Opera in Red

I. Invitation

The opening night of La Traviata was a success. The soprano, Céline Vermillierre, sang like a siren and no less looked like one with cascading auburn hair, ivory skin, and blue eyes flecked with argentine. The tenor, Andrea Vicanti, was a handsome Tuscan whom the Paris opera company had invited for a brief winter season. He and his sister, herself an accomplished opera dancer, had left Italy for one of the plush townhouses at the Faubourg Montmartre since performing for a sophisticated French audience would be the height of their careers. And as Céline accepted a rose from Andrea, the Parisian crowd was wild with excitement with the dazzling talent of the young diva on stage. She and Andrea affectionately waved to the crowd, smiling up at the counts and duchesses who sat in the upper balconies while enthusiastic viscounts and chevaliers, shouting "Bravo! Bravo!", threw narcissi and sweetbriers toward the operatic pair. Even the elegantly uniformed orchestra in red and gold was showered with the blossoms.

"A magnificent show!" exclaimed Léontin, the Count de le Virdoisier, as the velvet curtains closed. He hurriedly knelt over the railing of the private box to catch one final glimpse at the laughing Céline.

"Encore! Encore!" What a voice? Did you hear her sing?" Francois, his friend, returned. And in response to his appreciation of the show, the curtain obligingly parted, and Céline and Andrea took yet another bow. Immediately, Léontin put his opera glass to his eye.

"A lovely voice and a lovelier face," Léontin observed.

"Indeed," Francois agreed, peering through his own opera glass. "But the Vicanti girl is quite charming, too."

Similar comments were exchanged in all the private boxes and balconies. Lower down, the men threw Céline flowers, and the women coyly glanced atop their fans to the engaging face of the Italian tenor. For the last time the curtain closed to a standing ovation as the singers, now behind the velvet drapes, sighed with the relief that only comes with the conclusion of an opera's final aria. In a gesture of flighty extravagance, Céline threw all the flowers she had caught up into the air, giggling as the satiny petals brushed her flushed cheeks. Andrea, a bit more reverently, made a corsage to put behind his jabot before scattering his own blooms many of which had been sent by the small hands of shy girls.

"It was a wonderful evening," he stated in his Tuscan accent which all the women picked up as something apart from their own native Parisian.

"I have you to thank for it," Céline answered as the two made their way to their dressing rooms.

"Ah, Signorina, but they came to hear you," Andrea remarked.

"Monsieur, you are too kind. Paris is a cosmopolitan city, and I am sure many girls were dying to see an Italian tenor. Our Picards are nothing to you Tuscans. I hope to see you again in the greenroom then," Céline replied with a twinkle in her silver-blue eyes.

"The greenroom then," Andrea affirmed, turning to the men's dressing rooms.

Outside, in the theater at large, the clapping died down, and people collected their velvet lined programs. They excitedly left their balconies, hurrying down the carpeted steps to the ground level, past the foyer, and into the greenroom where Céline and the rest of the opera company, having freshened up, awaited eager subscribers and devoted fans. Céline reclined in a luxurious easy chair imported from Belgium. Her back sank into the beige cushioning as her hands lazily hung from the round armrests. Next to her was a little stand on which a decanter, whose facets were sculpted with a mathematical precision, held a bottle of Burgundy chilled in ice. There was also a blue china ash tray and a platter of colorful sorbets meant primarily for the performers but which invariably were consumed by the more ardent patrons.

"Good evening, Mademoiselle Vermillierre," Léontin greeted. "How do you do?" He bent down and brushed the back of her hand with his lips as he looked at her with soft brown eyes.

"Hahaha, ah! I'm well, monsieur. Thank you. I hope you enjoyed the show," Céline replied, meeting his gaze.

"Oh, it was a fabulous production," Francois commended. Though he smiled at Céline, his glance rested on the Italian opera dancer.

"I see you are rather taken by Viva. She's the sister of our tenor Andrea, you know," Céline remarked.

"Please accept my friend's apologies. Vicomtes are so easily distracted," Léontin explained, laughing at Francois' lack of simple gallantry.

"Oh, not at all. I'm willing to bet Viva would love to have attracted the attention of a real life, French vicomte" Céline returned.

Francois looked down at the seated singer with renewed interest. "Is that so?" he countered, smirking at Léontin over Céline's tilted head to which Léontin shrugged his broad shoulders.

"Hahaha, don't be shy. Paris is the city of love after all!" Céline encouraged, selecting an orange sorbet from the refreshments beside her. Emboldened by Céline's promising words, the Viscount de Chavenieu sashayed passed a colorful contingent of giggling girls whom Andrea was flattering to another set of velvet easy chairs across the room.

"So your friend's a vicomte, Monsieur. Are you one as well?" Céline asked, sipping some of the ruby colored Burgundy.

"No, mademoiselle. I'm just a humble comte," Léontin answered. He noted how the aquamarine of her gown brought out the silver-blue of her eyes.

"Oh! Monsieur le Comte, there is nothing modest about that. I rarely get a chance to meet comtes. Normally I am stuck with the dandies and chevaliers, and they are ever so dull," Céline rejoined.

"Did anyone tell you, you have the most vibrant azure-argentine eyes?" Léontin observed offhandedly. His own eyes twinkled in merriment.

"Indeed I have but never by a comte!" Céline admitted, caressing the softness of the velvet armrest.

"It's a shame my fellow comtes don't like opera as much as I. Otherwise, I'm afraid, we'd have to duel for the favor of your gaze," Léontin jested.

At that moment, the manager of the opera house entered the greenroom. Dressed to impress, he wore a black tailcoat and trousers, silver cufflinks, gloves, and a corsage of roses at his button hole. He knelt down slightly, took hold of a wineglass, and primly struck the vessel with a fork as he cleared his throat.

"May I have your attention, please," the manager commanded. Conversation died down whiledenizens of the greenroom, opera singers and counts included, directed their eyes to the elegantly clad newcomer. Andrea, entertaining a vivacious blonde, was in the middle of a melodramatic gesture before he unceremoniously took his hand out of the air, an action which evoked a low laugh from Céline. Léontin found Francois leaning perhaps a bit too comfortably toward Viva, but she seemed to be enjoying his friend's company. "It is my very great pleasure to announce the Paris Opera House will tomorrow evening host a gala celebration for the successful commencement of La Traviata. Actors and dancers are expected; patrons are invited; guests and friends of either are welcome. The affair will be in true Bohemian spirit: Expect fine food with some exotic delicacies, Champagne, and, as always, a masquerade. I want you all to come in your best Scaramouches and Harlequins. Please come, whether it be alone, with an escort, or in a group, make your appearance at tomorrow's gala. Thank you." The manager casually rotated the wineglass in his hand before laying it on the nearby sorbet platter which was adjacent to Céline and Léontin.

"A mask ball ..." Léontin mused. He rested one immaculate hand under his chin while the other held his elbow in an attitude of mock deliberation.

"Indeed, Monsieur. I hope you plant to come," the manager invited. "It will be a spectacular event."

"Oh, do come!" Céline cried. "I can be dawn and you can be dusk or I fire and you earth or something of that nature."

"Why certainly I'll come when the flame blazes so eagerly," Léontin relented with a playful smirk.

"Magnificent," the manager laughed, turning toward the fan club that was surrounding Andrea who was back to his extravagant gesticulating.

"I can see Francois coming as a captive, either Caesar or Antony, and Viva Vicanti as Cleopatra," Léontin remarked, pointing out the sequestered couple to Céline. The two of them were sitting in easy chairs, Viva delighting in a sorbet and Francois sampling the wine. No doubt he was comparing it to the expensive vintage he had at his chateau.

"Oh, that'll be just the thing! You can come as Lancelot, and I'll be Guenevere," Céline resolved. "At any rate, I'll wear red, and you wear black. For those are the very colors of mystery. Look out for me at the gala."

"Rely on it, Mademoiselle," Léontin promised, kissing Céline's hand before leaving the greenroom. He figured Francois would part with the opera dancer when he realized his own vintage was better than the opera house's after all.

As the entire scene in the greenroom elapsed, a second count very well acquainted to Léontin shifted about on the red carpet before the marble fireplace. He, too, had wanted to speak to the beautiful Céline, but Léontin was quicker than he; and the opera soprano had been so engrossed with Léontin that he could not make an introduction. Inspired by pride and a bit of jealousy, Raoul, Count d'Argentile, never approached Céline that night but instead overheard her conversation with Léontin by hiding behind the black velvet curtain of an out of the way recess. Having had emerged from his secret alcove, he acted the part of analyst after playing the spy. He toyed with his ruffled collar and stared at the dying embers of the once warm fire. The dark ash and the darker curtain of the alcove gave him a curious idea, one which made him stop and then smile mischievously. He glanced at Céline one last time and strutted past her on the heels of Léontin. Francois saw Raoul go, thinking it was his friend but only shrugged when the stranger made his exit.

"I have it! You can be Antony and I Cleopatra," Viva declared, drawing Francois away from the mysterious count to herself. Evidently, Léontin's jest was picked up by the opera dancer.