Disclaimer:

This Opus Opera is a gay variation on the Phantom of the Opera theme. It's about opera, and about romance, and about more opera. Don't panic, just lie back and enjoy.

This story is based upon a thread on the Strictly J/7 mb, courtesy of andrewsfan, Dar2vad, JCayan, musette and myself, where we were discussing how to create an Über analogy of Seven's implants... Thank you grrrls. Hope you like the outcome of our session.

Big thanks to my beta musette whose elegant English and knowledge of the subject did a lot for the atmosphere in this. Extra thanks to Sybil for extra betaing. Ladies, it was pure pleaure to work with you on this operatic indulgence - wie ihr wart, wie ihr seid...

Special banner and promo thanks to hanibal. Choose your next dinner, haney!

I don't know whether Magdalena Kozená is gay, but it sure wouldn't hurt me. (If you should ever come across this, Ms. Kozená: No harm intended, you've got a great voice and you are breathtakingly beautiful ...do sing Orphée again and you can have me on my knees anytime.)

And I just couldn't help but mention Dame Kiri... deeply adored but no friend of the faction... in a lesbian love story. Paybacks for describing the first 5 minutes of Rosenkavalier as the most embarassing ones for every soprano.

 

QUANDO ME’N VO

The murmur of voices that filled the foyer of the Palais Garnier ebbed noticeably. It was an intermission during Dvorák‘s Rusalka. Renée Fleming was singing the lead. The clink of glasses filled with expensive champagne had punctuated the conversation of the upper class Parisian audience - until now.

The sudden hush heralded the appearance of an elegantly dressed woman who now stopped on the threshold to her loge. A tall black man in a tuxedo flanked her to her left and a small, compact, already balding man in a pinstripe suit to her right. Her tight red dress was tailored to be sexy, with a high slit on one side. A narrow, long black coat covered it. Her skin tone was very pale. Black sunglasses obscured her eyes, and the long, light-blond curly hair, which fell onto her shoulders, partly covered her face.

Whispers ran through the crowd.

"It‘s Irène..." - "Irène de la Sussiège is present..." - "...it‘s de la Sussiège..."

The blond woman seemed unimpressed by her effect on the hushed assembly. She nodded coolly to the small man to her right, and without further instruction, he went over to the bar. Ignoring the long queue, he stepped up to the front and ordered three glasses of champagne. He got them immediately. While the crowd kept a respectful distance, the three were left alone to sip at their glasses.

Irène de la Sussiège was one of the most important personalities of the Parisian opera life. But she was a mystery. Her rare appearance at a performance guaranteed the production’s success, her presence a tacit acknowledgement of its excellence. She had a feeling for talents, for circumstances, for personnel. Her recommendations were highly sought after in the opera world, and they came with a high fee.

The mystery surrounding this intriguing woman encouraged wild speculation. Perhaps she was the intendant’s lover? Was she a foreign opera fanatic princess, or a diplomat unhappily in love with one of the tenors? Or maybe she was press campaign of the management itself? Nobody knew where she lived. Nobody knew where she came from. But whenever she appeared, the production was sure to become a hit.

Meanwhile, from the floor above, all eyes shifted to watch as Adrienne LaGrange, diva de Paris and a world-famous dramatic soprano, made her descent to the main foyer. She strode down the carpeted stairs as in one of her stage productions; easily, elegantly, with one small hand lightly gliding over the richly ornamented railing. She had such an imposing presence, that people who saw her offstage were usually surprised at how small she was. On this evening, she was clad in sparkling jewelry and wore a dress of intense sapphire blue, which brilliantly set off her auburn hair. As she continued down toward the foyer, her fans closed in around her, gushing compliments.

Suddenly LaGrange stopped, surprised by the vision of the mysterious woman, flanked by two men, standing in a niche, keeping the people seemingly at a distance.

She knew that it had to be Irène de la Sussiège. Adrienne had seen her once or twice before, but never this close by.

Oblivious to an admirer‘s question, the diva inspected the tall, curvaceous figure across from her. A frown appeared on her face, and, observing the woman intently, an image appeared in the back of her mind.

The picture of a young, ambitious mezzo-soprano, who had been her pupil.... blond, tall, curvaceous.... the figure and the voice of a seductive angel – Laure Monnier.

God, it was years ago and still it hurt, as she recalled the daughter of the famous French baritone Edouard Monnier. The young singer had dropped her promising career and disappeared, shortly before her debut at Le Garnier, and Adrienne had never understood it.

Shortly after Laure‘s disappearance, LaGrange had debuted as Mimì in La Bohème at Le Garnier. Her unforgettable performance earned her a permanent contract with the house. That debut, together with a title role debut in Tosca, established her international career. Appearances in Chicago, Berlin, Vienna, New York, Milan soon followed. And while invitations from the major opera houses around the world continued to pour in, she was always relieved and happy to return to Paris and Le Garnier.

The prima donna had performed the lead in Adriana Lecouvreur with José Cura in Chicago this spring, and had just appeared as Amelia in The Masked Ball in Vienna, with Natalie Dessay singing the role of Oscar. Now she was back home in Paris, preparing her role debut as Elisabeth in Tannhäuser, and singing Mimì, again, in the revival production of La Bohème, the one she had opened as one of the premiere cast seven years ago. According to the experts, Mimì belonged to LaGrange’s signature roles, and this time Magdalena Kozená would sing Musetta. Adrienne was looking forward to it, having seen Kozená perform in Wilson‘s production of Orphée, conducted by Gardiner, at the Opéra Bastille, earlier this year.

Musetta... Adrienne thought. Laure was to have debuted in that role all those years ago.

Unconsciously she moved a bit closer towards Irène de la Sussiège, who sipped at her champagne, watching her intently. She recognized the gloved hands holding the glass; she knew those lips, the voice that emanated from them...

"Laure?" she asked.

The crowd observed the approach with interest, since everyone knew that Mme. de la Sussiège didn‘t like to be addressed at all.

The mysterious blond stayed motionless as she observed Adrienne‘s approach. Those jewels and the blue of her dress are simply allegories for her eyes, she thought, mesmerized. Her eyes, hidden behind the sunglasses, caressed the figure in front of her. She hadn‘t seen Adrienne offstage so closely in years.

Abruptly, she turned to the man to her left, whispering angrily, "Jean-Marie, you didn‘t tell me she would be present tonight."

Adrienne stepped back at the hiss of the rough and hoarse voice. This woman obviously wasn‘t Laure. But just for a moment, she had been happy to believe it.

"I didn‘t know, Madame. I am sorry," the tall black man said apologetically. With a crisp nod, Irène motioned for the two men to escort her back to her loge.

***************

"Quando me’n vo..."

The lustrous voice of Magdalena Kozená, light and iridescent, flooded from the speakers up on the third balcony where a single member of the cleaning staff tidied the small foyer belonging to it. Rehearsals for the revival of La Bohème were taking place on the main stage and were audible throughout the house.

The cleaning lady was tenderly polishing the marble floor, the statues and the ornaments for another night of performance at Palais Garnier. The lonely woman wore a dark scarf in the strict Muslim tradition along with the modest black and gray uniform.

She tried to hum along with the aria awkwardly, her voice barely more than a throaty rumble.

She looked like any of the other Algerian women on the cleaning staff. Except for those irritating ice-blue eyes. Eyes she averted as she polished the three mirrors lining the long front wall of the foyer, intently listening to the voice from the speakers, while tears rolled down her face.

She ended her shift by dusting the stair railings, her smooth gestures almost loving in their intensity. At last, avoiding the two security cameras, she went around one of the statues, passed between a double set of heavy curtains, and disappeared through a hidden door.

Walking down endless flights of stairs, becoming dustier with every set of them, she easily found her way through dimly lit corridors, abandoned offices and long forgotten storage rooms. Finally, she entered an old cluttered storeroom, walking past several rows of stands holding props and scenery. She turned right, following a small corridor between two stands. At the end of this hallway, she pushed a dark blue velvet curtain to the side and stepped into an apartment of sorts. In it, a four-poster bed from a fifties Rosenkavalier production, a recamière from an ancient Adriana Lecouvreur, a wing chair from Figaro, probably turn-of-the-century and the little writing table from the current Bohème, which the properties staff was still looking for.

Behind another curtain of dark blue, stood a huge bathtub on four claws, once a piece of scenery for Lulu, which was connected to an old Parisian water conduit. Jacques had done that, as Jacques had done everything for her, ever since she had first joined the Palais Garnier opera studio. He had also installed what little electricity she had, evident now as she switched on the old chandelier from a former Don Giovanni.

Jacques had worshipped her voice and avidly followed her fledgling career. And he had taken care of her after the attack. Indeed, she herself had once saved this small, sturdy theatre technician from a nasty scenery accident when she was still at the studio and he had been devoted to her ever since.

A second door in the back of the makeshift apartment opened and Jacques ambled into the room carrying a tray with food. The slight limp he had to fight, ever since that obelisk from Aida crushed his legs, wasn‘t apparent to the casual glance.

She had dug him out, even as more pieces of scenery came away from their fastenings and crashed down around them.

"Bonjour, Laure," the little man said cheerfully, beaming up at her. "Voilà, le déjeuner."

Every day, for seven years, ever since she had lived down here, Jacques brought her lunch.

"Bonjour, Jacques," Laure replied with her hoarse, rough voice.

She pulled the scarf off her head.

Jacques was the only one, besides Jean-Marie, to whom she occasionally showed her face. He was proud of it, his rounded face smiling back at her.

Laure was touched as always when that occurred, his expression one of unadulterated affection.

"How is she?" she asked, any further explanation unnecessary.

“Gorgeous,” Jacques answered. “It‘s still her best role, if you ask me.” He regarded her fondly. “The Kozená isn‘t bad,” he then added tentatively.

"I know." Laure cut him off, but sighed.

"You would be the same by now. At least," he tried to reassure her.

That comment got him a short, bitter bark of laughter, a rattle deep down Laure‘s throat.

"I would. But I am not." Her voice softened, as far as her vocal chords allowed it. "She is even more beautiful than she used to be."

Jacques knew that any further comment on the subject would bring tears and grief again into the enchanted subterranean realm Laure called her home. "I‘m sorry you had to see her last night. Jean-Marie couldn‘t have known. She was originally scheduled for a stage rehearsal – she appeared spontaneously," he said, trying in vain to shift the focus of conversation.

"It made me remember," Laure said tonelessly. "It hurts. Still."

Though he wished otherwise, Jacques could do nothing but nod sympathetically.

Seven years ago, Laure thought to herself. Adrienne‘s global career was not yet launched, and she still had the time to teach at the Garnier opera studio. She still had the time to teach a new entry to the studio; young and ambitious, gifted with her father‘s talents, with a warm, sensual voice and a tall, blond appearance... It had been two happy years.

Finally, the student had been due for her debut at Le Garnier, singing Musetta in La Bohème, alongside her adored teacher, Adrienne LaGrange. The older singer by then had become famous in France, and was about to sing her first Mimì at Le Garnier after a breathtaking role debut in Lyon... They rehearsed, the prospect of being onstage with her beloved teacher making Laure lightheaded. Everybody expected a brilliant career start for her. But then came the attack.

Danielle had always been jealous. They had competed, during their studies at the Garnier studio, for roles, gigs, and success. Both students were mezzo-sopranos; Danielle a light lyric, and Laure a developing dark dramatic. The two vied with each other for the praise and affection of their adored teacher, Adrienne LaGrange.

The situation had escalated when Laure had won the role of Musetta for the new Bohème production, while Danielle was only chosen as second cast for the role. On top of that humiliation, Danielle had to witness the growing attraction between Adrienne and Laure onstage, and then also offstage.

It didn‘t help that Laure was loving every minute of it. Before the dress rehearsal of that legendary Bohème, Laure had finally dared to invite Adrienne out to dinner. And Adrienne had accepted. It was a dinner Laure would never attend. Danielle, consumed by jealousy, had been waiting for her rival in her dressing room.

The lye... the burning... and then the darkness, and the pain ever since.

Jacques had found her, had brought her down to an old storeroom to hide her from Danielle‘s rage, and from the daylight and people she never wanted to face again.

She knew the opera house. She had spent the better part of her childhood in it, accompanying her father to endless rehearsals. She felt safe here. Safe from the light and the life she had lost, feeling less like the crippled creature, without her voice and her beauty. Here, when she tried hard, she could blend in, and be nothing but another part of this mysterious house. Here she could live in the shadows and niches, without a past, a future, or pain. She was just like a piece of scenery, or one of the statues; moving in the background, observing silently.

She knew the schedules for all the performances, all the singers, and all the productions. She gave her recommendations and notes out of the dark obscurity. Only rarely did she leave her world that was so different from the reality she had once known. And when she did, it was only to attend a performance as the sexy and mysterious Irène de la Sussiège. The people saw her body. They didn‘t see her face. And they didn‘t see her heart.

Laure’s heart. It was beating again, tentatively, ever since she knew that La Bohème was scheduled again at Le Garnier. This was her production, her debut which had never occurred, just like the dinner with Adrienne. Adrienne had loved her beauty, her voice, and since Laure had lost both of them, she had disappeared into the forgotten and enchanted storerooms and backstairs of Le Garnier.

Still, she had followed Adrienne‘s splendid career. A career that would, no doubt, develop even more, like the upper registers of the diva‘s voice, which had become even more full-bodied over the last few years. Whenever Adrienne sang at Le Garnier, Laure had Jacques make sure that there were roses in her dressing room. Sometimes she would bring the roses there herself, lingering to breathe in the scent of Adrienne’s costumes, overwhelmed by affection. Afterwards she would retreat for days, crying soundlessly over the lost love she had never known.

Jacques watched Laure‘s scarred face while she ate in silence. Danielle‘s attack had left a strangely shaped scar marring her left eyebrow and temple, ending on her cheek.

When she had tried to defend her face with her left hand, it had been burned terribly as well. And there was a small spot below her right ear, almost star-like in its appearance, where she had tried to turn her head away from the attack.

The surprised intake of breath at the onslaught had caused her to inhale too much of the acid concoction, ruining her vocal chords forever.

The only thing that had kept her from prosecuting Danielle, who was building a quiet, but impressive career over at Opéra Bastille, had been her fear of having to testify at a public hearing and trial. This would have meant exposing her scars for all to see, including Adrienne.

To have Adrienne turn away from her, shocked and repelled, turning away from the fallen angel, most likely in the presence of a triumphant Danielle, was unbearable. She never wanted to face Adrienne again for that reason – she could never survive the rejection.

And killing her attacker on her own? If Danielle had been successful in her courting, and if LaGrange had indeed accepted the flirting; if her rival had seduced her passionately adored teacher, Laure would probably have done it, jealous and desperate as she was.

But Adrienne had refused Danielle’s advances, uninterested and grieving over the sudden disappearance of her talented pupil who had been about to become so much more than just that.

Adrienne had been right – Laure the angel was gone. What remained was Laure the creature, the cripple, the mere observer of Adrienne‘s career, a silent lover in the shadows.

"Did she get her roses today?" Laure asked, knowing that the question was unnecessary.

"Of course," Jacques hurried to respond.

"She even smiled," said a calm voice from the entrance to Laure’s operatic apartment.

The tall, lean figure of Jean-Marie stepped into the dim light. He had served in the military, and afterward, joined the Le Garnier security team. He had been assigned to track down the mysteries of the opera house. He was the only one who had ever discovered Laure‘s fairy world and was determined to expose her. But when he finally found the disfigured young woman who had lost her voice and her love, trying to hide so desperately from the lights and the world, he shielded her, fascinated by Laure’s persona and her life that was so much different from the strict regulations he knew. His failure to come up with answers got him fired by the management. Now the calm, dark-skinned man worked as a cab driver.

Nobody else had ever discovered Laure or her hideout. She felt safe, protected by those two friends of hers, and by the darkness and shadows of the opera house.

"I’m sorry for last night," Jean-Marie apologized softly. "She wasn’t supposed to be there. – She seemed to recognize you."

"No," Laure replied hoarsely. "Didn‘t you notice how she stepped back when I had said as much as one word? I’m not her Laure anymore." Sighing she got up from the chair and walked through her spacious living space, closer to Jean-Marie and away from the light. Her movements were graceful, almost catlike, the patterns of someone who was used to staying in the background undetected.

"It hurt," she admitted softly. "Why did she have to come?" She shook her head, trying to banish the memory of Adrienne LaGrange how she had stood in the foyer last night, surrounded by admirers. Radiant. Addictive.

“I heard Kozená sing Musetta this morning," she said. Then, visibly fighting something, she added "She is even better than she was this spring."

The two men didn’t know how to respond, both knowing how much Laure still loved Adrienne, and how bitter the particular memory of the role of Musetta was to her.

"They are finished with the musical run-through and Adrienne is in her dressing room now," Jean-Marie remarked. "She is scheduled for a second act stage rehearsal in half an hour. Tonight, first act."

Laure knew these dates and Adrienne’s entire schedule for the following weeks. The production had had a couple of days at one of the studio stages, and was now on the main stage for the last three days before the reopening of La Bohème. She had longed for LaGrange‘s return to Le Garnier, finally, after touring for the better part of the year. "Thanks, Jean-Marie," she replied. "I‘ll go up and watch the rehearsal from backstage. Did I miss anything during my cleaning shift?"

Several mornings a week, Laure worked as an unobtrusive member of the Le Garnier cleaning staff, not to gain the little money the job provided, but to obtain a position that gave her even greater access to the official and unofficial areas of the opera house.

She noticed that the usually calm Jean-Marie looked away uncomfortably from her at her question.

"What is it?" she asked warily.

"You should be prepared to see that they are... flirting a little," Jean-Marie explained carefully.

"Who?" Laure barked sharply.

"LaGrange and Kozená.” He didn’t look at her.

"What!?" Laure‘s yell was strangled. She shook her head. "I have to see her." The silence seemed menacing as she hastily changed into the tight, black garb she usually wore when walking around the secret and forgotten places of Le Garnier, her movements precise and dangerously silent. A glove quickly covered her marred left hand, and a simple black half mask hid the scarred part of her face.

She nodded briskly at her friends as she slipped past them, quickly disappearing between the stands in the dim light, her soft footfalls barely audible.

Jacques and Jean-Marie regarded each other, at a loss as to what to do. They both knew where the desperate woman was headed now: Adrienne‘s dressing room, and the small hidden closet behind the huge mirror. The small technician sighed, his shoulders slumping. Laure‘s love for Adrienne approached blind idolization in its passion. And Laure was jealous, although she tried not to show it.

Adrienne had had several affairs over the past years. She had been romanced, had lived, and each time, Laure had been a mess, trying to hide her panic and devastation behind a mask of emotional detachment, which barely covered the brooding fury beneath it.

Jacques didn’t want to think about what would happen if something like that occurred here in Paris, at Le Garnier, right under Laure‘s eyes. And judging from the uncomfortable look on the usually stoic face of his companion, Jean-Marie didn’t approve of that possibility, either.

The sensual perfume of roses wafted through the room. The blossoms were the color of white peaches, creamy, soft, and tipped off with a shade of light pink at the rim of the petals, as if they were blushing at the sight of their recipient’s beauty.

Garbed in her rehearsal costume for Mimì, Adrienne LaGrange stood in front of her dressing room mirror. She held the large bouquet to her chest, inhaling deeply. Whenever she sang at Le Garnier, a new bouquet arrived every day. This had happened ever since that opening night of Bohème seven years ago. First the diva thought it was a courtesy of the management – after all, Palais Garnier was a luxurious house, and very much interested in keeping her luxurious voice around – but that had been an incorrect assumption.

She had never discovered her thoughtful admirer. It was probably somebody from the house itself, since they were always perfectly informed of her stays and schedules. And although she had spent some time trying to track down this mysterious knight of many roses, she had been unsuccessful, and had given up her attempts to decipher this mystery long ago. After all, mysteries were something that belonged to this old opera house.

And now, here was a new intrigue: that almost seven years later there was again a young, talented mezzo soprano charming her, while rehearsing for that very role which had managed to make her lightheaded once before, through the interpretation of Laure Monnier...

The rehearsals with Kozená were going really well, Adrienne had to admit. The tall, slim beauty with her clear blue eyes and long light-blond hair triggered more than one memory of an unfulfilled love long past. They had even been flirting a little during the morning rehearsal.

As she faced the mirror, Adrienne‘s expression became distant as she remembered how Laure had practically seduced her onstage in the first orchestra rehearsal all those years ago, singing the famous "Quando me’n vo" aria directly to her, not looking once at the poor baritone for whom the words were intended.

"When I walk down the streets, the people stop and look at me, captivated by my beauty... I bask in their desire, their eyes give them away, and my outward charms make them yearn for the hidden ones... This effusion of longing envelopes me, and it makes me happy. And you who know what I am talking about, the memory of which makes you melt, so that you try to avoid me? I know it so well... Even if you don’t want to tell me, I feel that you die for me."

"Laure...," Adrienne said softly, overwhelmed with memories. She looked up, meeting her eyes in the mirror, not knowing that the addressed stood behind it, regarding her lovingly.

Adrienne was one of these women who probably hadn’t looked too special at twenty, but had become more beautiful with every passing year, like Kiri Te Kanawa or Catherine Deneuve.

Her perfectly cut hair was shorter, falling just below her chin. It shimmered with those red highlights Laure loved so much. She knew how they sparkled beneath the spotlights when a director or costume designer let Adrienne do a part without donning a wig. And there were always those eyes, shifting between blue and gray... Laure’s gaze dropped to the hands, hands that had touched her more than once, during her lessons, checking her breathing, her posture. Laure had always been anxious that LaGrange would notice how her heartbeat picked up with these purely professional touches... but just how professional had they been? She remembered a late-night scene rehearsal during that Bohème, when everyone was already tired and distracted. Nevertheless, the director had wanted to get through the final scene, and so they went over the action where Musetta gives the dying Mimì the muff she has always wished for to warm her hands... Adrienne’s hands had been warm, and the unseen little caresses she offered as she accepted the prop made than just Laure’s hands tingle... Not once, but several times, the student felt her teacher’s lingering touches across her palms... She had almost forgotten her lines, few as they were, completely enchanted by the look Adrienne had given her and the way the smaller body lay almost beneath her own when she was kneeling next to her...

Laure could recall every moment of it now as she watched the elegant and slender figure of the diva through the mirror. She was so caught up in her reverie that at first she didn’t notice that Adrienne was musing aloud.

"Maybe it’s time to move on. Time to let go." LaGrange watched her reflection critically. "Maybe it wouldn’t be a bad idea to go out with Magdalena. This might be my second chance.... Can I really afford to miss it?" She shook her head. "Seven years! Dear God, I have to overcome this someday – ...why not now?"

Behind the mirror, Laure was panicking, even while realizing, that she had to let go. She had no right to deny Adrienne the life she deserved and since she couldn’t give her what she loved anymore it was time to step back. And so, with her heart beating painfully against her ribs under the black clothes, Laure prepared to give up on the love of her life.

Still, before fading into the darkness, before slipping back, forgotten, among the scenery and props, Laure wanted only one thing – the chance to say goodbye. She wanted the one kiss she had never gotten and that she had craved ever since. She wanted just one evening with her beloved Adrienne LaGrange, the diva who stood observing herself in the mirror, proud and beautiful like her Tosca or her Lecouvreur.

Once I was proud and beautiful, too, Laure thought. Once I could walk down the street and bask in the approving looks... I have forgotten what it feels like – to step in front of an audience, knowing they will love me because I can be everything they wish for...

As Adrienne left her dressing room, leaving her expensive jewelry carelessly behind on the table, Laure left the small closet behind the mirror to observe the rehearsal from the catwalks above the stage. She was determined to contact her former teacher, after all these years, and before Magdalena could possibly become what she herself never had a chance to be - Adrienne’s angel.

***************

"Quando me’n vo... quando me’n vo soleta per la via..." Laure cried silently, tears falling without a sound. The voice of a youthful, dark mezzo singing the Musetta aria filled her subterranean apartment – a recording of herself, seven years ago, before the attack. She sat at the small table and listened intently to the voice she had lost – her instrument, her work, and her destiny. And ever since, she had been lost herself.

Absently she touched her throat, then forced her hands to return to the tabletop, where her movements altered in their mode. She followed the ornate carving lovingly with her fingertips, a sad smile playing about her lips. During the rehearsal of the first act this evening, Adrienne had noted that the table they had onstage wasn’t the same piece of scenery they used before.

She was right. The little table had disappeared. It now adorned Laure’s realm, and she was touched that Adrienne remembered the unremarkable piece of furniture. It had once done double duty, serving in an impromptu staging of the second act finale of Tosca, during a rehearsal break for Bohème. They had discussed the upcoming production, half joking, and LaGrange, in a playful mood, had started to act it out, involving her pupil. Laure was miming the wooing Scarpia, and it had been hard to not simply fall on top of her teacher and kiss those luscious lips in front of the whole staff. The onlookers were having a good time watching the famous soprano LaGrange dramatically strangle the young mezzo beauty who she had straddled on that tiny table in the process. Laure shuddered at the memory of Adrienne’s hands around her neck, the combination of her wild acting and the tenderness of the actual touch, the perfect weight of her teacher pressing down lightly onto her body.

She was so lost in the music and her memories that she didn’t notice Jacques enter. Silently he stopped the recording after the end of the aria.

"Why this one again, Laure?" he asked softly. "You know that it kills you."

Laure shook her head, two loose hair strands falling into her face. "It wasn’t that bad today. I wanted to remember. I wanted to feel it again."

Jacques didn’t know what move to make in response to that, hoping that her statement implied something good.

Giving him a decisive nod, Laure added something.

"Pardon?" he asked, sure that he had misunderstood her.

"You heard me all right," Laure assured him. "Get her red roses tomorrow."

It was the unspoken rule that Adrienne got all sorts of roses, but never the red ones of a lover, so Jacques was really surprised. "You plan to speak to her?" His round face lit up with approval.

Laure almost smiled at his enthusiasm. "No... or at least not yet. Just make sure that this is attached to the flowers."

She pushed a small sealed piece of theatrical parchment that lay in front of her across the table. Jacques picked it up with a flourish. When he left her for the night he was still smiling, as he disappeared through the hidden door in the back of her apartment.

Even Laure wore a small anxious smile to bed that evening. Stretched out in the impressive four-poster Rosenkavalier construction, she began to plan the perfect evening for Adrienne LaGrange, just in case the diva responded favorably to her message.

***************

Adrienne arrived moments before the rehearsal was to begin. She had been dropped off at the stage entrance by a comfortably silent cab driver. She made her entrance backstage, her brief nods answering the respectful greetings of the staff, who saw not much more than her elegant gray coat flowing about her figure from behind as she quickly made her way to her dressing room. She tried not to expect the daily roses, but she knew that they would be there.

In her haste, she almost ran into one of those humble Algerian cleaning ladies who was polishing the floor, a Muslim scarf wrapped low across her forehead. She stopped in astonishment at the threshold to her dressing room.

On her table stood the most exquisite arrangement of red roses she had ever seen. The rich color reminded her of burgundy and blood, and every single petal seemed to glow with the intensity of it. She drew a deep breath, reveling in the powerful and dark sweet fragrance of the flowers. Tentatively she stepped closer, sensing something odd, but unable to put her finger on it.

She didn’t realize it until she touched a petal – it felt like a piece of cool velvet, yet the perfect allegory of passion itself, and the shade of red was almost blinding in its depth – she had never gotten red roses before. She had never noticed, but now, as she recalled the countless daily bouquets she had found in her dressing room over the years... There had been every variety of color she could think of, but never red. Curious, she drew another breath, as if the scent could tell her the reason for this sudden change, and hugged the whole bunch to herself impulsively, marveling at the beauty of it. A card, which had been hidden among the flowers, fell to the ground and Adrienne suddenly froze.

After all these years her mysterious knight of the rose was unmasking? Probably this was just a joke played by the wardrobe mistresses, or maybe it had been Magdalena?

Carefully she withdrew her arms from the flowers and reached down for the card. It was a piece of theatrical parchment, she noticed, sealed with the double mask: one laughing, one crying.

She broke the seal and unfolded the sheet, quickly reading the few lines on it – and sank into a chair, her shaking hands clutching the note which she re-read again and again.

The associate director had to bring his diva out onto the stage personally since she hadn’t responded to three calls to the stage. She was pale during the rehearsal and a little unfocused.

Not focused, that is, on the rehearsal. Her head was spinning. She knew this handwriting so well – Laure had returned. Laure wasn’t dead.

Over and over the lines of the message played in her mind which was shocked, joyous, incredulous and unaware of what else this implied –

"Adrienne LaGrange, even if it has been some time – would you still like to have dinner with me? Laure"

All the years of fearing her dead, all the incertainty about what had happened to her, the ever returning question why she had disappeared, the nervousness, the helpless hope – all of it returned within mere minutes. Slowly Adrienne began to realize what that could entail. If Laure had indeed sent her all the roses it meant that she had been around all these years. Did she work at the house? Why didn’t she know? Why hadn’t she found out? Why hadn’t Laure sought her out? Where was she singing now?

Often LaGrange had asked herself whether the loss of Laure was meant as a punishment of sorts – though whether for almost getting involved with her pupil or for not getting involved with her sooner, she didn’t know.

Adrienne knew that she had been dangerously close to crossing the borders of a teacher once and for all. And then Laure had disappeared.

Laure. She wasn’t dead. It couldn’t be a joke – who at Le Garnier would remember Laure, would know to imitate her hand? Who else knew that Laure had always used the double mask as a symbol, adorning all her notes?

One of Laure’s former class? Danielle? Adrienne remembered vaguely that Danielle had switched over to Opéra Bastille after the first season of Bohème. Briefly the image of the very ambitious lyric mezzo crossed her mind, dark-haired, winning, self-assured. She knew that Danielle had had a crush on her teacher as well, but that lay fortunately in the past. There had been some umcomfortable situations between her two best pupils.

Laure…the questions were whirling around Adrienne’s mind as she sat in her dressing room long after the rehearsal had finished. She was unsure how to respond to the note. There was no reply address. No one named Laure Monnier worked at Le Garnier. No picture in the staff book looked even remotely like her former pupil and the Monnier family no longer lived in Paris. But since Laure had obviously managed to get the note here, then perhaps she would be able to retrieve an answer the same way.

Unable to find another sheet of paper on which to write her reply, she was loathe to use the parchment, since that would have required giving it up. Instead, in an inspired move, she ripped a page from her Bohème piano-vocal score. Feeling slightly embarrassed as she scribbled her response onto the border of the page, she replaced the roses with her folded message, only the cryptic initials ‘M. L.’ written on the outside.

Thoughts of Laure, which had never really ceased, and the scent of red roses accompanied Adrienne LaGrange home to her Parisian apartment.

***************

The minutes passed slowly. With her face propped up on one gloved and one bare hand, Laure gazed into the mirror that she had placed on the table in front of her. She was dressed in her usual black outfit, the half mask covering the scars on her face. This was an exception. Mirrors weren’t allowed in Laure’s realm. She dreaded those reminders of what she had become.

Slowly she loosened the pins holding the black page cap in place until her hair poured down over her shoulders. Softly framing her face, the golden abundance was a stark contrast to her otherwise black appearance.

Tentatively she reached for the glove covering her left hand, freeing her fingers. She forced herself to examine the marred skin, her eyes following every line of scar they could find.

Then, hesitantly, she pulled the mask away from her face, holding her breath. She lifted her eyes slowly to meet her own glance in the mirror.

She didn’t jerk back anymore, surprised at the vision in the mirror. No longer did she stare incredulously at herself as she had done for so long. Feelings of shame, revulsion, anger, and sadness had so often overwhelmed her, but now the hurt was quiet and bitter.

No trace was left of the self-assured and almost arrogant beauty she had been, blessed with a voice that could be everything she wanted. Both were gone.

Acting feverishingly in her jealousy and being afraid of Kozená’s possible advances towards LaGrange, she hadn’t thought about how she could possibly face Adrienne, how she could live up to her expectations, how she could dare to present herself – she was torn between the wish to see the her former teacher and the fear what might happen if she did.

If Adrienne should answer. If Adrienne should want to see her at all. See her... – as she was or as she had been? LaGrange had been repulsed by her voice after less than a sentence – how would she react to a whole evening with this destroyed voice of hers?

Laure had seen Adrienne stop on the threshold at the sight of the roses before closing her door. As she was polishing the corridor to the dressing rooms, she had seen how the diva had almost run her former pupil over in a hurry to get to the dressing room. But could she offer Adrienne anything apart from this anonymous admiration?

Fears and panic rose within Laure, the taunting grimace in the mirror that was her face staring back at her. With a frustrated scream that sounded more like an animal than like a human being Laure shoved the mirror violently off the table to the floor where it shattered into hundreds of little pieces.

"Why both? Why my face and my voice?" The sobs that shook her body were desperate. "Why?" The hoarse voice rose again, almost as a howl. "Why now Adrienne, too?"

Jacques found her, on her knees in the darkness of her fairy apartment below the unlit chandelier, her unmasked face pale, and stained with tears.

"Laure!" Jean-Marie had practically ordered her to stay down in her realm, and not to go up again and look for Adrienne and a possible note, the situation was too dangerous with Adrienne now being alerted – Laure could easily have been detected.

Jacques hurried to kneel beside her, and mumbling soothing words, he helped her up and led her over to the recamière. "Laure, what happened?"

Laure looked up to him with an expression of complete emptiness. "Why, Jacques," she said throatily without really seeing him. It wasn’t really a question since there was no answer.

She shook her head, trying to gain some composure. "How could I dare to suddenly to write her? Why didn’t you stop me? I’ve nothing to offer her. I’m not the Laure she flirted with and was proud of anymore."

Jacques sat down beside her, regarding her fondly.

"You’ve got a whole world to offer, Laure. Your world."

She looked at him sadly, tolerating his touch as he gently padded her hand and waited while her breathing gradually returned to normal. Then he silently collected the broken pieces of glass, removing the signs of fury and destruction from Laure’s realm.

She was still sitting on the recamière when he came back, afraid to leave her for the night. "She left with your roses," he said. Then his round face shaped into a grin. "Guess what she left for you."

"She left something? What? Where? Jacques!"

Laure’s eyes lit up in the dim light the chandelier provided, more radiant than any light she had probably seen in years. Jacques, being used to the scars, wondered how anybody could not consider this woman beautiful. He handed her the folded piece of paper he had retrieved from LaGrange’s dressing room.

Laure stared incredulously at the note resting in her palm. "She really did it," she whispered. She traced the cryptic address with the fingers of her left hand. "M. L. – she used to call me that during my lessons. Ma Laure. My Laure. Oh, Jacques, this has to be a good sign."

She unfolded the note tentatively. It was a piece of paper ripped from a piano score, most likely Adrienne’s, since there were remarks scribbled next to several Mimì phrases. She recognized the scene from La Bohème instantly. It was from the last scene, where Musetta gave Mimì the muff.

When Jacques saw the genuine smile that spread over Laure’s features he knew he could leave her for the night without any more worries. With a quiet ‘bonne nuit’ he made his exit.

Adrienne. Laure stretched out on the recamière, feeling like the young pupil again, and couldn’t help but smile. Adrienne... And tonight, she wouldn’t think any further. For tonight it is enough that she remembers me. That she still wants to go out with me and even trusts my cryptic message. Anything else she would worry about tomorrow. Tenderly her eyes followed the words along the edge of the page again and again –

"Ma Laure, whatever took you so long? I would love to finally dine with you. Adrienne LG."

***************

The next morning Adrienne LaGrange stormed into her dressing room fifteen minutes early. It was something that hadn't occurred since the dress rehearsal for Masked Ball five years ago. This time she was only scheduled for final staging corrections up on one of the studio stages since the technical crew was setting up on the main stage this morning to prepare for the final rehearsal in the evening.

Many questions had formed in Adrienne’s mind over night and she hoped to find at least some answers with her daily bouquet.

LaGrange closed her eyes as she opened the door to her dressingroom, inhaling deeply. She smiled. The scent of roses enveloped her, and she knew without looking that they were red.

A deep warm red and Adrienne felt her heart beat faster when she stepped nearer and carefully looked for a note among the flowers. As before, a piece of theatrical parchment, sealed with the double mask, was hidden among the stems. She didn’t hesitate to break the seal, and again there were only few lines in Laure’s familiar hand –

"Adrienne, if you agree to dinner please meet me at the front stairs of Le Garnier after the ‘Bohème’ reopening. I will wait for you all night. Laure"

Somehow the phrase about ‘all night’ made the diva’s insides tingle pleasantly. Quickly she added nothing but a huge "Oui. A. LG" to the note. She would elaborate on it further, after the rehearsal.

A knock on the door interrupted her. "Entrez," she called, not really paying attention to it. "Bonjour, Adrienne," said a smiling voice with a clear Czech accent. She looked up to find Magdalena leaning casually against the doorframe, her long hair falling in gentle curls over her shoulders. She held two steaming cups in her hands. "I thought you might like a café before we have another five gos at your stage death." There was a definite flirtatious twinkle in her eyes as she stepped into the room at Adrienne’s invitation. Her eyes took in the red roses, an almost decadent bouquet, and the parchment with the broken seal still in the slightly confused diva’s hands. Though she tried not to show it, disappointment quickly flashed over the mezzo soprano’s face. Magdalena was aware that others appreciated the attractive and commanding diva as much as she did, but if the color of the roses and the look she gave the flowers were any indication, LaGrange was more than appreciated, and wrapped up in a romance with someone who knew what the word was about.

Adrienne smiled up at the Czech beauty, gladly accepting the steaming cup, knowing that it wasn’t good for the voice, especially not for a soprano before the morning rehearsal, but her technique would cope with that, as it did every morning.

"Merci. I think I owe you lunch, then?"

Magdalena blushed. "Of course not." She worked hard to keep her gaze steady as she continued, "But maybe I can invite you to dinner someday? After we opened?"

She reminded Adrienne so much of Laure at this moment, recalling the same shy question her former pupil had asked her seven years ago. She felt a warmth settle around her stomach. It had never ceased. Never. Even before that note Magdalena had reminded her of Laure, the whole Bohème made her remember. She had even gladly mistaken the mysterious Mme. de la Sussiège for a moment.

Laure. Whatever could happen between herself and Magdalena, before she could go out with her, she had to see Laure first. She was determined to sort this out, once and for all. See if Laure still wanted her. See if she still wanted Laure. And the warm feeling she had right now told her that there still was something. Adrienne knew that they couldn’t start again where they had left off seven years ago, her own sentiment most likely a beautiful memory and nothing else. Still, she had to see Laure, however cryptic her notes were. She had to see if they had a chance. At least they didn’t have the issue of teacher and student between them anymore. She had been hesitant then. She wouldn’t be hesitant now.

Adrienne looked back up at Magdalena, still smiling. "Sure," she said. "Ask me again after we’ve opened."

Magdalena noticed the slight hesitation in Adrienne’s answer. Still, it hadn’t been a ‘no’. Maybe the reopening party would be the right opportunity for a bit of more serious flirting. There weren’t many people, men or women, that would deny Kozená anything, and she knew it. Still, LaGrange was in another league and Magdalena was interested in none but her, having developed a serious crush on her stage partner in the past ten days.

So she is making future plans. Laure smiled sadly. I certainly can’t blame her. Enviously she inspected the beautiful Czech mezzo from her place in the cabinet behind the mirror. She tried to imagine Magdalena as Adrienne’s girlfriend. They would make a beautiful couple, that’s for sure. But before that, there was one dinner, one evening that belonged to Laure. And Laure had every intention to make it the night of Adrienne’s life.

It had been a happy and busy night in Lauer’s subterranean world. She had reacted quickly, and none too soon she realized as she watched the two singers leave the dressing room together, sipping at their coffee cups.

Laure quickly exited the cabinet to pick up Adrienne’s answer and had to lean against the mirror for a moment as she saw the plain ‘yes’ written in bold, carelessly sexy letters. Just one night, she thought as she made her descent into her apartment. For one night, I can be anything she wants. She smiled.

Jacques found Laure busy when he arrived with lunch. She was sitting on her recamière, dressed in a light lacy gown, courtesy of Lulu 1988, from her all theatre wardrobe. Her left hand was covered in the usual glove, but her face remained unmasked.

She nodded at him, and gestured toward a couple of letters sitting on the edge of the small table from Bohème. "Mme. de la Sussiège has been busy," she explained. "Would you mind delivering them personally?"

Jacques didn't mind. Jacques never minded doing something for Laure. After his demotion his duties at Le Garnier really didn't call for him to do much that mattered. It was probably a mercy that they didn't fire him. Nevertheless, he spent most of his time at the opera house, living more here than at the place where he slept.

Now he disappeared through the portiere between the shelves holding the costumes that were Laure’s wardrobe, carefully selected from the various archives. There were also suits for Jean-Marie and Jacques, since they needed them for their appearances in company of Irène de la Sussiège. Laure had her own way of collecting the clothes, some of them actually not supposed to disappear from the theatre storerooms, And she always found a way to get them through the laundry service whenever she wanted. During her now seven years of living in the shadows of Le Garnier she had managed to establish an efficient network within the house.

When Jacques reappeared a short while later in an elegant suit, shirt and tie, nobody from the staff would have recognized him. His hair, which usually stuck out in every direction, was brushed out. He held the letters with thoroughly washed hands as he moved to leave. The hidden door closed with a soft click behind him.

One night. Just one night. Laure would have Adrienne brought down here, where she felt safe and could take command of the surroundings. In the dim light and the enchanted atmosphere that her living space provided she would have a chance to be the Laure Adrienne wanted, a remake of the flawless beauty she had once been.

Jacques would help her with the mastic – she used it for her role of Irène de la Sussiège as well, and with the addition of sunglasses or low light it managed to conceal the scars on her face to a certain extent. It might work. It is the only chance I ever have. And I am not going to waste it.

Laure Monnier wanted everything to be perfect for tomorrow night. She spent several hours in various storerooms, picking out a few items that would be moved over to her apartment for the dinner – scenery, light and clothing. After all Laure was not equipped to have visitors.

When Jacques returned, a remarkable pile of franc bills in his small, compact fingers, she already had a new list of assignments for him. Irène de la Sussiège and her recommendation letters made a comfortable lifestyle possible for all three of them.

"Laure?" Adrienne was surprised to find the parchment already gone when she returned from her rehearsal. Laure... There were so many questions on her mind. Where? How? Why? Had she been along all the way? It was a mystery, and she would follow it to its very end, getting some answers. She looked around for a minute, feeling watched. "Laure?" she asked again.

But this one time Laure wasn‘t there to hear her. Laure was busy preparing.

In the evening Laure attended the final rehearsal at the side-stage, hidden in a niche of the background scenery. Adrienne was fabulous, and Laure remembered how she used to watch rehearsals of Bohème, unobtrusively sitting on the side-stage, even if she wasn’t scheduled, just to see Adrienne. It had been the turning point in a two-year working relationship that had threatened to shift into something more personal from the very beginning. But Adrienne had always drawn a clear line, the one between a teacher and a student. She only let go of that when they were onstage, and the Bohème production which involved them both had caused the emotional turmoil between them to finally escalate.

It hadn‘t really been the first time though – Laure smiled as she recalled another memory from her time as Adrienne’s student. They had studied the opening scene of Rosenkavalier since the boys-clothes-part of Octavian would eventually belong to Laure's repertoire, and had slowly crossed the border to act the scene while singing it. Laure portrayed the young Count Octavian, and Adrienne sang the lines of the Marschallin, lovers who are awakening after a pasionate night. At first, the musical expression had intensified. And then, slowly, both their gestures and the looks they exchanged altered, until finally the roles became nothing more than a cover for their own emotions. The end of the scene had found them locked in a tentative embrace, holding hands, almost kissing.

But again, Adrienne had pulled back, professionally listing Laure’s technical mistakes throughout the scene. Granted, there had been quite a few but Laure couldn‘t have cared less. How was she supposed to concentrate on her singing while her beloved teacher gazed up into her eyes with an expression which suggested that she also wanted to also act out the prelude of Rosenkavalier, a musical depiction of the night Octavian spends with the Marschallin?

After this incident, Laure had dared to act upon her affection a bit more openly – her hopeless love for her teacher was obvious, and Rosenkavalier wasn‘t the only opera that caused troublesome emotions when teacher and student were going over it. Adrienne had let her walls down ever so slightly until the work together at La Bohème had cause rapid changes in their relationship. Now they were working almost as equals on a project, and therefore forced to spend a lot of time together.

Laure was irresistible, and she knew it. And Adrienne seemed finally willing to accept that she had fallen for her pupil, though she still struggled with her principles.

Watching the diva now, Laure had to admit she had changed - LaGrange was more demanding, and more absolute in everything she did, even in her acting. The power of her personality blazed through, almost overwhelming the role of the modest, suffering sewing girl Mimì.

The cool, detatched attitude of lofty principles and too-strict discipline had somehow worn off offstage as well in the past seven years, and Adrienne LaGrange was much more alive, much more passionate and vivid in enjoying her life and her profession. This rendered her even more attractive and desirable in Laure's eyes. The woman Laure had only had a chance to see onstage had become the diva's private persona as well. La Grange was a radiant beauty, sucessful, self-assured, and vibrant. Laure sighed. There was one thing that hadn't changed: Her love for this woman.

The next evening, Irène de la Sussiège and her two attachés attended the opening of La Bohème. Her appearance raised speculations, since it wasn't a new production. Rumours already circulated throughout the Parisian opera management scene that Irène de la Sussiège had written several new letters of recommendation, and whispers followed her throughout the house.

LaGrange would be the talk of the town again, her performance excellent. Still, watching her now as she sang for everybody, Laure missed the privacy of the final rehearsal where she had had the feeling that Adrienne was singing just for her... Laure listened keenly and found her observation from the day before confirmed – LaGrange’s voice was outgrowing the Mimì role though her acting was brilliant.

The full-bodied timbre made associations of Tosca far more plausible than of the the helpless sick dame du démi-monde she portrayed. Laure made a mental note that Irène de La Sussiège would suggest another Tosca production for LaGrange, and maybe something among the lines of Andrea Cheniér or even La Gioconda. And with the upcoming foray into the German repertoire with the Tannhäuser Elisabeth, it might also be time to try Strauss – Ariadne, perhaps, or the Marschallin.

She knew that Adrienne liked the role, and somehow she had always envisioned the two of them doing Rosenkavalier together, ever since they had studied the opeing scene... How you have been, how you are...

Laure sighed in nervous anticipation, thinking about her arrangement for the upcoming dinner. Would Adrienne attend? Would Laure be able to give the diva the experience she deserved?

Magdalena Kozená was fabulous as Musetta, she had to admit. If she herself gave up on Adrienne, then she would want her adored former teacher to settle for nothing less than this talented and beautiful woman. The onstage chemistry between the two of them made Laure more jealous than the sight of the tenor who pawed her beloved LaGrange without enthusiasm. Jealous, even though dinner would hopefully be hers tonight. Just tonight.

She made her retreat as always, still during the applause, but after the solo curtain-calls. As always, she was flanked by Jean-Marie and Jacques whom nobody would recognize in their upper-class outfits. There were still some preparations to make. Fortunately, Adrienne was expected to attend the official reception , and this would give them more time to finish up.

But Laure had underestimated Adrienne’s priorites, and a breathtakingly beautiful Magdalena covered in flowers, compliments and a long silvery dress waited in vain for the diva.

And if it was just a joke after all? Adrienne LaGrange walked out of the artist exit, a bouquet of roses so burgundy that they were almost violet in her arms, their scent soft and reassuring. It was a cold November night, and she pulled her coat closer around her body with her free hand. The thin layers of dress beneath did nothing to fight off the cold.

She walked around Le Garnier, following Rue Scribé, toward Plaçe de l’Opéra, where even at this hour and temperature tourists and traffic were competing for dominance. Slowly she walked up to the stairs leading to the main entrance of the opera house, the wind nearly blowing her thin lacy scarf off her head. It was dark, the statues of the composers more poignant in the yellowish streetlights.

She was early, having simply skipped the official reception. Granting the disappointed Magdalena only a quick hug, the diva hurried off in a dress much too elegant to convince the mezzo with her excuse of simply being tired and wanting to go home. Adrienne smiled remembering the speechless, desire-filled once over Kozená had given her. Not tonight. This night belonged to Laure. If she actually showed up.

Adrienne was nervous. Flashbacks of Laure kept apearing in the back of her mind – the arrogant beauty attending her first lesson, the first cup of coffee they shared at the theatre caféteria, the day Laure had came in from the rain, her garments clinging to her figure... Adrienne had been dizzy at the sight... The first studio concert with Laure singing Schumann, gazing over at her... the lessons on Rosenkavalier which almost had made her break down and confess her affection... and finally the La Bohème production, where she hadn‘t been able to stop things anymore... And then Laure had vanished.

A woman of strict discipline and principles, Adrienne had of course kept her pupil at a safe distance which didn’t lessen her feelings for the gifted and striking mezzo soprano. She had needed almost two years to decide that Laure was worth it, even worth her teaching job, and more important than the rules she had set up to divide them. She never realized how the affection she allowed herself to show onstage had made her loosen up in front of her favorite student offstage, too, and in the end, she was simply glad that it happened.

Too late. Laure was gone. Only slowly had Adrienne recognized the true obstacle to pursuing this love. It had been fear. The fear of letting go, of letting someone in, of giving up control, of surrendering and getting hurt. But, she had also learned that all these fears couldn't outweigh the loss of Laure, and this had changed the diva's life. Finally she allowed the passion, the energy she possessed to show completely, onstage, and tentatively, also offstage. This newfound relentless devotion to her profession had been the real reason for the start of her global career. Laure had changed her life, and had made her see what was truly important. But she had never had the chance to show her beloved student, or thank her for it. She was determined to do this tonight.

LaGrange looked around. Japanese tourists and the Parisian night-crowd filled the Plaçe, the masses ambling in and out of the métro station and disappearing into the direction of Boulevard Haussmann. She was standing alone before the entrance, scanning the crowd for the figure of her former student she was sure to recognize in a heartbeat.

A tall man walked slowly up the stairs to the entrance, looking at her. He closed in, and Adrienne worried for a moment that the diamond studs in her ears had attracted an admirer she wasn’t eager to meet, though she quickly dismissed the thought. The man wore his elegant coat open, despite of the cold, and the suit beneath gave testament to the fact that he certainly could buy his own diamond studs if he wished to wear any.

He took off his hat, a classic Borsalino, and she could see his face, dark-skinned, bearing a motionless but gentle expression.

"Madame LaGrange?" he asked respectfully, and with a slight bow. She eyed him, curious. He seemed familiar, although she couldn‘t think of a situation where she might have met him before. At a reception or a soirée perhaps, maybe a fan that wanted to compliment her.

"Madame Monnier awaits you," he said and indicated for the diva to follow him. "I am Jean-Marie, a friend of hers."

Before she could ask he handed her a small piece of sealed theatrical parchment. Adrienne recognized the familiar symbol of the double mask immediately and opened the letter to find another of the cryptic messages Laure seemed to have grown fond of:

"Adrienne, I am very glad you could come. Please trust Jean-Marie to show you the way. I await you. Laure."

For a moment the diva wondered if this could be a trick of sorts. She was surprised as she had expected her former student to meet her here herself. Why did she send someone else? Wouldn‘t they dine alone? Adrienne had keenly observed that this Jean-Marie had referred to Laure as Madame Monnier. Was she married now? She tried to picture the tall distinguished man in front of her as Laure’s husband for a moment, but couldn‘t bring herself to believe it.

Laure hadn‘t mentioned one of the countless restaurants of Paris where they could have met easily. Suddenly she wasn‘t convinced that they were to spend the night in a restaurant. Maybe it was Laure’s apartment? Her curiosity got the better of her and with a nod, she followed Jean-Marie, throwing any possible caution to the wind. Self-protection had never been her strong suit, especially not in the past seven years.

To Adrienne’s astonishment, they walked back around Le Garnier to a small door on the driveway leading to the storerooms and cellars, hidden beneath two large pillars. It was probably an entrance for the technical and maintenance staff that the tall black man opened with a set of keys. He let her enter before him, then stepped into the dark, dusty corridor himself and locked the door behind him carefully. The sight of this made Adrienne a little nervous, but she was determined to get to the bottom of this.

She felt as if she had entered a labyrinth of sorts as Jean-Marie led her through a large variety of dimly lit corridors, halls and stairways which she had never knew existed. And she had always thought that she knew Le Garnier better than most of the other singers. The light was very low, at some points it even was completely dark, but Jean-Marie calmy directed her steps.

It was a long and slow descent, and she soon gave up on the plan to memorize a way back. She had no idea where she was, only that it had to be deep down in the heart of Le Garnier. Her nervousness ebbed a bit – certainly if her companion had wanted to attack her, if all this was just a trap, he would have acted minutes ago. Though he better not try. Adrienne wasn‘t a person to be defeated easily.

They traveled a long corridor, and made their way through two halls that were cluttered with dusty props and scenery. Adrienne wondered idly what Laure could possibly have planned. She followed Jean-Marie into another storeroom, filled with a variety of ancient looking theatre items that gave the whole room a surrealistic and magical touch.

Walking past several rows of shelves, they turned right into a small corridor between two shelves that was lighted by strands of tiny blue lights both left and right to them on the ground, guiding their passage. They stopped in front of a dark blue velvet curtain, and if Adrienne hadn’t walked so cautiously she would have run into Jean-Marie as he turned around and announced softly, "We have arrived." He pulled the curtain aside and held it for her, motioning with his head for her to enter. Adrienne walked past him and stepped into a fairy world.

The apartment of sorts had obviously once been a storeroom, too. It was large with a high ceiling from which a huge old-fashioned chandelier hung, giving off a soft, low light – too little to make out the details of the room, but enough to make its baroque glass crystal ornaments shimmer. All four walls were covered in a web of tiny lights, hundreds of little sparkles, the light too dim to contour the walls behind, thus evoking the impression that she stood in a free space only bordered by those drops of light.

Absently, she let Jean-Marie take her coat, her scarf and her roses. He deposited them on a recamière to her left, while she took in the rest of the enchanted scenery unfolding before her. It looked like the realm of a magician or a muse. On the left side of the room stood a wing chair, and a small table, and further on, to her right, a pompous four poster bed with closed curtains.

In the middle of the room there was a dining table beautifully set, the white table cloth falling to the ground draped in a multitude of folds. She took in the sight of crystal glasses, and an icebucket holding a bottle , glittering under the illumination from two thin, elegant candles. Rose petals were scattered everywhere on the table and on the ground.

With her eyes adjusting to the scarce lightning, Adrienne could see that there were more curtains and also Gobelin tapestries on the walls which hid, perhaps, doors leading to other parts of this subterreanean labyrinth. She suspected that this was the case, since the air was fresher than she would have expected for a place so deep underneath the ground. And judging from the occasionally flickering candles on the dining table, there were air shafts nearby.

She turned around to see that Jean-Marie had vanished. She remained alone. There was a faint sound of music in the background, so faint that she hadn‘t heard it begin. It seemed to be Baroque, Lully perhaps, or Rameau – insinuating, charming, sensual, the perfect background for a dinner.

Even before she turned back to face the room again she knew that someone was watching her. A pair of eyes on her back, that made her suddenly feel naked in her dress that was far too elegant for a dinner invitation, with its thin double straps framing her neck invitingly.

On the far wall between two of the Gobelin tapestries stood a figure, barely visible in the dark. Adrienne hadn’t heard her enter. Her heartbeat quickened, identifying the woman long before her mind told her that it had to be Laure. She didn‘t move as the form crossed the space between them ever so slowly, forgetting to breathe as the figure stepped into the dim circle of light that the chandelier provided.

The dress Laure wore was red as rubies. Sleeveless and tight, only flaring out at the ankles, ending in a train that covered the ground behind her. It clung to a frame that was much more muscular than when Adrienne had last seen it, the shoulders and arms defined, little shadows along them showing just how much. Her left hand was covered in a black silk glove that ended in a broad bracelet set with onyx. Echoing the glove was the high neckline of the outfit, a necklace of square onyx stones holding the tight dress in place. A long slit, just below the nceklace, ran from her throat down to her navel, which itself was adorned with another onyx stone. It was very clear that she wore nothing underneath the dress, as evidenced by the tantalizing sight hinting at a curve of breast to the left and to the right. Her hair was let down, falling gently onto her shoulders, and partly covering her face. Above all, she wore a thin red veil, lending a surreal touch to her appearance.

She approached the stunned Adrienne, coming to a halt in front of the diva, the dress elegantly draping itself around her feet.

"Adrienne. I am glad you could come." Her voice wasn‘t more than a whisper as she extended her hand.

Laure. It really was Laure. Gazing up into the angelic face through the veil Adrienne found it difficult not to simply fall into those arms as the firm pressure of a warm, familiar hand finally assured her body that the woman across from her was real.

"Laure," the diva acknowledged with equal softness, her chest tight with emotions.

The music and the scenery provided an atmosphere that mesmerized Adrienne, forestalling the questions that had plagued her for seven years. They sat down at the dining table in silence, the mood a bit awkward, with both women incredulous that this rendezvous was actually happening.

Immediately a small, compact man in coat tails appeared through a curtain, opening the bottle and pouring champagne into the flutes. Adrienne eyed him, curious.

"Adrienne, may I introduce you to Jacques," Laure stated quietly. The man bowed slightly at Adrienne‘s nod and hurried off again.

The liquid shimmered in the glasses, long streaks of pearls winding up to the surface. Slowly Laure pulled the veil back from her face. It fell to the ground, pooling around her seat with an almost inaudible whisper. Adrienne lifted her glass

A moment of silence passed as they gazed into each other‘s eyes, and Adrienne noted that the face of her former pupil was more narrow and more serious than when she had last seen it, and even in the dim light she could make out some lines crinkling the pale skin that were deep for a woman Laure’s age. However, the azure eyes, one of them hidden behind the curtain of hair, were the same, as was the small smile that touched her lips.

"To this sight," Adrienne said, and touched her glass to Laure’s who merely tilted her head, her eyes never leaving Adrienne‘s.

To this sight. To Adrienne LaGrange in my world. Laure couldn‘t tear her eyes from the woman across the table, the cool glass in her right hand a clear contrast to the warmth she felt flooding her body. Adrienne was more beautiful than ever, her dress a perfect expression of her style, both classic and seductive – black, thin, falling just to her knees, with thin double straps that let show her shoulders, arms and a low neckline. Her auburn hair was shimmering with reddish highlights even in the low light the chandelier above provided. And in that moment Laure, as gazed into those blue-gray eyes that regarded her warmly she didn’t know how she could have survived the last seven years without them looking at her.

She reveled in the appreciation she read there, the sadness about the deception fading away quickly. Jacques had done wonders with the mastic today, and supported by the dim light and the cover her hair provided for the scarred left side of her face she was feeling relatively safe.

Jacques served dinner silently and attentively, so that she hadn‘t to utter one word that transcended the border of whispering and soft, throaty remarks to Adrienne, who luckily wasn’t asking her uncomfortable questions. Conversation during the meal was limited anyhow, since both were shyly readjusting themselves to each other again. For now, they were content to drink in the sight of the other, silently acknowledging that the chemistry between them was still present.

It wasn‘t before Jacques brought in the coffee, Laure knowing that Adrienne enjoyed a strong black café at the end of a meal, particularly after a performance, that the diva began to ask her questions.

"Did you send me all those roses over the past years?"

The question was asked softly, almost incredulously and Laure knew that she would have to give answers that sounded even more incredible then the questions themselves.

Again, she tilted her head a bit. "Yes, I did."

She could tell that Adrienne tried not to sound hurt, although she obviously was. "You have been around all the time, and didn‘t tell me? Do you know how worried I was about you?"

This was the hard part. Laure shifted in her seat. "I couldn‘t."

"You couldn‘t?" Adrienne shook her head. "Why did I never hear from you? Didn’t we have more? ... Where are you singing now? – I miss your voice."

Laure was surprised. Adrienne had indeed changed. These emotional admissions had been unthinkable seven years ago.

"I don’t sing anymore." She said it so softly that Adrienne almost didn‘t catch her words.

"You don‘t sing anymore?" The diva asked, disbelief evident in her voice.

Her former pupil took a breath. "Adrienne, there are a lot of things I can‘t tell you. Many of them you wouldn‘t understand. I do not sing anymore."

LaGrange eyed her skeptically.

Bitterly, Laure continued. "You can simply consider me as a part of this theatre. I belong to it like the scenery and the props. I have left everything else long ago."

"Are you telling me you live here?"

"I have lived here for seven years," Laure stated quietly, and then added tenderly, "I have never left you. I couldn’t."

Adrienne assessed the vision across the table, wondering if Laure had lost her mind. "I don‘t believe that. I don‘t know what kind of game you are playing here, but you needn‘t lie to get me to dine with you."

Laure shrugged. "Does it matter what the truth is? Does it matter what happened?"

LaGrange looked down at the table cloth for a moment, her hands playing with her coffee cup. She knew the answer to this. "No," she admitted. "The only thing that matters is finally seeing you again."

Laure’s right hand, cool from holding her refilled glass of champagne, tentatively reached out to cover hers on the table, the combination of coolness and warmth sending jolts through Adrienne. She felt the blood rush through her veins at a quicker pace like on a good night onstage and gave up the last bit of restraint she had forced upon herself.

"You made me wait seven years," she stated in a low, dangerous voice, locking her gaze onto Laure’s. "You won‘t make me wait any longer." With that, she got up from her chair, not seeing the shocked expression on Laure’s face. "You changed my life, do you know that? You made me see what is important, and just when I had found it you disappeared. I have no more desire for games. – Do you know how much I missed you? How much I regretted that our dinner never took place?" She moved around the table, facing Laure. "Why didn‘t you contact me sooner? Why are you inviting me now? Why do yo... hmph..."

Adrienne never had a chance to finish her question. Unable to rein in her reactions any longer Laure had risen from her chair and the diva suddenly found herself pulled into a passionate embrace, all four hands entwined on her back. Her upper body pushed up against the longer frame of the younger woman, while a pair of soft lips covered her mouth in a heated kiss. She could feel the warmth of the skin the slit in Laure’s dress revealed penetrate her own thin clothing, could feel the breasts hidden beneath red velvet softly press against her bare shoulders. Adrienne’s body rose up involuntarily to meet the kiss, melting away at the touch of those yielding lips. She kissed her former student back feverishly. When Laure’s tongue demanded entrance to her mouth she gave it willingly, her response hungry, betraying seven years of stored up passion.

Laure's hands held her firmly in place and she reveled in the tight embrace, with its tingling sensation of skin touching skin. Her shoulders, enveloped in Laure's bare arms which were both soft and strong, proved a thrilling combination.

Only slowly did the kiss soften, giving way to gentler explorations. Adrienne felt Laure‘s mouth open in response, full lips moving against her own, and she tenderly caressed its textures with her tongue.

Laure couldn‘t believe that this was happening – Adrienne LaGrange in her arms, kissing her like she had never dared to imagine, not even in her dreams: head thrown back to meet her kiss, chest heaving, cheeks slightly flushed, covering her lips with hungry caresses. She felt her control slip, her own body’s response overwhelming her quickly. She let go of Adrienne’s hands, following the lines of her arms with her fingers, one set bare, one set gloved in black silk, up to the luscious bare shoulders before her hands tangled themselves into the auburn hair, pulling Adrienne even closer. She felt the smaller body move against her, the delicate shifting of cloth, the kisses becoming more passionate, elegant hands finding their way around her small waist, causing the most distracting sensations. She couldn‘t stifle the moan escaping her throat anymore, she could only listen to the broken rattling utterance in horror, freezing in place.

Adrienne interrupted the kiss and looked up at her former pupil, her expression questioning. "Laure?" She never loosened her embrace, but Laure stepped out of it. "Laure?" She tried again. "What.... what’s happened to your voice?"

There it was. This was the end. At least she had gotten her dinner, even the one kiss she had barely dared to wish for. She was willing to give up on Adrienne, but she would have preferred to become a flawless memory, instead of facing the revulsion of the woman she loved – the thing she had dreaded most for seven years was about to happen and she had no chance to escape it.

"I lost it," she answered flatly.

There was a moment of hesitation, shock evident on the diva’s face as she impulsively reached for Laure. "...What??!"

But Laure took another step backwards. "You heard it," she said bitterly. Again, she took a step back as Adrienne moved forward, holding up her hands, one gloved, one bare. "Don’t." She raised her voice a bit. "Don‘t touch me out of pity."

Adrienne stopped, startled. "Why..." She blinked. Then she shook her head. "Laure, this has nothing to do with pity."

Laure regarded her skeptically.

"Ma Laure, please..." Adrienne’s voice was low and soft, yet demanding at the same time and Laure had to admit that she had never heard anything more erotic than her name falling from this woman’s lips right now. She smiled a trifle sadly, knowing she couldn‘t reciprocate this. "I love the way you say my name," she whispered.

Adrienne smiled back at her warmly. "Say my name," she requested gently.

"Adrienne..." It wasn‘t more than a whispered sigh.

"No." Adrienne looked at her intently and took a step forward. "I want you to really say it. Say my name."

"Adrienne."

"Again," the diva commanded, closing in further.

"Adrienne..." Laure had used her voice this time, the one she had lived with for now seven years. She was surprised herself at how tenderly it could sound despite its rough quality. Maybe it was the name. Maybe it was that she loved its owner so much. She saw the tenderness reflected in Adrienne’s eyes.

"It will certainly take some time to get used to," LaGrange stated. "So you better start training me now... Besides, I think it sounds sexy." And with that, she lightly trailed her fingertips over Laure’s bare shoulders, her eyes following their movements, then recapturing the other woman‘s gaze. A sensual smile curled her lips. "So... What were you about to tell me?" She let her hand brush down the length of Laure‘s arms, encircling her waist once again, pulling her close, and tipping her head back expectantly.

Whatever reluctance Laure might have been harboring quickly dissolved at the sight. She brushed her lips over Adrienne’s again and again, her hands following the elegant line of cheekbone and jaw. Adrienne responded in kind, the kisses closer now, slow and tender.

Laure had been anxious, but there was not a trace of pity in her diva’s kisses and she lost herself in the rebuilding passion, the touch of their tongues against each other intensifying, deepening even further. She felt hands wandering up her spine, into her hair –

Laure pulled back abruptly. That was close. My face. She mustn’t see my face. She may believe to consider my voice sexy for a night, but certainly not my face. Quickly she covered her action with kissing Adrienne‘s hands, lingering over the knuckles and fingertips, fluttering the tip of her tongue against the wrists, only to sweep the soprano up in another round of searing kisses, the smaller frame of the older woman fitting perfectly against her own.

They were still standing close to the dining table, and opening her eyes, Laure easily reached over and extinguished the two candles on the table without breaking their kiss. She also switched off the chandelier. Jacques had installed an extra switch at the table for that and also for the web of lights on the walls, just in case Laure needed complete darkness immediately, should her cover be detected. And right now, Laure wasn’t taking any risks.

The remaining illumination left them in a light that was safe enough to make Laure bolder than she would have been in other circumstances, and knowing that she just had this one night she was not going to step back from what was about to happen.

Adrienne knew what she wanted, she had known for years. She wanted Laure, and she wanted her now. The movements of her hands became more insistent, as they glided from the long back to the small waist and lower – she more felt than heard Laure’s responding gasp. The younger woman had moved away from the diva’s mouth, the full lips finding their way along the throat, the neck. Her teeth gently grazing the skin, a caress of tongue against a pulse point that fluttered beneath her touch...

Adrienne dragged Laure backwards with her, never once breaking their connection, until she felt the solid mass of a bedpost pressing into her back. Leaning against it for support as her knees threatened to give way, she was safely enclosed between the stabilizing post and the warm pulsating body that pressed her against it. She surrounded by velvet night, the scent of roses and champagne, and a spacious web of tiny lights that cast a warm yellowish glow over the scene.

She felt Laure’s tongue following the line of her collarbone, and leaned into the touch, disappointed to find it suddenly gone. Laure, her breathing ragged, hair tousled, looked at her in the relative darkness –

"If you want to stop this, please stop now. Otherwise I..."

"Does this feel as if I want you to stop? I was serious about not being willing to wait any longer."

The kiss was forceful, almost bruising, and she needed the feeling, grabbing one of the closed curtains of the bed for support as she explained to Laure without any further words what she wanted. Needed. Craved. This body upon hers, and nothing between them. Now.

She reached up for the clasp of the necklace that held Laure‘s dress in place. The velvet fell obediently down to Laure‘s hips, revealing her upper body to Adrienne‘s longing gaze. Urgent hands pushed it further down, gliding over long, muscular legs until the dress reached the ground, pooling around Laure’s feet. Adrienne had fantasized about this, as much as she had tried to steer her thoughts away from it, over those two intense years she had spent with Laure as her student, and even more afterwards, as alone and uncertain about what had happened to Laure, she believed she had missed her chance. But nothing could have prepared her for the actual sight as Laure elegantly stepped out of the garment and her shoes, into her arms. Soon Laure was swiftly reaching for the elegant straps of Adrienne’s outfit, pulling them down over slender shoulders, aching to feel the body pressed against her own. Lace and jewelry were carelessly added to the pile of clothes that were lost in the attempt to get even closer to each other. Before long both woman were standing naked in front of the bed, never stopping their kisses, merely adding other touches to it, tentative at first, then more fiercely.

"One moment," the deep raspy voice husked into Adrienne’s ear, and then Laure was quickly and silently crossing the space back to the dining table, and Adrienne had a chance to witness this perfect body in motion, covered by accentuating shadows, full breasts dangling invitingly in the low light, as Laure walked back towards her, her gaze holding the other woman‘s eyes.

"I felt like more champagne," she said, holding up the ice bucket. "Now?" Adrienne didn‘t feel like more champagne. All she wanted was Laure. "You’ll see," Laure promised, and pulled back the curtains.

Her voice sent shudders down the diva’s spine. Even if Laure wasn‘t a singer anymore, her new voice had definite qualities, and they were definitely sexy ones.

The bed was huge, the sheets a dark red --- no... "What...?" Adrienne looked up at Laure before the scent of roses told her what she saw: The entire bedding was covered with red rose petals, hundreds and thousands of them. Before she could say another word Laure had lifted her off the ground with startling ease and the astounded diva found herself gently lowered onto the bed. She was greeted by a multitude of soft, cool kisses that covered her skin where she was touching the petals – smooth, velvety, a breeze on a summer’s day.

The half-closed curtains of the bed made it even darker here, and she felt more than saw Laure joining her. And then she lost all thought at the warm weight of Laure‘s body covering her own, sinking back onto the rose petals with their awaiting kisses.

Finally she entwined her hands in Laure’s hair and saw nothing but a shadow of azure blue looking back at her tenderly.

"I can‘t see you," she said with regret.

"Then feel me." Slowly Laure pinned Adrienne‘s hands over her head, allowing the length of her whole body to press down lightly onto the diva, their legs falling naturally between one another.

There was so much to feel; Laure’s heartbeat, the warmth of her breath against her face, the heat her body radiated, the lines of muscle under soft skin, the pressure of Laure’s leg against her, the overwhelming scent of roses, the caresses of hands and black silk, the wetness of Laure‘s tongue following the line of her neck until reaching her breasts that craved the touch.

It had been some time since Adrienne had slept with a woman, it had been some time since she had slept with anyone. But never, ever; had anybody treasured her or her body as Laure did now, so attentively, so tenderly, so passionately, so – lovingly.

She felt their breaths mingle as they came harder and faster, their hot bodies melting into each other. Rose petals were clinging to her body when she shifted, they, too, warmer than at first.

She felt cooler air touch her exposed, flushed skin when the delicious weight of Laure was suddenly gone. She gasped when the next thing she felt was a splash of cool liquid against her sternum, trickling down the line of her collarbones, into the hollow of her throat and down her abdomen to her navel, and still further down. And immediately there was Laure’s mouth all over her again, licking and kissing off the fluid, turning the trails of coolness into trails of heat, a slow descent down her body, then up again into a long passionate kiss, tasting of champagne and more to come.

The next touch of Laure’s mouth was even cooler, and Adrienne gasped at the feeling of an ice cube captured between Laure’s lips, which drew a line along her jaw, and down her throat, passing the curves of breast, and circling around a pair of taut nipples, teasing them until the initial cold flame at the touch turned into one of heat. The combination of warm lips and the cool ice was a delicious torture that wandered further down her stomach, Laure’s breasts fell between Adrienne‘s legs, gliding along her thighs, and then, there was Laure’s mouth against her sex, a combination of heat, ice, wetness, caress and tongue that made her perception swim until it was nothing but a blur of rose scent, Laure, and tiny lights. Her body moving of its own volition, surrendered completely. And somehow Adrienne knew with absolute certainty that she was where she belonged – where she had always belonged.

Laure kept her close, holding her in her arms as Adrienne trembled before her body went completely rigid, moving within the waves, until she sank limp back onto the bed of roses. Laure’s arms still cradled her lovingly, a look of wonder and amazement on her face.

Through the half-opened curtains Adrienne could see the web of lights that surrounded them, and suddenly this fairy apartment seemed to be the only natural place for a night like this. She couldn‘t see Laure‘s face, but felt the flood of blond hair against her cheeks, arms embracing her tenderly as if they had been created for just that task. She drew a deep breath, her hand searching in the dark until it rested lightly on a warm, strong upper arm.

"Laure." Nothing else needed to be said.

Laure shifted to lean over her, her hair hanging around her face like a fallen angel’s halo, and lingeringly kissed her temples, which caused Adrienne‘s thigh to move and press harder against Laure, arousal gliding along it.

Laure‘s gasp told her everything she needed to know, passion stirring anew within Adrienne, but this time it was another need. The need to give Laure what she had felt, the need to touch this perfect body, to feel it move against her, to know that it was real, real for sure. That Laure was there and that they were together.

"Laure..." The voice was dark with desire, one word suggesting a whole word of passionate possibilities by which to spend the rest of the night, and Laure couldn‘t supress a delighted shudder. She marveled at the abilities of that voice. It’s mere tone able to express everything she could think of, and the images that the simple utterance of her name evoked were arousing her beyond belief. She was surprised when Adrienne gently, but determinedly turned her onto her back in one move. The diva straddled her hips, and a flashback of that impromptu Tosca scene all those years ago, arose in Laure‘s mind. She had been enraptured then. Now, learning all the things Adrienne had been withholding, she clearly had to adjust her scales of rapture.

Again, the perfect weight was pressing down lightly onto her body. But this time, it was shifting, slowly grinding against Laure’s flat stomach in the most recognizable of ways. They were no longer a teacher and a student possibly hinting at something, but lovers, surrendering to one another. Back then, Adrienne hadn’t touched her breasts, or stroked them so tantalizingly slowly, avoiding her nipples until they ached. Laure arched into small elegant hands, whose slender fingers enveloped her breasts, taking them, their size spilling over. Briefly, Laure regretted not being able to see these hands that had turned note pages, checked her posture, and had wandered to this curve of hips whenever Laure made a mistake, for at last, these hands, which she had only dreamed of, were touching her, covering her, stroking her, and loving her.

Fingertips cooled by ice found their way along all the lines of Laure‘s body. Long champagne infused kisses found Laure’s waiting mouth, her nipples, her throat. She writhed beneath the attention, after long years of very limited physical contact, its very fulfillment lavishing her with ardent caresses. She felt the rose petals cling to her hot skin, felt her own breathing come as raggedly as Adrienne‘s against did her stomach. Letting go of the fearful restriction of her voice, she responded to Adrienne‘s touch, to her whispers, to her demands, which became only more passionate, more intense at this reaction. And for one long blissful moment, with the elegant fingers buried deep within her, and the small, sensuous lips burning red from kisses against her chest, she even forgot her face, and became sheer joy, surrendering to the woman she had loved and longed for for so long, and whom she would treasure and adore for the rest of her life.

"Mon Adrienne..." Laure sounded shy, barely able to believe that this was real.

"There," Adrienne said, softly and throatily. Laure could feel the smile in her voice, as the diva’s arms tightened around her waist. "You’ve said it."

Later they lay in a satisfied tangle of arms and legs, rose petals and sheets.

"Did you plan all this?" Adrienne asked curiously. With her head resting on Laure’s shoulder, she lazily trailed a single petal along Laure’s skin. "I mean, did you expect this to happen... us?"

"No," Laure admitted softly. "Never. I only thought I’d be prepared for anything ....but I doubt that there is anything that could have prepared me for ...this." And, even more softly, she added "For us."

Adrienne sighed happily, snuggling closer. "I may not be able to pull off such a scenario, and I won‘t ask again how you’ve gotten here, but I gladly invite you to dinner and a replay tomorrow evening. I have a week off before Tannhäuser rehearsals start, and we have so much to catch up on..."

"Sure," Laure responded, closing her eyes against tomorrow and all the mornings that would follow. Not yet. Just please not yet. The night is not yet over.

"Wonderful," Adrienne shifted against her, surprised to find her lips suddenly captured in a mind-blowing kiss, as if this kiss were the last thing that Laure ever did.

"Wow," she breathed, still somewhat astonished, as Laure rearranged her arms around her tenderly, as if she were the most fragile and precious thing in the world. "Now what was that for?"

Laure‘s cracked voice was the most melodic it could ever be. "For you. For us. Because I love you," she said simply. "I love you, Adrienne. Je t’aime, I have for so long, and I always will."

Adrienne remained silent, hugging Laure close affectionately. "And I thought I had blown my one chance with you," she whispered after a moment, visibly stunned, her own voice thick with emotion, holding onto Laure tightly, not able to say the words. Not yet. Not now. They had so much time now, all the time, and she wanted it to be perfect.

Soon Laure felt Adrienne relax against her, her breath deepening, until she was sound asleep in her arms. Now this was heaven. This was more than anything she could possibly wish for, holding onto this woman she adored with all of her life, protecting her sleep on a bed of roses, listening to her even breathing.

She lay like this for a long while, wishing she could fall asleep beside Adrienne, succumbing to the warmth and the happiness, refusing to accept the inevitability of the following day. She knew that the night was almost over, and that she had to hurry. She didn‘t want to. But she had to. Tearing herself from her beloved’s side, knowing that she was also tearing her heart apart with it, she reached under the bed. Tears and regret filled her eyes as she slowly and tenderly pressed the ether-soaked tissue over Adrienne’s nose and mouth.

The knock on the door shook both men out of a doze. They had expected to be called to drive LaGrange home long ago, spending the night in an office near Laure’s apartment, ready to come to their friend’s help. Jacques and Jean-Marie exchanged a questioning look, then the smaller man hurried over to open the door sleepily, where he stopped dead in his tracks.

In the door frame stood Laure, dressed in her black page garb, masked, cradling the unconscious form of Adrienne LaGrange in her arms with a tenderness that made his eyes moist. The diva was wrapped in the lace gown from Lulu that Laure herself had worn the other morning.

"We don‘t have much time," Laure’s whisper was cool and detached. "Jacques, get her things. Don‘t forget the roses. Jean-Marie, pull up the cab." Both men hurried off with brief nods, Jean-Marie raising a worried eyebrow, but following the order nonetheless. They really had to hurry.

All the way up into the fading night Laure refused their offers of assistance in carrying the precious bundle she held close to her chest. Her face was pale and motionless behind the mask. Her arms where aching when they finally sat in the cab, driving in silence, but still she kept Adrienne, who didn’t even stir once, cradled in her lap, treasuring every moment that was left.

The ride to Place des Vosges where Adrienne had her apartment wasn‘t very long, avoiding the early Parisian morning traffic. The arcades around Louis XIII Square were still empty, the approaching dawn, chilly and humid. It had rained overnight. Nobody saw them as Jean-Marie opened the house door with Adrienne’s key, and again Laure refused any help, carrying the diva up all four flights of stairs herself.

Laure remembered the luxurious flat, having been over occasionally for additional lessons during her time as Adrienne’s student. She motioned for Jacques to open the door she knew led to the bedroom. Her steps were muted on the carpeted floor as she gently lowered the diva onto her own bed and pulled the sheets loosely up around her. Jacques had arranged the roses from the opening night in a crystal vase and Laure placed them on the nightstand next to Adrienne, so that it would be the first thing she would see in the morning. A hastily scribbled note leant against the vase.

The two men waited in the hallway, respectfully and discreetly.

Laure would have loved to wander through the apartment again, and to watch the diva sleep for just a few moments longer, but even the dark November dawn began to color the tips of the trees out on Louis XIII Square, the contours of the king’s statue already visible in the morning light.

She removed her mask, gazing down onto the sound asleep figure. Softly she trailed her fingers over Adrienne‘s face once more, trying to commit every line and every shadow to her memory. Finally she bent over to kiss those fine lips one more time.

"Adieu, mon Adrienne. Je t‘aime. N’oublie pas que je t’aime. Toujours. I will always love you."

Quickly she exited the bedroom, replacing her mask over her face before stepping out into the corridor. They drove back to Palais Garnier in silence.

***************

She woke to the scent of roses. A smile touched her lips as she turned onto her side, slowly drifting up to the surface of her dream... Laure.

Roses. November noon light. Quiet. She was in her apartment. She was alone.

The situation was surreal and for a moment Adrienne believed that she had merely woken from an intense dream. But her body told her otherwise, as did the faint scent of roses and champagne mingling with others. The black lace gown she wore definitely didn‘t belong to her. And underneath were still some errant rose petals clinging softly to her naked skin.

It took her some moments to realize the situation, and it wasn‘t before she saw the roses on her nightstand that the shock hit her. There was a note leaning against the vase, a simple sheet of paper ripped from a sketchbook, a double mask symbol hastily drawn on its top.

"Adrienne – for the beauty of what was it has to end here. I want you to be happy, as happy as you have made me. I have to leave you because I love you. Parce que je t’aime. I always will. Laure. p.s. Don’t search for me. You won‘t find me."

It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be the end. It couldn’t be that Laure had disappeared again, now that they had finally found each other.

Adrienne needed some time to put the pieces together. Nobody else was in the apartment. Nothing was missing, all the things she had had with her last night were present, obviously nothing had even been touched.

How to make sense of all this?! The long sleep. The slight chemical smell on her hands as she had warily rubbed her face. The gown. The cryptic farewell note. It was a mystery, and Adrienne didn’t like mysteries. Her approach to life and art was open-minded, full-hearted and direct. She wasn’t one to avoid a challenge, her attitude almost a bit reckless in the recent years.

And now this. Adrienne was hurt. And she was furious. And the fury of a diva was something that no one, not even the stubborn Laure, would want to face. And Laure would face it, Adrienne decided, a very determined expression settling onto her features. She would find the key to all this. Closing her eyes, she could hear Laure’s raspy voice telling her that she loved her. She shook her head, blinking back the tears. Why, Laure, she thought. Why.

Quando me’n vo... quando me’n vo soleta per la via... When I walk along the streets all on my own... Laure crossed the expanse of Palais Garnier main stage on the upper catwalks virtually invisible, singing the aria silently to herself. Her larynx and tongue still fell automatically into the position they would have to be in to produce the note, adjusting pitch, timbre and dynamics. But Laure didn‘t sing anymore. She gazed down at the stage crew exchanging the scenery. Today it would be Rusalka again, Renée Fleming residing in the first dressing room for the night where Adrienne had been changing into her costumes only yesterday.

Yesterday. Adrienne. It hurt. The quiet, noble hurt of a sacrifice where the narrow border between the sadness and the happiness consisted only of one‘s own word, one’s own pride. Laure had been grateful to start her cleaning shift right after she had returned from Adrienne’s apartment, without the time to think or return to her realm. The dressing rooms luckily weren’t her responsibility today. She didn‘t know whether she would have made it through that. And now... She was in a dazed state due to the lack of sleep and the last night’s wondrous encounter. Her body was exhausted, her mind serious. She had been so afraid of this day, and now that it had arrived, she was walking around her opera house as if sedated. She had had everything she could have wished for and so much more, and she knew that it was time to let go of Adrienne.

She felt a quiet contentment in keeping her promise to step back. But, it weighed little against the memory of Adrienne stepping into her apartment in that black dress... The pain rising at this recollection was sharp, and she quickly shoved the image away, wanting to stay in the blissful trance devoid of disturbing emotions.

Once again she crossed the catwalks, the side-stage this time, and retreated to a niche to observe. Later there was a operational meeting concerning the upcoming Tannhäuser which she would also have a look at. And then there was the evening’s performance – she really needed a second look at that tenor, not yet convinced to recommend him for another production in Lyon for the upcoming season. Irène de la Sussiège had work to do.

A frown appeared on Laure’s face. She had believed that her life would not continue without the possibility of Adrienne in it. But the love continued. The love that had made her survive the last seven years. The love she would feel for as long as she lived.

A surprised smile touched the corners of her lips, the mask shifting a little with it. I do have things to do. I still want to do them. I have a life to live here. And she would live on, carrying Adrienne in her heart, treasuring the memories, admiring her from afar. Once again, she would be a silent lover in the shadows, but a happier one for knowing Adrienne, for loving her. In honor of this one night, for the feeling of the diva in her arms, the taste of her kisses and the sound of that voice saying her name, she would build a shrine within her very soul.

Soundlessly, Laure moved into a hidden staircase, making her way to the conference room.

More desolate days followed. Days where Laure wouldn‘t come up to the main floors because she couldn‘t bear to watch Adrienne rehearse, or look for the roses that no longer appeared in her dressing room in the mornings. The diva even began leaving notes on her make-up table, but they were never picked up, and the seals remained unbroken.

Adrienne was at a loss. With her connections, she had scoured the entire city, as far as that was possible. But Laure was not located. She had even called the family, without hinting at having seen Laure very much alive just days ago, only to find out that she hadn‘t been there and probably wouldn‘t be very welcome either. Laure‘s father having had great hopes for his daughter’s voice and career, had expected her to continue the family tradition. He had, along with his wife, given up on their daughter long ago, their reaction to Adrienne’s inquiry was cool and resigned.

Laure had lost her voice. Now how had that happened? And when?

Extensively pulling her rank as prima donna on the management, she had searched for the mysterious dining hall herself, had studied blueprints of Le Garnier, the sketches by Charles Garnier himself. She even had some technicians open the door through which she had entered the building with Jean-Marie that night, everybody assuring her that that entrance had long since been abandoned. They had been right, as there was no trace that even hinted at recent activity. Unconvinced, she had extra security staff combing the house.

But all rank and all of her privileges didn‘t bring her Laure: Nor did it remove the sick feeling at the sight of an empty dressing room table in the morning, or the many letters left untouched in the evening. Laure couldn‘t be around anymore. Otherwise she would have contacted her, and would have seen how much the diva hurt. She would have come to her and held her close again as she had done that night. That exquisite night.

It was pure coincidence that it rained on this December day and that the weather was too wretched for a soprano to walk the distance of festively decorated street from her apartment to the métro and from the métro to the studio stages of Le Garnier.

Adrienne sat over breakfast with a manager from Lyon at the La Pointe St. Eustache café on Rue Montorgueil enjoying a strong black coffee as the weather broke loose. The attentive manager called a cab to transport the diva to her rehearsal, personally escorting La Grange whose head and neck were wrapped up in three layers of uselessly thin scarf, to the waiting car.

"Palais Garnier," she ordered. The cab driver nodded and left Adrienne to her thoughts. She stared out into the rain through the front window absently, watching the driver‘s hands on the steering wheel. The hands were elegant and slender, the skin dark. She liked silent cab drivers – there had been one driving her to the Opéra occasionally... the flash of a black hand holding a heavy curtain of midnight blue for her shot through her head. The cab driver. This cab driver. The elegant man who had brought her to Laure. Jean-Marie.

"Jean-Marie?" she questioned. The man in front of her flinched ever so slightly, but didn‘t turn.

"Change directions. Bring me to Laure. Now." Her speaking voice, which at normal pitch made most people assume that she was a contralto, if a singer at all, had reached its lowest register.

"I am instructed not to..." Jean-Marie tried to contradict. He didn‘t even get the chance to finish his sentence as Adrienne icily repeated "Now."

Heroically, Jean-Marie withstood the diva’s command. And had to face some colorful expressions that were most unladylike and suggested someone more at home in the suburban banlieues than in the sophisticated circles in which a world-famous dramatic soprano normally moved. "Mais putain merde, d’où me te parles??? Tu veux mon t-shirt, quoi?!!"

With a shrug, he drove on. "Very well," he allowed, defeated. "But it is most likely that she won‘t be present today." The look he received through the rear mirror was enough to silence him and make him increase the speed.

They entered Le Garnier through the artist exit, the backstage staff offering up respectful greetings at the sight of the agitated diva storming through the door. Jean-Marie led her to an empty cellar room and from there through hidden doors and staircases until Adrienne, again, had no idea where she was or how she would get back up to the living world.

"She really lives here?" she asked incredulously.

"I think she told you that." Jean-Marie‘s remark was clipped.

"Why did she do it? Why did she end everything like that?" She asked the question that had whirled around in her head ever since she had woken alone in her apartment that morning.

"It was safer for both of you." He turned to look at her for the first time in their conversation. "I would not like to discover that she was hurt later." He added in a quiet voice, the threat unmistakable.

"I? Why should I want to hurt her?" Adrienne was outraged at this. Sure, she was angry at Laure, but only because she loved her. In case Jean-Marie didn‘t know that. "I do love her," she said coolly, feeling odd at telling this to a stranger before saying it directly to Laure. Maybe she needed to practice her courage.

"I dearly hope so," was Jean-Marie‘s calm response. They had reached the darkness again and before long they had arrived at the dark blue velvet curtain again, this time no strands of blue lights on the floor to guide them.

He turned to look at her for a moment, his gaze boring through her, before he held the curtain aside and motioned for her to step through. He didn‘t enter with her, merely switching on the chandelier at its brightest before he left her alone.

Adrienne could now see the room’s interior in a little more light. The tiny lights on the walls had been removed, the dining table and chairs were also gone. She dropped her coat and scarf onto the recamière, wandering around the spacious hall. She could see that the furniture was all theatre scenery. The wing chair, the bathtub, and then the small writing table that actually belonged up at La Bohème. There were Gobelin tapestries and curtains covering the walls and several corridors leading to other parts of this subterranean labyrinth.

She was touched to find pictures of every Garnier production she had done on the walls. There were also several costumes – her heart beat faster as she recognized the red dress Laure had worn that night for dinner. So it was true. She really lived here, at least sometimes.

Slowly Adrienne approached the bed, hesitantly opening one of the closed curtains. It looked empty and untouched, not at all like the location of a most passionate night. She brushed her hands over the covers, remembering what had happened here.

A concealed door she hadn’t noticed before opened behind her, and a small, round man entered with a toolkit. He wore overalls, his hair sticking out in every possible direction. He almost stumbled over his toolkit at the sight of her. He stood staring with wide eyes.

"Madame LaGrange," he stated the obvious and in his manners Adrienne recognized the attentive waiter.

"Jacques," she replied amiably, as if she owned the place.

"How... I mean, did she contact you? How did you find us? How did you make her change her mind?" His eyes lit up at the last question and Adrienne took a mental note to ask him about that later.

"I had a kind cab driver," she answered lightly.

Jacques shot her a wary look that made it clear that he knew just how difficult it was, to convince Jean-Marie to do something he didn‘t want to do.

"So... what was this about Laure changing her mind? Why don’t you find us more light and we’ll sit down there and have a nice chat. What do you say, Jacques?"

It wasn‘t an invitation. It was a clear order. "Yes, Madame." He hurried to respond. "I think she was wrong anyway, she should have... well, never mind – shall I make us a tea, perhaps? Oh, I’m sorry, je suis desolé, that would be coffee with you, Madame, of course... I am sorry that I can‘t offer you more light, we don‘t have it since Laure can‘t bear it, her eyes are sensitive from living so mayn years down here, and well, ever since the attack anyway. And I think she simply likes dim light a lot better, if you ask me..." He trailed off, hastily restraining his speech since something in Adrienne’s eyes told him that he had probably just revealed something that he shouldn’t have... He squirmed under her scrutiny, feeling like a rabbit prey to a hawk.

"Attack?" Adrienne’s voice was at her most dangerous for the second time in one day. "What do you mean by ‚attack‘?"

Jacques succumbed to his fate, wisely deciding not to deceive the angry diva. Just as the poor technician opened his mouth to speak, the concealed door opened again, this time almost soundlessly, and a tall figure dressed in black stepped through the door. She wore high boots with soft soles, narrow knee pants, a page’s shirt and cap, gloves, and a black half-mask covering the upper half of her face.

Laure.

Adrienne rose from the recamière, facing the newcomer. "Laure."

There was anger in Laure‘s eyes that the mask couldn’t disguise, surprise and fear. Still, those feelings didn‘t outshine the love in her gaze.

And suddenly things happened very quickly.

Before either of the women could react, a group of five men dressed in security staff uniforms stormed into the hall, entering through the same curtain as Adrienne had minutes earlier. They drew their weapons, quickly taking positions and aiming at the figure in black across the room.

Adrienne knew their mission. They were here at her order. She had probably led them right here herself with her careless and noisy descent. However, she did not approve of their methods, and she grew furious at their unnecessarily intimidating behavior.

Laure‘s reaction was the one of a trapped animal, her expression absolutely panic ridden. She took one last look at the diva, and with a broken scream, animal in its intensity, darted for the nearest exit.

"Laure, don’t!"

Adrienne’s cry made Laure hesitate ever so slightly, just enough for a nervous finger to pull a trigger. The guards had grown uneasy with the screams, the dim light, the surreal conditions of the surroundings, and the strange masked creature who looked like a myth come to life.

In that moment as Laure’s body caught the bullet and glided down the wall in slow motion, it suddenly all made sense to Adrienne, even before the first armed guard had made it over to Laure, lifting her upper body from the ground, roughly pulling the mask off her face.

The darkness. The face hidden behind a mask. The mysterious dinner in the dim light. Why she had woken alone that morning from sedation. The raspy voice. Jacques talking about an attack. Why Laure had disappeared into the dark. Irène de La Sussiège. The black angel who saved the alcoholic lighting manager from a falling spotlight, a mystery nobody really believed.

Adrienne had crossed half the distance of the hall before the guard had even reached Laure to grasp her. When she had finally reached their position, she shoved him forcefully out of the way, the mask still in his hand, ignoring the calls of the security personnel that rang only distantly in her ears. The guard holding Laure stumbled, surprised at the strength of the small body of the diva. As he let his victim drop carelessly, Adrienne caught Laure and held her lovingly in her arms.

She was so pale, her breath sounding faint and rattling. Adrienne gazed down at the exposed face of the unconscious woman cradled in her lap.

Ma Laure, what have they done to you?

The left eyebrow was gone, instead an intricate net of reddish scars wended its way around her left eye, covering her temple, and ending on her cheek. It looked like the reminder of a burn. There was also a spot just below her right ear, resembling a star, showing the same type of scarring, only less pronounced. Its color was less reddish, almost pink.

So this is what you have been afraid of. This is why you hid from me.

Tenderly she traced the structures around Laure’s left eye with her fingers.

But there was no reason for this, Laure. Did you really believe I would love you less because of these scars? Did you deny us seven years out of this fear?

Laure was still an attractive woman, the scars added something exotic to her beauty. And to Adrienne, Laure was the most beautiful creature she had ever seen anyway. This was the woman she loved. Nothing could change that.

She pulled Laure closer, and in shifting a little, discovered blood on her light-colored clothes. The blood wasn’t visible on Laure‘s black clothing, but she could feel its wetness on Laure’s back.

Feverishly she drew the woman up into her embrace, holding her as close as she could, while her hands stroked the marred face over and over. "Laure. Oh my God, Laure. You can‘t leave me now. Don‘t you ever leave me again. Laure, say something. Laure, can you hear me?"

But Laure remained unconscious in her arms.

"Laure..." Tears were welling up in Adrienne‘s eyes and she didn’t bother to control them. "You mustn‘t leave me. This is not the end, it is the beginning, don‘t you understand? – I love you, Laure."

Momentarily Laure’s eyes fluttered open, taking in the pain in her back and the dizziness in her head which didn‘t allow her to focus. There was Adrienne with her, holding her, warming her body which felt so cold, Adrienne’s hands on her bare face ... I love you, Laure... Laure tried to say something, to smile – she couldn‘t, but as she drifted back into the darkness the pained look on her face bore no more fear.

Adrienne didn‘t notice the noises in the background until a cool, calm voice cut through the chaos.

"Get her a doctor. Now."

Jean-Marie stood in one of the entries, with a pistol in his hand. He took in the scene unfolding in front of him. One man holding a gun to Jacques, a ridiculous picture. Another guard was bent over holding his stomach at the end of the hall. And three more were roaming through Laure‘s apartment, tearing everything apart. In front of the concealed door kneeled Adrienne LaGrange, cradling the wounded Laure in her arms.

The guards stopped at the sound of Jean-Marie’s voice, three of them saluting respectfully, recognizing their former boss. With a nod he sent one of them hurrying off, with another, he ordered the rest stop their attack and holster their weapons.

He quickly made his way over to Adrienne, inwardly cursing himself for not withstanding her demand to see Laure. He had been aware that there was too much attention being paid to the old Garnier cellars these days because of the fuss Adrienne had caused at the house over the missing former pupil she had met down in the subterranean labyrinth.

Laure didn't look good. She was unconscious, and her breathing was shallow and ragged. He looked at Adrienne who barely seemed to notice him. The utter love in her eyes as she looked into the pale woman's face and the tender way she held Laure close to her, allowed him to finally trust Adrienne. He only hoped that Laure would be able to witness this, too. That is, if she made it, and from what he could see, she had already had lost a lot of blood. It didn't look good.

***************

The Parisian press always had a weakness for dramatic story and for any kind of mystery. The heartbreaking story of the crippled fallen angel who had been a promising singer offered both: a beauty disfigured in a terrible accident, protecting her former mentor's career from the shadows of Le Garnier until she is tragically killed by a panicking guard. It was the talk of the town, the elegant city absorbing another one of its mysteries that belonged to it like the dark waters of the Seine River and the haunted silhouette of Notre Dame. Meanwhile, said nameless black angel was struggling for survival in an ordinary hospital bed. Adrienne never left her side until it was clear that Laure would live.

Jacques and Jean-Marie had told her the history of Laure, of Danielle’s attack, of her desperate retreat, of the secret life she had built up in the labyrinths of Le Garnier, and of how she had become the black angel.

It had taken both of them to keep Adrienne from killing Danielle, or at least having her locked up instantly. They explained carefully how much Laure had always tried to avoid such a confrontation as it would have meant exposing her pain and her disfigurement to the great satisfaction of the woman who had caused it. Danielle was probably the last thing Laure thought about now. She was too overjoyed to simply have Adrienne with her, feeling safe and protected by her unadulterated love. Laure was still weak and exhausted, sleeping most of the time. Her eyes were readjusting to daylight with difficulty, but she was recovering.

Only then did LaGrange return to her performing and rehearsing duties, the life at Le Garnier slowly returning to its normal pace, if one could speak of normal in regards to opera.

The management had at first planned to file a lawsuit against the former studio member Laure Monnier, for matters of trespass, but after a scene worthy of the stage along the lines of Tosca or Poppea or Armide, by Adrienne LaGrange in front of the executive board, a scene that had the toughest among them squirm in their seats, that idea had been cancelled. The management considered it unwise to make an enemy of the person who had the most influence on the Parisian opera scene, not to mention burning bridges with the formidable diva La Grange.

Le Garnier also hurried to restructure its security staff, the commanding position going to Jean-Marie Noiret, who had extensive knowledge of the house and had been the one to save the management from an embarrassing catastrophe down in the labyrinths, by quickly taking charge of the situation.

It was December 22nd, and Christmas was approaching rapidly. The holiday had already reached the Palais Garnier mainstage, since La Bohème was scheduled, its first two acts set on Christmas Eve in the Latin Quarter of Paris.

Adrienne hadn’t seen Magdalena before the performance started, but she knew that she would probably arrive at the last moment, flying in late from Pelléas rehearsals with Marc Minkowski in Leipzig, where she was to open as Mélisande in January.

But Magdalena had cancelled in the morning, which Adrienne didn‘t know since she had been at the hospital with Laure for most of the day. And although very little could easily unsettle Adrienne, she was surprised to find Danielle, a woman she would rather strangle than stand next to onstage, filling in as Musetta.

For a moment she pitied that this was La Bohème and not La Gioconda where she could have justifiedly poisoned the mezzo character onstage in the fourth act. However, Adrienne was a highly disciplined worker, who fulfilled her contracts a hundred-twenty-percent. She did the same this night, with clenched teeth and a decided dislike for the Quando me’n vo... aria. To her, it was Laure’s and would always belong to her.

She avoided her former pupil offstage and after the performance down in the theatre cafeteria, knowing Laure to be safely asleep at the hospital, she got herself a double whiskey, trying to calm herself. Danielle was sitting two tables away, having a beer with some colleagues, and had not dared to more than nod at the woman who once had been her great love and whom she still hopelessly adored.

Adrienne didn‘t know whether Danielle connected the sensational press story about the tragically killed black angel of Le Garnier and her mentor, to Laure and LaGrange, and she didn‘t care. The thought of how this woman had messed around with Laure‘s life made her sick, and once Laure was out of the hospital they would file a lawsuit against her.

The door to the cafeteria opened, and a tall, statuesque woman stepped into the room, turning the heads of almost every man and quite a few of the women, Danielle among them, as she surveyed the crowd. She wore a black turtleneck and simple, elegant pants, her coat was open, and a huge red shawl was wrapped around her shoulders. She held an overnight bag in her gloved hands. Her hair fell freely about her pale face and onto her shoulders, and despite the December darkness and the dim light of the room she wore sunglasses.

She hesitated when she spotted Danielle, then forced herself to walk through the crowd to the table where Adrienne sat.

The diva looked up at the shadow falling across her table, finding a smiling Laure who took off her sunglasses, blinking into the comfortably low light, and thus baring her scars that were covered a little by makeup but were nonetheless clearly visible like a three dimensional tattoo or an artistic gravure. Laure heard the gasps and the murmurs at the tables around them, but they didn‘t matter now. She could bear them as long as Adrienne considered her beautiful. And she clearly did, gazing up at her with a long, loving look that warmed Laure all the way through.

"Hello gorgeous," she greeted her diva, after a moment of hesitation also pulling of her gloves.

Adrienne smiled back warmly at Laure. At the periphery of her vision she saw how Danielle’s face had turned ashen, gaping at Laure helplessly. Following a sudden idea, Adrienne got up, pulled Laure close to her and kissed her deeply and thoroughly on the lips, the passionate exchange causing surprised and appreciative murmurs among the crowd.

She felt Laure’s smile against her temple as she released her and they sat down, the expression on Danielle’s face one of shock, fury, loss, emptiness, and above all, envy.

Neither Laure nor Adrienne looked at her.

"Now what are you doing here, chérie?" Adrienne questioned, grasping Laure’s ungloved left hand, holding it.

"I released myself this evening," Laure explained. "Then I wanted to pick up some things from... home, but they have taken everything I had away, even my pictures of you. It’s... there’s nothing left at all, Adrienne."

"Don‘t worry, chérie." A reassuring hand cupped Laure’s face, wiping the lost expression from it. "I suggest that you stay with me for now, and as for the pictures – you can take new ones, if you like to, but there’s also the option of taking me live."

There was a flirtatious twinkle in her blue-gray eyes, and Laure quickly lifted their entwined hands to her lips, the images Adrienne’s seductive suggestion evoked making her feel dizzy, and lingeringly kissed Adrienne‘s knuckles.

"I know where that led to the last time you did that..." Adrienne grinned and looked up at her through her eyelashes. " Now let me go over there and kill Danielle and then let’s go home."

"Don’t." Laure grasped her hands more intensely. "Please don‘t. I don’t want this anymore. Please don‘t let her think that it matters what she did to me – it doesn‘t. The only thing that matters is that we are together. She tried to hinder that. She couldn‘t." Laure looked slowly over to Danielle, fixing the woman with a cool, disapproving gaze, reducing her to a paling silhouette with it. Danielle had no more power over her. She was free, she was with Adrienne, and they would continue together.

Softly she looked at LaGrange again, still holding her hands. "Let her squirm," she said with a shrug. "This is probably the worst moment of her life, seeing us together despite risking everything she had to part us. And it is the happiest of mine." There was justified satisfaction in her voice as she leaned in and tenderly captured Adrienne’s lips in another kiss.

"The black angel was shot in the heart of Le Garnier, Adrienne – my new life starts here. Now. With you. That is -if you want."

Adrienne simply smiled at her. "I do, ma Laure."

***************

Epilogue

It was April in Paris. The special head of Palais Garnier opera artistic management sat in her office behind a huge desk, waiting for her personal assistant. This afternoon was the first conference on the possibly upcoming production of La Gioconda, and she still needed some papers copied and some numbers.

There was a knock on the door. "Entrez," she called.

The small, round form of her personal assistant in an impeccable black suit walked into the room, his hair cut short, the tie as colorful as she allowed it.

"Bonjour Jaques," she greeted.

"Bonjour Laure," he said, beaming up at her as he had always done. "What can I do for you?"

She gave him a list of the materials she needed, and found him still smiling. "She returns today, doesn‘t she?" he asked, pointing at the picture that stood framed on Madame Monnier’s desk, although he knew the answer to this question.

The picture was a shot from the opening night party of Tannhäuser in February. Adrienne and Laure were both dressed in long, low necked dresses with champagne flutes in their hands. Both laughing into the camera. Adrienne was leaning her head a bit onto Laure‘s shoulder who had a casual arm draped around Adrienne‘s hip, drawing her closer. Elisabeth had been another splendid success for Adrienne LaGrange and also for Le Garnier. And the management declared that it was the best idea they had had in years, to have Irène de la Sussiège, or whatever name she preferred to be called, as head of opera artistic personnel.

Laure felt herself smile. "Yes, I’ll pick her up at Charles de Gaulle airport over lunch."

"Shall I bring roses to her dressing room?" Jacques asked eagerly.

"That won‘t be necessary, Jacques, thank you. I have a bouquet waiting for her at our apartment." She kept for herself how many roses she had gotten and what exactly she planned for the better part of their petals.

Laure stayed at Adrienne‘s apartment on Place de Vosges when the diva was absent, and also when she was present, the flat having become hers as well in the recent months since they lived together.

"I can tell you are happy." Jacques chuckled, smiling along with Laure.

"I am among the happiest women alive today, Jacques," she assured him.

"You surely missed her," he stated. "She’s been gone for so long with this Tosca."

"Well, she was here twice, and I flew over to Berlin three times to see her, so it can‘t have been so bad..." Laure tried to convince herself. She sighed, grinning at Jacques. "No, you are right, I missed her very much." She took another look at the photo on her desk, touching her fingers to it. "But I don’t think I could ever give up Le Garnier, and she could never give up her touring. And when I’m here, it isn‘t so bad, she’s around somehow as she has been all the years I lived down in the heart of this house. She‘s always there, too, at the house, and in my heart, when I walk along the side-stages or the catwalks on my own – always, quando me’n vo."

***Finis***