Only a select few had received the enigmatic invitation. It was printed in blood-red ink on thick card, and there was no signature. It requested the guests to present themselves in front of the gate to the catacombs in the Place Denfert-Rochereau at midnight on the 13th of the month.
The invitation was strictly personal and contained very precise instructions. The carriages were to be parked at some distance from the entrance in order not to attract attention. The guests must be punctual. Upon entering the catacombs, they must follow the signposted path and seat themselves promptly upon reaching the concert chamber.
The strange composition of the guest list had raised a storm of both speculation and tears at the Opera Garnier. Some of the main singers and dancers had been invited, but not all. The managers, Messieurs Debienne and Poligny had each received a card, as had some of the opera's more important patrons. The rehearsals of Faust had been interrupted by the discussions, and the managers were doing their best to calm everyone down. While the little ballet rats cried in bitter disappointment at not being asked, not all of those invited took it seriously. La Carlotta, the prima donna of the Garnier was suspicious and sceptical.
"It's a joke!" she had exclaimed with theatrical indignation, hands on ample hips, staring angrily at Monsieur Debienne. He wiped his face with a large handkerchief and nervously reassured her that it was really not funny at all, but very, very serious indeed. He seemed to know more, but was unwilling to explain matters, much to the disappointment of the rest of the cast who were following the discussion.
Sitting in the wings, a slender fair-haired dancer placidly continued to sew the ribbons firmly on her shoes. They came off so easily, it was just as well to unpick them and to sew them on yourself to make sure. Agnès had just been promoted from the ranks of the ballet rats, and didn't want to risk a sprained or broken ankle because of a shoe that did not stay on.
"Well, in that case, I shall have a dinner party after the evening performance. We will amuse ourselves for a while at least, and then a drive to the closed entrance of the catacombs will give us a breath of fresh air before we go to bed," Carlotta declared.
Putting her shoes away, Agnès sighed quietly. La Carlotta would invite her usual group of friends and admirers. Wine provided by her protector, the rich Baron would flow freely, and the next day the diva would be sick and ill-tempered from over-eating and drinking. In a word, she would be unbearable. As usual.
Agnès normally went early to bed, after a plain but well-cooked dinner. The training schedule was rigorous, and she was ambitious. A singer could afford to let out a seam, but a dancer? Never! She had been talented and fortunate enough to join the ballet at the Garnier. She knew this was not sufficient to guarantee her a living for more than a few years, but it was a start. She was pretty enough to attract the attention of those patronizing the theatre, and if she played her cards right with a generous protector or two, she should make enough to retire on. She wanted a nice furnished apartment in the Rue St Honoré, and she wanted a house in the country. In her name, and with an annual income guaranteed.
After a quiet evening at home, with a refreshing after-dinner nap, she set out in a hired carriage. Mindful of the instructions in the invitation, she ordered the driver to set her down at the corner of the Boulevard St Jacques, and walked to the catacomb entrance.
A hundred years ago, the crammed churchyards of Paris had become such an insanitary problem, that they were emptied and the mortal remains of rich and poor alike were moved to the newly consecrated catacombs in the ancient lime quarries beneath the city. It had become popular to visit the catacombs, but this was the first time she had heard of a concert being held there.
There was a small crowd of people waiting outside. She didn't recognize them all, but there was no mistaking La Carlotta's strident laugh. As the church clocks chimed midnight, the door to the catacombs creaked open, and people started to go in.
Above the doorway the encouraging inscription read: "Stop, here is Death's kingdom." Agnès was warmly dressed against the cold night air, but the words carved in the lintel made her shiver.
Near the entrance, the walls were covered with the lime that had been quarried in this subterranean labyrinth. The smooth limestone walls soon gave way to a far more macabre decorating scheme. Yellowed bones were neatly stacked in geometric patterns, right up to the roof. Thigh bones were interspersed by layers of skulls, and carved on pillars and the ceiling were tear drops, obelisks, and the occasional crucifix. The skulls weren't grinning, Agnès thought as she crossed herself, they've lost their jawbones, they're gaping. The perfumes of the women floated behind them on the musty dry air, and made her feel a little sick. Everything looked and smelt different underground. She pressed her hand against the side of her leg. The familiar contour of her secret talisman strapped to her thigh calmed her and she continued along with the others.
The progress of the guests was interspersed with exclamations of horror and surprise that were strangely muted, since the chalk walls and bones absorbed all sound. For once, even the squawks of La Carlotta made no echoes.
The passage opened out into a surprisingly large chamber, lined with even more bones and skulls. The air smelt of dust and candles. Those who say that the living outnumber the dead, since the dead no longer exist, haven't visited the catacombs, Agnès thought. She was not easily frightened, but by now she was feeling decidedly oppressed and beginning to regret that she had let her curiosity get the better of her.
People settled down fairly quickly on the chairs set out in front of a drapery that divided the cavern. Someone coughed behind the improvised curtain and the guests hushed. The drapes slid noiselessly to one side, revealing the silhouettes of a group of musicians. Flickering candlelight cast ghastly shadows against the gruesome walls, and one of the ladies laughed nervously. Some sighed with relief; there was going to be a concert after all.
Agnès stared in puzzlement at the musicians. They sat very still. At first she thought she saw them move, but realized it was a trick of the candlelight. Around her she heard whispers and gasps from the others.
"Automata! It's an orchestra of automata." someone exclaimed.
"Mechanical dolls?" tittered the far-from-sober Carlotta. "Well, that can only be an improvement on what we have today at the theatre."
M. Poligny and M. Debienne jabbed each other with their elbows and pointed at the orchestra.
"No wages to pay," whispered M. Debienne with a blissful smile on his face.
"No rehearsals, and they don't get tired, it's just what we need," M. Poligny replied, staring thoughtfully at the immobile figures.
But were they really automata, and not living musicians of flesh and blood? The faces were in shadow, but there was the occasional gleam from light reflected in the eyes. Did the eyes blink? Or was it a flickering reflection of candles? The exclamations of surprise and speculation dwindled into uneasy whispers, and long shadows crept out from the corners.
Slowly and deliberately the figure of a thin violinist unfolded itself jerkily from a chair, and tapped the music stand with its bow. The dry clicking silenced the audience. The automaton started to play and Agnès watched in fascination as the soloist danced his bow across the violin strings in a choppy crescendo.
The tune had a grating wildness in it. She studied the programme she had found on the plain wooden chair. Danse Macabre by Saint-Saëns? Underneath the title she read
Zig,
zig, zig, Death in a cadence,
Striking
with his heel a tomb,
Death
at midnight plays a dance-tune,
Zig,
zig, zig, on his violin.
How very appropriate to the surroundings, she thought with amusement. Surprisingly enough for someone schooled in the arts, she was completely tone deaf. While sensitive to rhythm and beat, the rise and fall of the melody escaped her grasp. But her indifference to the rhapsody and counterpoint left her free to study its effects on others.
She saw the flamboyant Carlotta, like a red burning phoenix framed by the sombre suits of her companions. Her wide-eyed stare in a white face and scarlet mouth fixed in an "oh" of horror made her look like a Greek tragic mask. The other ladies had let their fans drop from their hands and sat in a motionless trance. The stout Baron sat waving his hand and tapping his foot out of beat, with all the unconcern of the completely unmusical.
But what was this, thought Agnès curiously as she continued to study the guests, and her glance fell on one particular gentleman. Ah, no, not a gentleman, a nobleman she corrected herself with gentle irony. There was one particular nobleman who was showing a strange reaction to the the music. The cold eyes of the Comte de Chagny had darkened, his stern face was flushed and his blond moustache moved as he chewed his lip. Agnès was surprised, as the Comte had a reputation for being a rather indifferent patron of the arts, seldom moved by the performances he attended. So? Who would have thought it? Perhaps there was some passion hidden behind that stiff exterior, after all? As if he felt her watching him, he turned his face directly towards her. His pupils were dilated and sweat beaded on his forehead.
A combination of boredom and a cancelled dinner appointment had brought him to this concert. He had tossed the invitation aside, dismissing it as a prank, but then, when his friends had been obliged to cancel their dinner, he was at a loss. On an impulse he ordered his carriage to the door of the catacombs and joined the company as they entered. He had been taken aback by the eerie atmosphere and was cursing himself for exposing himself to such disturbing conditions. Music affected him strongly, but he prided himself on his self-control, and hid this weakness well. Now his defences were undermined by the effect of the strange surroundings, and the assault of death's dance weakened them further. The discordant Devil's chord tuning of the violin was tearing his heart from his chest, and his soul from his body, leaving him empty and gasping.
A cloying scent of damask roses floated out on the air. The candles flickered and spat as the flames turned blue and hazy. A shimmering mist filled the chamber, and made him blink. A vision gradually emerged from the swirling clouds. It was an angel with gold hair framing the perfect oval of her face, her blue eyes gazing at calmly at him. The room spiralled around him, and he felt as if he was falling forward and drowning in sapphire pools.
The ladies shuddered as the xylophone joined in the frenzied dance. They imagined the rattling of bones and sticks running down the ribcages of skeletons. In a wild scurry the instruments climaxed into a silence broken by the crowing cock
The piece finished, the applause was hesitant, the noise from the clapping hands seemed to be eaten by the grinning eyeless skulls surveying the spectators. With little clicks and small jerky movements the musicians moved back to their original positions. The eyes were the most disturbing, the ladies agreed in hushed whispers. But it was just the reflections of the candlelight, of course. Wasn't it?
The concert
continued. Leroux' Chorus
and Funeral March of the Persians
passed by, and was promptly followed by Berlioz' Symphonie
Fantastique.
Clarinets skipped lightly along, soon joined by the oboes in the wild
dance of a witches' sabbath. Again the black silhouette of the lead
violinist dominated the jerky movements of the automata. His eyes
held no glint from reflected candles, but glowed darkly red. The
ominous declaration of the Dies
Irae
intertwined with striking bells made Philippe de Chagny's heart
beat faster as he licked his dry lips and tugged at his cravat. He
was choking; he wasn't getting any air; there was a throbbing in
his ears.
Like a penitent praying in church who looks to the
statues of the saints for support, he gazed again at the
golden-haired madonna who had caught his eye earlier. She stood out
from the rest by her tranquil demeanour. Where the other women
fluttered and shuddered, she was still and serene. Unsmiling and
calm, she seemed to see straight into him. He had never seen eyes
like that before.
A scuffle at the other side distracted him. A woman in red was swaying on her feet, beating frantically at her ridiculously large muff. The piercing shrieks of the prima donna of the Garnier were heard over the music, as La Carlotta vainly tried to beat out the flames of her burning fur. At last, in desperation, she flung it across the room. The ball of fire decapitated a flautist, whose head fell to the floor with a loud clank and rolled under a chair. The fiery glow lit up the face of the violin soloist only for a brief moment, but that was enough.
A chorus of screams rose from the ladies, and the men swore in consternation when they saw his ghastly death's head mask. The eyes that they had seen glow red were empty sockets of black night in a yellow skull. This was going too far, damn it! This was beyond a joke! It was all very well to set up an orchestra of automata, but there was no need for a masquerade of horrors! As the audience rushed around in a turmoil, the drapes closed, hiding the orchestra from view.
Looking across the room, Philippe saw la Carlotta unconscious on the floor. Someone held a small bottle of sal volatile under her nose, while another rubbed her hands. The Baron tried to force some brandy between her lips, but spilt most of his flask down her neck.
"That's no good, she's so tightly trussed up she can't breathe. Would you mind turning your backs for a moment, please," the golden-haired madonna of his vision said with quiet authority. Rooted to the spot, and unable to even turn his head away, Philippe watched her reveal very pretty legs as she hitched up her skirts and took a stiletto from a sheath strapped to her thigh. Deftly she cut the laces on the back of Carlotta's bodice and corsets, allowing her to take in large gulps of air.
"She'll do now, wrap her cloak around her, and help her out," the unknown woman said to the Baron, as she neatly slipped the little knife into her reticule.
Worn out by the rumpus, and with her head spinning from the bad air, Agnès wanted nothing more than to leave quietly, but found her way barred by the broad-shouldered Comte de Chagny. His handsome face was flushed and for a few moments he stood speechless before her.
"May I present my warmest admiration for your presence of mind, Madame," he said at last.
"Well, sir, we are used to scenes from the world of the stage," she smiled, tilting her chin and raising an ironic eyebrow.
The unexpected satire of her reply made him laugh and the warm glow of her smile chased away the last of the shadows around him.
"The Comte de Chagny at your service, Madame. May I escort you to your carriage?"
"Thank you, sir. Agnès Sorel is very much obliged to you."
Bowing gracefully over her outstretched hand, he ventured a joking comment of his own. "What, just Sorel? Not La Sorelli, like the other great artists at the Garnier?"
With the Comte's hand firmly in hers and raising her face to look up at him, Agnès calmly replied, "Why no, sir. The title of "La" is reserved for the great artists, as you say. I'm just Agnès Sorel."
Gazing into her clear blue eyes, Philippe de Chagny swore to himself, that if he had any say in the matter, Agnès Sorel would soon be La Sorelli, with the whole of Paris at her feet.