Costumes and Filigree: A Novel of the Phantom of the Opera Page 6

  Feeling rather pathetic, she brushed these thoughts away and turned her mind back to the performance. “Yes, this is the most wonderful day of my life. But not just because of my divahood.”

  His voice held a note of polite interest now. “Oh? Why else?”

  “The new managers have a patron—the Vicomte de Chagny. Well, actually, his brother is the patron, but Raoul’s going to be helping him. He and I were childhood sweethearts.”

  “Oh, really.” Christine did not notice the sudden iciness in his tone.

  “I can’t wait to introduce myself to him, as ‘Christine Daaé, diva of the Opera Garnier!’” She arranged her face into the expression she imagined an aristocratic diva might have, giggling at the ridiculous result.

  “I don’t think you should do that.”

  Christine wasn’t really listening; she was imagining all the wonderful compliments Raoul would shower on her when he realized that she had been the beautiful Marguerite! “Will he recognize me right off, do you think? Wouldn’t it be embarrassing to introduce myself if he already knew who I was—”

  “Christine.”

  She jumped at the burst of power in that single word. “Um—yes?”

  “I don’t want you to see him.”

  Christine’s brow furrowed in confusion. “But…but why not?”

  The air in the room was icy, and she felt a shiver quake her body. “He may seem like an honorable gentleman from afar, Christine, but I fear he is just a conscienceless womanizer, like so many of the aristocracy of Paris.”

  “How dare you say something like that!” she exclaimed, righteously infuriated. “Raoul could never do anything so horrible! How absurd!”

  “Trust me, Christine, it’s not absurd in the least!”

  “No! I can’t believe it! I won’t believe it! He’s a wonderful man, and I’ll renew our acquaintance if I want to!”

  “There’s no way I can convince you?” he asked desperately.

  “No!”

  There was a long moment of horrible silence, in which Christine cringed against the surface of the vanity, praying to the gods that the Angel, his fury so palpable in the air, would not smite her where she sat. Though he was trying only to protect her, and she appreciated that, she couldn’t allow herself to be pushed around. What if Raoul, love-struck on sight, as he of course would be, decided to propose? Or if he was already married, perish the thought, he might introduce her to another wealthy nobleman who would rescue her from this rat hole. She couldn’t let the Angel ruin her chances!

  Finally the Angel spoke: “If you bestow your heart on Earth,” he said, sounding strangely cold, “I will have no choice but to return to Heaven.”

  Christine, who had not been expecting an answer of such gravity, fell from her stool. Scrambling to her knees, she cried, clasping her hands together in supplication, “Oh, no! Don’t do that! Please! I didn’t mean it! He d-doesn’t mean anything to me, I-I swear—”

  “I wish I could believe that, Christine.”

  “He’s just an old friend, that’s all. If you like, I won’t even talk to him!” Her heart was pounding at such a pace that she feared it would explode. The Angel, leave her? What would she do? She had already discovered what would happen if he left—no, she couldn’t let him go! “Please, please, Angel, don’t leave me!”

  His voice was somewhat warmer now. “Don’t worry yourself, Christine. I won’t leave you. But please, promise me you’ll stay away from the Vicomte de Chagny.”

  “Yes,” she exclaimed, “yes! I promise!”

  “Thank you, my dear. Now, we need to review the chorus of ‘Je Ris’—I know you don’t want to, but this debut will make your career. We can’t allow for any mistakes….”

  Raoul de Chagny nodded politely to Messieurs Richard and Moncharmin, who were sitting in the box straight across the stage from him. It was fortunate that they had the Chagny family as their patron; the new managers had only recently amassed their fortune, and therefore had no experience with either nobility or managing an opera house. Why, just tonight he’d already corrected several grave mistakes that surely would have destroyed their enterprise. How on earth could anyone be so foolish as to seat Madame Valois in the very next seat to the Marquis de Morel? Morel had used their affair as leverage against her husband to obtain a government office; that was only six months ago, for Heaven’s sake! Raoul shuddered to think what would have happened if they had found themselves seated next to each other.

  And that wasn’t even counting the vast funding he and his brother were giving the opera house. (He wasn’t certain of the exact figure—he had always found counting money beneath him and had let his brother, Philippe, handle it. Philippe knew more about finances anyway; there was no need for he, Raoul, to expend efforts on something as distasteful as budgeting. It was enough to know that the figure was in the millions of francs.) It would certainly be gratifying to have other nobles watch these operas and say to each other, “Didn’t you just love the diva’s dresses?”

  “Yes,” the other would say. “Did you know that the sapphires were all real?”

  “Really?” the first one would ask, shocked. “The Chagnys must certainly be a great house, to give so much to the Opera Garnier!”

  Raoul smiled at the thought. Yes, the managers were very fortunate indeed. They seemed to know it, as well—they had presented him with the very best seats in the house, Box Five. It was a bit strange that Debienne and Poligny had not reserved it to someone before they sold the Opera Garnier to Richard and Moncharmin. Or perhaps they had, and the new managers shifted those distinguished personages to a different box. Either way, it was fitting of the managers to give him the best seats, in light of all he and his brother were doing for them.

  The orchestra sounded the first notes of the overture, and Raoul sighed resignedly.

  “Not excited, Raoul?” queried Philippe, pushing his chair farther back into the shadows.

  “Of course not,” Raoul said sourly. “I’ve seen it twice already in my life—and that’s about three times too many, I might add—but even if I hadn’t seen it before, it would still be a waste of time.”

  “Time that could be spent wooing beautiful maidens, I take it.”

  “That’s right. Operas are a means to an end, that’s it—an excuse to take a woman to dinner. And stop lurking in the shadows like some kind of fiend.”

  Philippe ignored that. “At least pretend to enjoy the opera we’ve financed, if at all possible. For subsequent operas you can bring all the women you want, but for this one could you try to act as if you’re interested in our investment?”

  “Fine, fine,” the vicomte sighed. Philippe knew best—he was the Comte de Chagny, and ten years Raoul’s senior. He supposed he would just have to suffer.

  Oh well; if Philippe had agreed to allow him to accompany a lady, he would have only had one choice: Veronique de la Musardiere, his insufferable fiancée. It seemed like a dreadful waste of time and charm wooing Veronique, since their marriage had been arranged since they were children. Much more attractive to him was the idea of enjoying the company of as many pretty, buxom Parisian girls as possible before he was married in January—a mere three months from now—and had to accept the responsibility as the ruler of a household.

  He supposed Veronique wasn’t the most undesirable bride in Paris; she was blonde and absolutely beautiful, with all the daintiness and fashionable taste of a true lady. As long as he didn’t have to talk to her, she was just fine. But she had a very sharp tongue, and her intellect was too great for any ideal woman. If only he could have brought Julienne, or Brigitte, or even Anceline l’Roux….

  Raoul scowled and folded his arms, trying to push away the thoughts of all those beauties ripe for the picking. “I’ll pretend to enjoy the opera,” he said to his brother, “if you pretend not to be a misanthropic hermit who’s terrified of all these people.”

  Philippe stood and pushed his chair up to the balcony railing, saying with dignity, “I a
m not terrified. I just don’t like their eyes going over us with a fine-tooth comb, trying to find any faults in our taste that they can gossip about.”

  “You sound like my fiancée,” Raoul muttered.

  “Really?”

  “Don’t sound so pleased about it,” he snapped. “Why did you have to offer up our wealth to the Garnier anyway?”

  “Monsieur Debienne has always been a very good friend of mine; when Baron de Bellamont could no longer afford to keep up his patronage—”

  “Stupid man, to allow his gambling to get away from him.”

  “—the Garnier was in dire need of funding,” continued Philippe, with a frown. “It was the least we could do.”

  “Then you could have at least taken the burden of ‘Patron of the Garnier’ upon yourself and left me out of it.”

  “I know, Raoul, and I’m sorry; I know you’re not interested in opera, but I just couldn’t—”

  “It’s fine,” sighed Raoul, not wanting to delve into the depths of his brother’s crippling introversion. “Forget about it.”

  The curtains opened, and he steeled himself for the most boring evening of his life. Hopefully Richard and Moncharmin had taken his advice and cut out the half-hour of ballet in the second act.

  The opera proceeded the same way it always had. Faust, about to commit suicide, called on Satan. Satan, known as Méphistophélès, promised him the world in exchange for his soul. Faust hesitated, and Méphistophélès conjured an image of Marguerite, Faust’s only love. Mon Dieu, this was so boring—

  Raoul almost fell off his chair.

  It was Christine Daaé.

  The beautiful, ghostly image of Marguerite sang a few dazzling notes, and Faust fell to his knees before her. Raoul had to grip the railing to keep from doing the same.

  He hadn’t thought about Christine Daaé for years, but now he could clearly see her demure smile in his memories, feel the grip of her cherubic hand in his, hear her darling, angelic voice, though she was only seven years old when they last saw each other…. How could it possibly be her?

  But it was. Her looks had changed; she had been rather awkward as a child, very pretty, but always talking and unaware of all social customs and feminine graces. She was much taller now, thin and perfect, and her form was flawless and graceful. The white dress she was wearing was almost blinding in the lights of the stage, but he refused to shield his eyes. It complimented her beauty much more than her worn childhood dresses, though he didn’t particularly care for its unadorned nature. A girl as beautiful as she should be wearing pearls, at least, if not diamonds!

  “It’s her,” Raoul whispered to his brother, jabbing him in the arm.

  “Who?”

  “Christine!”

  “Who?”

  “Christine Daaé!”

  Philippe studied her with mild interest. “She’s the Swedish girl you met in Trouville-sur-Mer all those years ago, is that right?” Raoul nodded, unable to rip his eyes away from her. “It couldn’t be,” said Philippe. “What are the odds?”

  And then she began to sing, and Raoul silenced his brother so he could listen. As she sang, thought of all else faded away. It was only a few tantalizing notes, and she disappeared. Faust cried aloud, and Raoul barely managed to keep himself silent.

  By the time Christine had reappeared in the Third Act, Raoul—thoroughly bored by the scenes without Christine in them—had planned out his gallant and dashing reintroduction to her, recalled distant, foggy memories of their interaction as children (as well as making up a few) in case he was called upon to recount them, and worked out a rough timeline for the seduction of this unbelievably-beautiful diva.

  When she walked out onto the stage, he noticed that she was wearing the same dress, an unheard-of cheapness for such a famous opera house. He would have to reprimand Richard and Moncharmin for such stupidity and make sure Christine was present when he demanded that she be given the wardrobe she deserved; if she didn’t know about it, then it would just be a waste of his time.

  She looked out at the audience, and she faltered as she saw the hundreds of expectant eyes staring back at her. Her distress made her appear even more beautiful, like a shy, exquisite forest nymph from a faerie tale, but she paused so long that she missed her cue for the aria concerning the jewels.

  “Mademoiselle!” hissed the conductor, his voice clearly audible to the audience. She jumped, and a few crude, obviously-lower-class spectators laughed. Raoul considered leaping up from his seat to defend her, but decided against it; he didn’t want to risk his image just to impress her, no matter how beautiful she was. Blasted plebeians shouldn’t even be allowed in the building, he thought angrily before returning his attention to his perfect diva.

  Christine faltered twice more during the song, causing the orchestra to halt and restart the current verse. After that, she seemed to lose all confidence, and every aria she sang came out imperfect. Because of all the starts and stops and incorrect words, the story was difficult to follow, but all Raoul was interested in was that beautiful, beautiful voice, and the impossibly-perfect, angelic body that went with it.

  As the curtain slowly escalated for the final act, revealing a silent and staring audience, he could see Christine sway slightly, seeming about to faint, as if a sudden stage-fright had gripped her. A long, expectant silence filled the opera house as everyone waited for her to begin.

  At the exact moment when Raoul thought he could stand the suspense no longer, she began. The note caught in her throat at first. She raised her eyes to the sky, as if in prayer. Then, astonishingly, she seemed to hear something from the rafters—as if an angel were speaking to her from above— and, suddenly filled with courage, she began to sing.

  The aria was so beautiful that Raoul’s heart twisted with agony in his chest, pleading, demanding, that he jump from the balcony and sweep the diva into his arms.

  But as the last note died and the entire house erupted into thunderous applause, Christine’s knees buckled and she fell to the stage floor. Raoul picked up his hat and cane and strode from the balcony, ignoring Philippe, who wanted to know where he was going, and congratulated himself for his good fortune: appearing, stricken with concern, at the diva’s side, would be a perfect way to reintroduce himself and begin his seduction.

  Chapitre Six: Dans Son Vestiaire

  Christine awoke to the sound of frantic voices. What was going on? Where was the Angel? She moaned, trying to blink away the tumult of color and pain rushing around and around in her head. At long last she opened her eyes. There were three blurs standing over her. As her vision cleared, she identified the first person as an unknown gentleman; the woman was Madame Giry, and the other man—

  It was Raoul! No, not him! Not here! The Angel would leave her forever, just when she needed him the most!

  Raoul was bending over her, his face radiating anxiety and concern. “Christine,” he murmured gently, squeezing her hand. “How are you?”

  Oh, gods, he was so perfect…. Like a god himself…. But she couldn’t afford to dwell on that now—what if the Angel was watching?

  “Mademoiselle Daaé,” said the other gentleman, “how are you feeling?”

  She didn’t reply, too busy panicking to pay him any attention.

  “I am a physician,” he continued. “Luckily I was sitting in one of the aisle seats and was able to reach you quickly. You appear just fine, merely shaken.”

  “Y-yes,” she agreed. “I must get up—I must accept the audience’s praise!”

  “You aren’t on the stage any longer, mademoiselle,” Madame Giry informed her kindly. “Monsieur le Vicomte was kind enough to carry you to your dressing room.”

  She blinked, and her eyes focused enough for her to recognize her surroundings. How just like Raoul to do something so dashing! “Thank you very much, monsieur,” she said, smiling brilliantly. “I really do—” She cut off suddenly as she realized just how angry the Angel would be if he had seen Raoul carrying her so romantically
away—and surely he had been watching the performance! “Um, that is, thank you, monsieur, you may go now.”

  “Christine,” said Raoul softly, “don’t you recognize me?”

  “I’m sorry, I don’t,” she whispered faintly, cursing herself for lying. Would Raoul believe that she did not recognize him? She hated to lie to him; he was so radiant, so handsome….

  Raoul kissed her hand passionately. She inadvertently flinched, though she was rendered breathless by his handsomeness and gallantry. The fact that the Angel was undoubtedly watching was the only thing that kept her from throwing her arms about his neck and begging him to stay with her. “Mademoiselle,” he said with a dashing smile, “I am the boy who went into the sea to rescue your scarf.”

  Christine felt the last of her resolve melt away. That was how they had first met—her scarf had blown into the ocean, and Raoul had rescued it for her…. Braving the terrors of the powerful, bottomless ocean, where the god Aegir and his daughters made their dark, turbulent home. She had always been so afraid of the ocean’s malevolent, unpredictable currents—what a romantically courageous thing for him to have done! But what if the Angel had heard that? She couldn’t make it to the top without him! She quickly decided that it was best to continue to feign indifference, as horrible as it was. “I am sorry, monsieur, but I—I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  “But I am the Vicomte de Chagny, mademoiselle,” he said, looking quite taken aback by her coldness. “I am Raoul! Surely you recall me!”

  She shook her head blandly, pursing her lips as she pretended to wrack her memory. “No, I’m sorry, monsieur. You simply aren’t familiar to me at all.”

  A faint scarlet tinge colored the vicomte’s cheeks, and he stood. “I would like to have a private word with you, mademoiselle.”

  “Aaahh…when I am better, do you mind?” she asked sweetly, her voice shaking. Couldn’t he just get out? Raoul turned to leave. The hurt expression on his face pained her greatly; he did not deserve such an ill reception. But the Angel took precedence. …Didn’t he?