Costumes and Filigree: A Novel of the Phantom of the Opera Page 9

  Another horrible pain made her decide that it would be better if someone was watching her condition until Raoul arrived. “Perhaps you’d better stay for a few minutes,” she said, touching the lump on her head experimentally. “I might faint again.”

  He stayed at her side, silent and unmoving, seeming afraid to speak lest she reconsider and order him to leave. She made no attempt to speak either, contemplating what she thought of this peculiar man and how he fit into her plans to marry the Vicomte de Chagny. It was, strangely, a comfortable silence, and in a few minutes, she fell asleep on the floor, wrapped in blankets.

  Raoul waited in the carriage for a few minutes, thinking of the lovely dinner he was about to spend with Christine, and how best he could extract from her the reason why she had been so rudely and blatantly ignoring him. At first he had thought it was her way of making him desire her all the more, but it was becoming rather tiresome. Perhaps it was just her maidenly shyness. Well, that was tolerable, he supposed, as long as she got over it sooner rather than later. He only had three months until he had to give up his irresponsible bachelor existence, and he wanted to enjoy the company of the most beautiful women in Paris as much as possible in that short time. So, regrettably, much as he enjoyed the challenge of romancing a recalcitrant girl, if Christine spent much more time being maidenly, he’d have to abandon her for easier conquests. It would be a terrible shame; she was undoubtedly the most gorgeous thing he’d ever laid eyes on.

  To pass the time, he absentmindedly studied the interior of the carriage. Though he rode in it most every day, he never took the time to admire it. The windows were lined with gold leaf and equipped with shining little hinges to allow air in to the passengers. The wall opposite him was painted with an accurate reproduction of da Vinci’s Annunciation, glowing in the light of the street. It was a beautiful painting, depicting a kneeling Gabriel revealing to Mary that she was to bear the son of God. His wings were luminescent and golden, looking like the delicate wings of a swallow rather than the strong eagle-wings that Raoul fancied angels really had.

  An angel…. That reminded him—every time he managed to corner Christine and demand an explanation, she babbled something about an angel. He supposed it was the Angel of…what was it…Music, yes—that her father had always talked about. Perhaps she attributed her recent success of Faust to the angel her father had promised her—but to take stock in such an absurd story was pure folly. Surely she didn’t think that it was the Angel of Music she had been talking to the other night? No, that was ridiculous. She had never had much by way of brains, but no one was that stupid.

  He had never discovered the identity of the brazen scum foolish enough to come between him and his lovely diva, and Christine still denied the fiend’s existence. But, as long as it didn’t interfere with his seduction—and because he could tell she was absolutely smitten with him, despite her reluctance, he wasn’t worried—he supposed it didn’t matter. It was probably just some stupid illiterate stagehand trying his hand at a prank.

  Growing impatient, he tapped his fingers against the leather seat, wondering what could possibly be taking so long. Surely she couldn’t still be dressing. He supposed the two minutes he’d given her wasn’t really enough time, but he had wanted her to hurry. And anyway, it had been at least fifteen minutes. Perhaps she had gotten lost. She had never had much of a sense of direction, either….

  With a sigh, he jumped out of the carriage and started back up the steps into the opera house.

  Chapitre Neuf: Christine a un Plan Astucieux

  “Come, mademoiselle, you must cooperate!” implored Monsieur Mercier in exasperation.

  Christine folded her arms, attempting to create the image of a resolute diva. “I want to cooperate! But what you’re asking is ridiculous!”

  “We are simply asking you to put a little less emotion into your prison aria!”

  “First you say you want more emotion, and I slave to accomplish that, and now you’ve decided you want less emotion! Make up your minds!”

  “We’re not reversing our request, mademoiselle,” said Moncharmin, in a reasonable voice despite his obvious frustration. “It’s just that Monsieur le Conductor feels you are overdoing it just a tiny bit—”

  “Since when was Monsieur le Conductor in charge of this opera house?” demanded Christine. “The crowds adore me! They don’t want me to change a thing! And according to the Ang—er, my instructor—the highest authority the actors, musicians, and even the managers must answer to is the audience, isn’t that right?”

  “W-well, I suppose so,” said Moncharmin, looking rather surprised as he glanced at his business partner for confirmation.

  Christine grinned widely, stifling an unladylike “ha ha!” of triumph. She felt the jealousy of the ballet rats burning into her back, and she smiled to herself despite her irritation at the new managers and the uppity conductor. Rehearsals might have been trying, but it was such fun to rub her success in the rats’ faces that between that and all the fame and praise, all the work was worth it.

  But at this exact moment, divahood was proving to be very difficult indeed. She wished Raoul were here to set them all straight. He had been quite worried about her when he had returned to her dressing room to see why she hadn’t met him at his carriage. Erik had disappeared through the mirror the moment she had called for the vicomte to enter, for which she was grateful; she wouldn’t have been able to explain his presence. Her instructor was quite a mystery.

  Despite her sorrow over the loss of the Angel, she was still speeding down the road to fantastic success beyond her father’s wildest dreams, due to a very large degree to her mentor, no matter who he said he was. Of course, she had been terribly upset at first, but then it had occurred to her that he still might be the Angel, hiding in human garb. She really didn’t know anything about him. She hadn’t spoken to him since she had bumped her head last night. She wanted quite badly for the stupid rehearsal to be over so she could question him about who he really was and where he had come from. Just because he had denied being the Angel didn’t mean that he wasn’t really a divine being. The gods disguised themselves as mortals all the time. It had taken her a while to fully convince herself that he was still the Angel, but the belief was like salve to her wounded pride. Yes, of course he was the Angel.

  “But Mercier says—and we tend to agree,” said Moncharmin, looking to Richard and Mercier for support, “that your excessive fervor is turning pathos into…what did you call it, monsieur?”

  “Bathos, monsieur, bathos!” declared Mercier. “She is turning beautiful, moving pathos into absurd, over-the-top bathos!”

  Christine laughed derisively. “He just made that word up!”

  “I most certainly did not, mademoiselle! It is a common term in theatrics and other forms of the arts! And until you know a little more about the art in which you are employed, your opinion doesn’t count for very much!”

  “How dare you speak that way to me!”

  “She’s right, Monsieur Mercier,” said Moncharmin. “We shouldn’t be…losing our tempers…over a small artistic disagreement.”

  Christine gave Moncharmin a beautiful smile to thank him. Out of the three men, she liked him the best; he seemed the most unsure of himself in his new profession—and therefore the most likely to give her what she wanted—and also the most concerned with fairness and civility. “My thoughts exactly,” she replied loftily.

  “Then what do you propose we do?” Richard asked his partner.

  “We—we’ll compromise,” said Moncharmin, seeming quite uncomfortable with all the attention he was receiving. “Mademoiselle Daaé can have her…” he trailed off and looked to Richard for an idea.

  “Her prison costume altered,” offered Richard.

  “Excellent,” said Moncharmin. “Mademoiselle Daaé can have her prison costume changed as she desires if she will agree to cooperate with Monsieur Mercier’s wishes about the prison aria.”

  Christine bit her li
p. She really was annoyed with the demand that she alter her acting, especially after she had worked to change it already, but she really did hate the prop chains rubbing against her ankles. She had been pinched more than once. “That seems fair,” she agreed, a little reluctantly, feeling that she was giving up potential power over the managers by acquiescing. “But…I also demand that…that…the phony jewels Faust gives me be replaced with real ones!” It seemed like a good demand; it was exactly the sort of thing that Carlotta would have demanded, and she always got away with whatever she pleased.

  The managers choked. “Mademoiselle, you cannot demand such a thing!” exclaimed Moncharmin, turning red with surprise and embarrassment.

  “You cannot demand anything!” declared Richard. “We own this opera house, mademoiselle, and as critical as you are to its success—”

  “Most critical,” agreed Moncharmin, still trying to be civil.

  “—you are still an employee!”

  “I am more than an employee!” Christine snapped, stomping her foot. “I am a diva! A goddess! Your opera house succeeds or fails by my whim!”

  The managers did not take kindly to that pronouncement, and the confrontation went downhill from there. By the end of the rehearsal, Christine was shrieking that she would quit and seek employment elsewhere.

  She stomped to her dressing room with the intention of carrying out her threat, but by the time she had thrown off her costume and changed into her street clothes, she had calmed down a little and realized what a terrible mistake she was making. Not that the managers wouldn’t deserve it if she quit—in fact, it would serve them right—but then all of her hard work would have been for nothing.

  She sat down on her stool with a thump and cursed the situation she was in. She couldn’t quit, but she couldn’t go crawling back to the managers without losing any influence her position might have wielded.

  As she brushed her hair to calm herself, she tried to determine what Carlotta would do. Much as she despised the ex-diva, she had always been able to secure whatever she wanted from the managers. Carlotta had thrown tantrums regularly, quit numerous times, refused to do rehearsals, and disappeared on occasion for several performances without a word, leaving the managers in an apoplectic panic.

  “That’s it!” she declared to her reflection. “I’ll disappear!” It solved her problem perfectly—she wouldn’t have to quit and risk throwing everything away, but she wouldn’t lose any face.

  Now, where can I disappear to? she wondered, tapping the brush against the table in thought. Carlotta probably had villas and boats to steal away to, but all Christine had was a tiny apartment only a few blocks from the opera house—that wouldn’t do.

  Suddenly she noticed the mirror and a cunning plan hit her. Mentally congratulating herself for coming up with such a brilliant plan, she stepped over to the mirror and pulled the glass back to reveal the stone corridor from which Erik had appeared the previous night. She couldn’t believe she hadn’t noticed the mirror’s trick catch before. “ERIK!” she called, as loudly as she could, and jumped as her voice echoed with surprising force down the passageways.

  She called his name a few times, then returned to her stool to wait. It didn’t matter if it took him a few minutes to arrive; she had to figure out what to pack. She would need several dresses, her cosmetics, more than one pair of shoes in case she broke another pair…. She thought for a moment on how long to stay, and finally decided that three or four days was probably sufficient. It depended on how quickly the managers were reduced to panic and subservience.

  She thought for a moment about sending a letter to Mamma explaining where she was, but quickly discarded the idea; the managers might get hold of it. Oh well; it would only be for a few days. Besides that, her plan was perfect—the managers would be beaten into submission, she would get a break from all the trying rehearsals and performances of Faust, her fame would increase tenfold as her disappearance became a scandal, Raoul would worry and fall even more in love with her, and she would be able to question Erik about his identity and learn what was underneath his mask.

  By the time Erik appeared in the mirror frame, Christine had already filled her carpetbag. His expression was strange, seeming confused, worried, and oddly, hopeful as well. Perhaps he had feared she had never wanted to see him again. “What took you so long?” she asked him, stuffing another pair of earrings into the overfull bag.

  He ignored her question. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing’s wrong,” she informed him, feeling as if she were stating the obvious. “I’ve decided to stay with you for a few days.”

  She had returned to packing and didn’t see the blank expression on his face. “What?” he asked, after a long moment.

  Christine sighed. She was always having to explain the obvious to other people. “The managers aren’t listening to me. So I’ve decided to take a leaf out of Carlotta’s book and disappear for a while. And the only place they are guaranteed not to find me is wherever you live.”

  “How—how did you come to that conclusion?”

  “Because,” she explained, a tone of irritation in her voice, “obviously, if you’re the Opera Ghost, the old managers have tried and failed to discover your lair for years and never succeeded. It’s the perfect hiding place. Wherever it is.” He continued to stare as she shoved the carpetbag into his hands. “Well?” she said impatiently. “Lead the way!”

  Erik looked surprised to the point of speechlessness, but still unmoving. She took a step back to regroup, and quickly came up with a reason that would be sure to secure his cooperation:

  “All right, I—I lied to you, just now,” she said, casting her eyes downward and rubbing a lock of her hair between her fingers, glad for once of the acting techniques all ballet girls were required to learn. “I’m not trying to threaten the managers. It’s just that I—I’m so overwhelmed by all these men, and I’ve been thinking about what you said, and I…I needed somewhere to go where I could escape them.”

  As she finished her faux-confession, she looked up into his eyes, and saw to her delight that her words were working like magic. “Christine, why didn’t you just tell me that?”

  “I—I was embarrassed. I wasn’t sure what to do.”

  He visibly wavered, and she pressed her attack: “A day or two, that’s all I ask—just to get away from everything and collect my thoughts.”

  After that, it was cake to get him to agree to anything. She intended to remain hidden for more than a day or two, of course, but she’d wait to tell him that until after they had made it to his hideaway.

  The trek was only a few minutes, but the passageways were damp and cold, and to Christine, every moment felt longer than the last. It was also quite dark, and without the lantern that Erik grabbed from an obscure corner near the surface, it would have been impossible to traverse. She’d had no idea that there were tunnels and passages under the Garnier at all, and was shocked at how extensive it all was. She gasped when she saw that there was an underground lake, and for a moment was very afraid that they would have to cross it before Erik noticed her discomfort and led her another way that went around the lake.

  She hadn’t been quite sure whether to expect a nice, normal house, or a moldy, rat-filled cave, but discovered as Erik pulled back a tapestry to reveal his home that she would have been wrong in either case. It was indeed a cavern, bordered on three sides by rough stone and the lake on the fourth, but it was dry, and made civilized and almost refined by the furniture—though sparse—and the vast array of books and instruments that filled it. Her attention was drawn to the pipe organ chained to the far wall, the focal point of the room, and was astonished by the beauty and power that resonated from the behemoth instrument. “How did you get it down here?” she breathed.

  “Piece by piece,” he answered, rather uncomfortably, still holding her carpetbag.

  “This place is twice the size of my apartment,” she said, peering around in the dim light. She spot
ted an archway and headed for it. “What’s through here?”

  “Are you sure you want to stay here?” he asked.

  “Absolutely. Ooooh, you have a kitchen! I wouldn’t have guessed! I suppose it makes sense, but—”

  “What about Faust?”

  “I’m sure they can manage for a few days without me.” Maybe they’ll grow desperate enough to raise my salary up to Carlotta’s level, she added silently. “Where do I get to sleep?”

  “You can have my bedroom if you want, or the…the sofa.” He seemed stunned and rather unsure of how to act, as if he had never had a woman in his home before. Which was probably true, she realized, after a moment of thought. In any event, it was adorable, and quite convenient for her purposes.

  She raced to investigate the said bedroom—very small and cozy, with little more than a bed and nightstand—and sat on the bed to test it out. When she returned to the main room to try out the sofa, Erik asked, “Exactly how many days were you wanting to stay?”

  Christine tapped the side of the couch as she thought. “Well, there’s a very important religious ritual on Thursday I have to see too—All Hallows’ Eve is a serious matter, you know. I can’t believe all these ridiculous French city-people trying to make it into an excuse for parties.” She crossed her arms in a childish pout, filled with disgust. After a moment, she remembered her point. “Oh, yes—so I have to be back at least three—no, four—four days beforehand to make all the preparations. There’s so much to see to! And then Mamma will probably make me go to Mass for All Saints’ Day, blast it….”

  She drifted off again, and Erik prompted, “So you wish to remain until the twenty-seventh?”

  “Hmmm? Oh. Yes. The twenty-seventh,” she agreed. Five seemed like a reasonable number of days. She hoped he was a good cook.