No, don't think of him. It will be a good match with lots of money and lots of clothes and chocolate and love and children and...

“Oui, Monsiuer Raoul.”

“Yes?” he choked. She nodded and eyed the box. He chuckled and opened it, revealing a sparkling marquis diamond set in silver. It was attatched to a delicate silver chain. “Wear it as a sign of our promise. This will prove that with you instead of Christine, like the stupid managers think.” Meg wanted to reject it, her soul felt bruised. I'm just being used. He doesn't care. She forced a smile, and he stood to kiss her gently.

“Come now, let's see about your leg. Shall I fetch a doctor?” She barely managed to nod, her throat constricting with tears. He left, blowing her a kiss, and it was only then that she allowed herself to break down and wail.