To Be Loved
Chapter 7
HDKingsbury & MadLizzy
Bruguière returned the next day for a follow-up interview with Erik. He spoke to the guard on duty, a younger man who, it turned out, was more considerate than the surly sot he had encountered on his first visit.
"Certainly, sir, there's a room where you can speak to the prisoner private-like," the lad said. "I'll have to lock the door behind you while the two of you are in there. To make sure there's no escape attempt, you understand."
The attorney nodded. "Yes, I understand completely."
French justice waited for no man, and Bruguière needed to get this preliminary work completed soon, as the trial was scheduled in two weeks. He awaited the prisoner in the interview room, and was relieved to note that today, Erik was washed, shaved, and wearing a fairly clean set of clothes. At least, as clean as could be found in a prison cell. With his injured arm still in a sling, Bruguière wondered how his client had managed it all, as it was highly doubtful that any of the guards had helped.
He motioned to the empty chair at the desk, and Erik took his seat. Pulling out a legal tablet and several pencils, Bruguière dated the first page and prepared to make notes. "Let us get some preliminaries out of the way, shall we? What is your full name?"
Erik returned the attorney's gaze with the same, dispassionate expression he'd worn the previous day. "Erik," he said, flatly.
Bruguière sighed with frustration. There was nothing more exasperating than representing an uncooperative client. "Do you think I am here to play games, Monsieur Erik? That I have nothing better to do with my time than pull basic information from a recalcitrant client?"
Erik made a bitter face. He did not care for the tone of the attorney's voice. "Then make it Erik Delacorte."
Bruguière started writing, then stopped. "Erik 'of the court'? Clever," he said sarcastically.
And what game are you up to, Monsieur Attorney? Erik thought, taking measure of the man as if he were an adversary. Then it struck him. For some benighted reason, the man was serious. He wanted to help. Erik chewed on his lower lip, considering exactly what Monsieur Édouard Bruguière needed to know. "If you must know, the truth is I have no idea what my last name is. I ran away from home at a very young age and spent much of my youth living among traveling performers. I learned how to live by my wits, and became adept as a magician."
"And you used these skills in perfecting your opera ghost persona?"
Erik nodded sadly. "A waste of talent, I'm sure; but there were few opportunities open to me."
Bruguière made no comment but continued with his questions. The interview continued without further incident…except that he could not keep himself from looking at Erik's face. When Mlle Daaé had called on him at his office, she had spoken of the man's physical deformity, and with great kindness, too. She had also mentioned that her maestro had suffered ill treatment most of his life. And yesterday, Bruguière had seen for himself what a disaster the man's face was, but none of that had prepared him for the possibility that he would not be able to look away. It was with great effort that at last he forced himself to keep his eyes on his legal tablet.
Concentrate on the lines on the paper, he told himself. Anything but the poor man's face.
At last, he gave up. No, this would never do. If he couldn't stop himself from staring, there was little doubt but that the jury and the judges would be similarly affected. He decided it best to address the situation outright. "Do you have something with which to conceal your…disfigurement?"
Erik gave a sardonic laugh. "So, even my attorney cannot tolerate my looks. Does my face offend your sensibilities?"
The attorney rubbed his bewhiskered chin with his forefinger, mulling how to clarify the problem without giving further offense. His client's bluntness suggested that the man preferred honest speech, so that was what he would use. "It's not my sensibilities that are in question, but rather, those of the jury. May I speak candidly?"
"You already are."
"Well then, the idea is to garner the sympathy of the jury, not to frighten them." The attorney's brow knit into a frown. "Or was my previous guess right, that you want to sabotage your own trial and let the government do what you cannot bring yourself to—end your own miserable life?"
Erik shifted uncomfortably in his chair under the discerning glare of the attorney's narrowed eyes. It was as if the man could see right through him, his eyes boring through flesh and bone, exposing Erik's insecurities to the light of day, and that did not feel good. The other's audacity was like a slap in the face.
Damn it! He was Erik, the Phantom of the Opera! People were supposed to cower before him, do his bidding without question; not reprimand him. This was a new experience, to have this rumpled little man not only stand up to him, but give back as good as he received. What stung even more was that the attorney might be right—that without realizing it, Erik was trying to sabotage his own chances. When he finally answered, it was a much-chastened man who spoke.
"I…I usually wore a mask over half my face," he said quietly.
Bruguière nodded agreeably. "Good. We'll make sure you have one by the time we go to trial. By the way, your voice, it is still quite hoarse. Has the doctor been here to see you?"
"Yes, and he says that the condition is most likely permanent. A lasting reminder of the wages of sin."
The attorney made more notes. "Dr. Rousseau provided me with a detailed accounting of your injuries. I understand that the arm is healing, along with the other cuts and contusions. Is there anything of which I should be aware?"
"I cannot think of any."
"And probably wouldn't tell me if you did," mumbled Bruguière as he continued writing. "I'll make a note to discuss this further with Dr. Rousseau. If there are other permanent injuries, I want to know about them so that this information can be presented to the judges. Nothing more disgusting than 'mob justice.'" He finished whatever it was he was writing and looked back up at Erik. "Also, I've arranged for you to be given three decent meals a day." Bruguière waved the end of his pencil in the air, using it like a conductor's baton to emphasize his words. "I will also see to it that new clothes are sent here. I don't want you in court looking like some shabby beggar. Do you have a tailor, someone who can ensure that you will have clothes that fit properly? While the ones you are currently wearing are at least serviceable, they hardly do you justice. At your trial, I don't want people to see…this." The pencil waved again. "I want them to see a gentleman."
"Yes," Erik replied, pulling back ever so slightly from the pencil. "But…I haven't any funds…"
Bruguière cut him off. "I told you before, we shall discuss funds later. Now, give me the name and address of your tailor." Erik supplied the necessary information, and the attorney made another notes, adding it to the growing pile of papers in front of him before looking up from his tablet. "What about shoes?"
"Shoes?" asked Erik, confused by the question.
"Yes, shoes. You know, those things you wear on your feet." There went the pencil again, this time, pointing to the floor.
"I know what shoes are," Erik snapped back.
"Then why do you ask such absurd questions? I want to know if you have another pair of shoes and, if not, where do you get yours. Or do you plan on wearing those old, scuffed up things with your new suit when it arrives?"
Erik frowned and looked down at his feet. His once shiny patent leathers had certainly seen better days. He gave up. It was no use fighting. Resigned to his fate, he gave Bruguière the names and address of his tailor, his haberdasher, and anything else the attorney wanted to know.
It appeared that whether he wanted one or not, he was to have an attorney defend him. And a thoroughly competent one at that.
-0-0-0-
The courtroom was stiflingly hot, thanks to the dozens of spectators and journalists who crowded inside to see the "trial of the century." The newspapers had been filled with sensational stories about the Opera Ghost, and all of Paris wanted to read the latest. One thing was certain: The story of the Opera Ghost was selling papers as fast as his presence had sold opera tickets. Artists who could produce a true representation of Erik Delacorte were being promised a king's ransom for their reward. As a result, illustrations were being sold and published--fabricated illustrations, that is--and each one was more grotesque than the last. Bruguière was relieved that Erik hadn't seen any of the papers since this foolishness had begun.
Although it was late March, the weather was unseasonably warm, and soon windows were forced open to admit a humid breeze that made the room seem even more confining. Erik's new shoes and suit pinched his toes and chaffed against his skin, but in spite of his discomfort, he was the model of decorum, which was exactly the way Bruguière wanted him to be. The less attention he called to himself, the better. He pulled the cuffs of his morning coat over the tops of the manacles that bound his wrists. Better to hide the handcuffs, insofar as possible, rather than let them catch attention.
The courtroom was large enough to admit numerous people. These included twelve jurors (who, together with the judges, would decide the outcome of the trial), three Superior Court Justices (a tribunal headed by a president, or chief justice), the Advocate General (the prosecuting attorney), at least six law clerks, the defendant and his lawyer, and the witnesses who, in addition to giving evidence, would testify to the impact of the alleged crimes upon themselves. Because of the notoriety of this case, there would also be a large number of spectators. The judges and the advocate general sat at a high table, or Bench, elevated on a platform at one end of the room, while the gallery was directly opposite them. The Advocate General would sit at the end of the Bench, with the president of the court seated in-between the two other judges. Erik sat in front of a table, with nothing between himself and the witness stand, while Bruguière was behind him with only his law clerk, Barthlebe, to assist him.
Opening day had been a flurry of activity, with clerks scurrying about exchanging reams of paper. Conversation ceased with the arrival of Christine Daaé, radiant as always, arm-in-arm with the Vicomte de Chagny. Erik felt the blood rising in his cheeks; he felt his heart beat faster as she seated herself in the middle of a row of chairs directly behind his lawyer. He focused on the backs of his hands, forcing himself not to turn and look at her. Hushed murmurs seemed to come from every corner of the room, whispering her name.
Although everyone spoke in hushed tones, sheer numbers quickly made the noise inside the courtroom deafening, every sound echoing off the wooden floors and walnut paneled walls. All of it came to an abrupt hush when the three justices entered, dressed in a manner reminiscent of noblesse de robe of olden days. Their formal judicial garments—luxuriant, flowing scarlet robes and pleated barrettes—cylindrical hatsmade of pleated silk—reminded Erik of illustrations of the Inquisitors of old, except each man also wore a sash indicating his rank in the judiciary. He watched with no apparent curiosity as the men who held his fate in their hands filed into the room, but he couldn't help noticing their garments, thinking of a time in the not-too-distant past when he strode dramatically into a room dressed in red. Erik had to hand it to them: French jurisprudence had a flair for theatrics.
The Advocate General, who would serve as prosecutor, was a punctilious man. Guillaume Agnelet had arrived precisely on the stroke of the hour, attaché case in hand, with not one but two law clerks dogging his trail. Heavily laden with court documents, the clerks had appeared only slightly less stern than the A.G. Each was dressed according to his status, with the Advocate General dressed identically to the judges. An epitage, a sash distinguishing his role, was fashioned into a small rosette and pinned to his left shoulder with a gold penannular, or circular brooch. The tip of the sash was adorned with a strip of ermine fur, which revealed a streak of pride in his appearance. Erik had regarded the man with indifference, but his interest piqued once the proceedings began in earnest.
A long list of charges were read, including destruction of public and private property within the opera house; extortion; reckless endangerment of the lives of its patrons; criminal assault of Madame Carlotta Giudicelli; the abduction with intent to defile of Mlle Christine Daaé; the attempted murder of Signor Ubaldo Piangi; and the homicide of Monsieur Joseph Buquet.
The first witness was a woman he had hoped never to see again. La Carlotta strode down the aisle of the court on her way to the witness stand as if she were taking to the stage in her grandest role to date, which was exactly how she was playing her part this day. As she passed in front of Erik, she put a gloved hand to her chest as though her heart were pounding, and sniffled into a delicate handkerchief that she used to dab away her crocodile tears. Erik shifted in his chair as Carlotta was sworn in.
"Do you swear to speak the truth without hatred or fear; to speak the whole truth and nothing but the truth?"
"Yes, of course I do," she responded curtly. She held onto the banister that separated her from the defendant, and placed her considerable weight squarely on both feet. There was no chair; apparently, witnesses would remain standing while testifying.
On the other hand, the Advocate General remained comfortably seated on the dais alongside the judges during his examination of the witness. His gaze turned sharp. He stared penetratingly at her for a long moment, during which time Carlotta's haughty demeanor began to crumble. She may have been a diva in her own world, but here, in a court of law, she was the same as any other witness, and she didn't like it one bit.
"Madame," the prosecutor began. "Please state your name and your occupation, for the record."
Carlotta swelled with pride. "I am Carlotta Giudicelli, diva of the Paris Opéra."
"Please tell the court how you met the defendant."
Her eyes darted towards Erik. "Well, I have…um…never actually met the defendant."
He cocked his head to one side and tried another tactic. "What is your association with the accused?"
Carlotta took a deep breath. "He attacked me. He poisoned me and made me croak like a toad."
Spectators stifled chuckles as the prosecutor shot them a warning look. "Why would the defendant do that?"
"He sought to replace me with his strumpet, Christine Daaé."
A gasp arose from the gallery. Erik stared straight ahead, but his knuckles were white from self-restraint.
"Are you saying that the defendant's motive in allegedly poisoning you was to position his lover as the new leading lady in the opera's production?"
"I object!" Bruguière exclaimed. "The prosecution is putting words in her mouth, and in doing so, he is slurring the character and reputation of an innocent party to this proceeding. It has not been established that my client knows Mademoiselle Daaé, and in any case, she is not charged with any wrong doing."
"My apologies," he said, with a slight bow in Christine's direction. He pressed on, undaunted. "How do you know the defendant poisoned you?"
"He is the only one with any reason to want to harm me, to ruin my career. Besides, I saw him that night, that terrible night when my precious instrument was nearly ruined." She clasped her throat and stifled a sob. "He gloated over my…condition…made sport of me."
"Indeed, Madame," Agnelet said deferentially. "It is well known that you are the brightest star on the European stage, that any injury or illness could cost the Paris Opéra millions. The managers would be hard-pressed to find a suitable replacement on short notice, if ever."
She nodded, and smiled ingratiatingly. "This is true," she said with a proud toss of her head.
Agnelet turned to the defense attorney, and with a gracious sweep of his hand, he indicated he was through questioning Carlotta, for the time being. "Your witness."
Erik's attorney rose and approached the witness stand. Bruguière held his notes in front of him, rereading them silently before addressing the witness. He let the seconds tick by as Carlotta grew increasingly uncomfortable, standing there in the heat, waiting for him to ask his questions. Finally, he began. "You have testified that you have seen the Phantom of the Opera, is that correct?"
The diva squirmed, her glance darting towards Erik before resting on the backs of her gloved hands. "Well…I…that is…not exactly."
Bruguière seized upon the apparent inconsistency. "So, you have not seen the Phantom? Either you have seen the Opera Ghost or you have not. Which is it, Madame?"
Carlotta, flustered by the pressure, was unsure how best to respond. "I'm not sure. I saw someone who might have been the Phantom, above the stage on the catwalk."
Exasperated, Bruguière allowed his frustration to show. "Isn't that where one usually finds the stagehands working?"
She was even more discombobulated by this pointed remark. "I suppose so," Carlotta admitted.
"Did you get a good look at this person who might have been the Phantom as he walked overhead?" He turned his back on her and walked towards the jurors, waiting for her reply.
The diva appeared to be at a loss for words. "Erm…no, but who else could it have been?"
Bruguière smiled condescendingly at her, leaning on the railing that separated him from the jurors. "Other than any number of a dozen or more stagehands, I don't know, either. One final question, Madame: Have you ever seen my client in the opera house before? Take a good look before you answer, Madame. We must be certain…this time."
Reluctantly, she looked towards Erik. She noted his expensive shoes, the fine suit he wore, the dove gray waistcoat and plain gold watch chain. Finally, she let herself look at his face. His twisted, swollen lips jutted out from beneath the edges of his white demimask. His mismatched eyes held all the sadness in the world. This was no ghost, but a gentleman who sat before her. Her shoulders sagged, and her high head dropped a little in shame. "No, I cannot say that I have."
Bruguière waved his hand in her direction as the president of the court dismissed her from the stand. "Thank you; that will be all."
The spectators broke out in raucous laughter, jeering as Carlotta rushed out of the courtroom.
-0-0-0-
Agnelet's next witness was Mlle Marguerite Giry, the daughter of the ballet mistress and herself an aspiring ballerina. Her delicate, trim figure told volumes about the rigorous training she endured, but her youthful innocence shone on her fresh face and in her clear blue eyes. Her long blond hair was tied back with a pale blue ribbon, which only emphasized her youth. Agnelet wasted no time. "Can you tell the court what you know about the Opera Ghost?
Meg was poised for a girl still in her teens, and she answered with a clear response. "For several months, the Opera Ghost was all anyone in the corps de ballet could talk about. If anyone had an accident, or if a friend had played a trick on one of us, or if a powder puff had disappeared—whatever it was, it was the Phantom's fault."
"Is there anything else you can tell us about this Phantom?"
"Well…the Phantom is terribly thin, and wears a dress suit, but he is so thin that his clothes seem to float over his framework. His eyes are set so deeply that it is hard to see the pupils; instead, it is like seeing two large black holes, like you would see on a skull. The Phantom's skin is stretched over his bones tight, like that of a drum, and it is an ugly yellow color, like parchment."
Agnelet frowned, as if he sensed this testimony would not go in his favor. "No further questions," he said quickly, and leaned forward in his chair, seemingly preoccupied with the documents in front of him.
Bruguière seized upon her last statement. "Is that all you can tell us about the so-called Phantom?"
"No, sir," Meg said eagerly. "The Phantom also has almost no nose. If seen in profile, it is as if he has no nose at all. And what hair he has on his head is little more than three or four brown hanks hanging down in front and behind his ears."
Bruguière stepped closer to the witness stand and spoke to her gently, the way a father would speak to a daughter who has perhaps made an error. "And how do you know this, Mlle Giry? Have you seen this phantom with your own eyes?"
Meg rolled her eyes. "Well...no, not exactly."
"Not exactly?" Bruguière asked with great concern for what she might say next, implying that she must be very sure of what she was about to say. "What, may I ask, do you mean exactly?"
Meg, the graceful dancer, shifted on her feet, her uncertainty revealing itself in her posture. "It's just that...well...no one has ever seen the phantom!"
Bruguière affected surprise. "Really? Then might I suggest that he is merely the figment of an overactive imagination?"
Meg shook her head adamantly. "But...Buquet said he had seen him!"
Bruguière pursed his lips and looked at her the way one regards a simpleminded child. "Unfortunately, we cannot call the dead back from the grave to testify. Unless, of course, he is this elusive Phantom."
Meg lowered her head in shame as the gallery snickered. The president of the court banged his gavel on its sounding board, calling order to the court. "If there is another outburst," he warned, "I shall clear the court and you will all have to read about it in the evening paper."
Bruguière nodded towards Erik who, other than wearing the mask that covered the damaged half of his face, looked like any other gentleman. "And does my client fit this description?"
Meg hesitated, while muffled giggling rose among the crowd once more. "No, sir…but…"
"Thank you," Bruguière said without a hint of smugness. "That will be all."
-0-0-0-
Meg's mother, the esteemed Mme Giry, was called next. She was a woman with regal bearing, not someone to be trifled with as were many witnesses. The term, "battle ax," sprang to mind. Since Giry had provided evidence on behalf of the defense, Agnelet approached her with precision. He used his words like lancets, carefully prodding the stern woman's icy testimony, prepared to dissect every statement she made under oath. "Are you familiar with the stories of a Phantom haunting the opera house?"
Mme Giry sniffed, and the edges of her mouth turned down. "Stuff and nonsense."
"But your daughter—"
"My daughter is given to flights of fancy when she should be paying attention to her dancing. You must understand, Monsieur, that dancers are by nature a superstitious lot. Some will wear a coral ring to ward off evil spirits; others draw a St. Andrew's cross in the air. In the dancers' lounge hangs a horseshoe that everyone touches, also to ward off bad luck."
The prosecutor pinned her with his penetrating stare like an unusual specimen of moth ready to be fixed and mounted. "Have you ever received instructions from the Phantom?"
"I told you," she replied irritably. "There is no Phantom. How can I receive 'instructions' from someone who does not exist?"
Agnelet bit the inside of his cheek, and turned the witness over to the defense.
Bruguière practically leaped to his feet. "Please repeat your last answer, if you wouldn't mind," he asked facetiously. "I didn't quite hear what you said."
Giry pounded her walking stick on the floor and replied angrily. "I said, there is no phantom of the opera. How many times must I say it? He simply does not exist."
"Thank you," Bruguière replied, nodding politely to the regal woman. He turned to the jurors and looked each one in the eye before returning to his seat, as if sharing a secret. He let the words sink in: "He simply does not exist."
-0-0-0-
Guy Agnelet and Édouard Bruguière were old friends, having met at university thirty years earlier when they were both wide-eyed idealists. Whereas Agnelet was born to the position, a member of France's old noblesse de robe, Bruguière was a self-made man. Nevertheless, they had become fast friends.
The fact that their careers took divergent paths had not prevented them from maintaining a cordial relationship. In truth, they enjoyed sparring in the courtroom, taking opposite sides. It kept them from becoming complacent. Lately, Bruguière had thrown himself into his work, taking on more and more hopeless cases such as this one. As often as not, Agnelet had prosecuted the same cases, and so far, the score was even. Both men were determined to use their knowledge and their skill as swords of justice, and they were equally determined to represent their duty to the best of their ability.
Agnelet scanned his notes and prepared his next line of questioning. He relaxed; unlike the women he had called previously, his next witness would provide excellent testimony.
"You are Fire Lieutenant Papin?" he asked for the record.
Papin straightened his coat, proud of his title and his work. "Yes, sir."
"And you have been employed at the opera house for very long?"
"Ten years, sir." He tapped the service medal pinned to his lapel and grinned. "Says so right here."
"Now then, a fireman – especially a lieutenant – is a very brave man, someone who fears nothing."
Papin stood erect, his bearing evidence of his courage. "Yes sir, this is so."
"Can you tell the court, please, if you have ever seen this so-called Phantom?"
A faint tremor of the hands betrayed the war of nerves exploding within the fireman. Papin faltered, his eyes darting around the courtroom as he began to tremble. "Yes sir, I did, and a more frightening sight I never did see."
"Please tell the court exactly what you saw."
"It was several months ago. I cannot recall the exact date," Papin said uncomfortably. "I had gone down to the cellars to make a routine inspection. We are very diligent about making inspections, Monsieur; very diligent."
"And for that, the patrons of the opera house are in your debt, but please continue." Agnelet eased back in his chair, the very picture of relaxation. "While making your inspection, did you see this Phantom?"
"Yes, sir." Papin mopped the sweat from his brow with his bare hand.
"And what did he look like?" Agnelet kicked himself the moment he asked the question.
Papin took a deep breath and launched into his unbelievable description, knowing full well what the papers would make of it. "It was a disembodied fiery head. It came towards me, at eye level!"
Agnelet leaned forward, halfway rising from his chair, seeking to minimize the damage of this outrageous statement. "The cellars lead to the sewers, do they not? Perhaps it was a ball of gas, bad air."
Bruguière objected adamantly. "Your honors, again my learned colleague is putting words into the witness' mouth!"
"Do not lecture the court, Monsieur Bruguière," the president warned. Still, he cast a wary glance at Agnelet.
The silent signal was unmistakable. "Nothing further, your honor."
Bruguière wasted no time. "Lieutenant Papin, no one doubts the word of one of our city's finest and most heroic civil servants. Please tell the court: Do you see anyone in this room who looks like the spectre you saw in the cellars? Anyone at all?" He stretched out his hands, palms up, and looked around the room questioningly.
"No, sir," Papin admitted, thoroughly chagrined. "No one at all."
-0-0-0-
Agnelet's head had begun to pound. He sent his clerk for a headache powder, relieved when the man produced one on the spot from his attaché case. He opened the paper sleeve that held the medicinal and poured it into his mouth, washing away the bitter taste with a full glass of water. This was not going well, not well at all.
"Inspector Milfroid," he said carefully, "you were in charge of the investigation into the events leading up to and including the abduction of Mlle Daaé?"
"I object!" Bruguière exclaimed. "It is my contention that Mlle Daaé was not abducted, and I intend to prove it."
Agnelet sighed wearily and rephrased the question. "The alleged abduction of Mlle Daaé?"
Milfroid nodded in earnest. "Yes, sir. I was in charge of the investigation into the abduction. The alleged abduction, that is."
"Please tell the court what you found in reference to the so-called kidnapping."
The inspector stared at the ceiling and stood at attention as he testified in clipped, military terms. "Throughout the course of several very intense interviews, the young lady in question maintained that she was not abducted at all, but that she ran off on her own to warn her maestro that his life was in danger. Sir."
"And were you able to verify her story?"
Milfroid spoke louder than before, as if raising the volume would give his testimony more impact. "It is obvious that the events of that night left her upset, but I could find no evidence to counter her story. Taking into consideration the actions of the mob, it is entirely possible that she is telling the truth. And while he says he at first believed otherwise, the Vicomte de Chagny now corroborates her story."
Agnelet exchanged glances with Bruguière and yielded the floor. To the president of the court, he said formally, "That's all for now, your honor, but I may wish to call the witness again at a later time."
Bruguière honed in on the witness. "So, in your expert opinion, there was no abduction?"
"That is correct," Milfroid admitted.
"What about these other allegations? First, this charge that, six months ago, my client caused the chandelier to fall, causing a great deal of damage."
Milfroid inserted two fingers into his collar and loosened it. "It's true that the fall of the chandelier produced serious consequences, but an inquest ruled that it was an accident caused by the deterioration of the suspension cables and that it should have been the duty of the former directors, as well as of the present ones—and by that I mean Monsieurs Andre and Firman," he said, pointing at the two managers, "to have been aware of that deterioration and to have had the chandelier repaired before it produced a catastrophe."
Bruguière batted his eyes, as if the concept were staggeringly simple. "Then, you mean to say that the accident happened without the aid of a…ghost?"
Milfroid nodded vigorously. "That is exactly what I mean to say."
Bruguière moved in for the coup de grâce. "And this other matter of extortion. During the course of your investigation, did you find any evidence that my client had demanded funds from the opera house management?
"Quite the contrary; we found absolutely NO evidence of attempted extortion of any kind!" Milifroid glared at the managers again. "We did, however, find that there are two sets of books when it comes to the opera house – one set that is shown to the public, and a second, secret set.
"Was there a so-called instruction book?"
"Ah yes, the Cahier de Charges. It is a book signed by both the Minister of Finer Arts and the directors of the opera. It specifies minutely what the rights and duties of the directors are vis-à-vis the state." Milfroid seemed relieved to get this information out into the open.
"And the added rules written in red?" He referred to his notes. "Is there not a rule number five, which states, 'If the director delays for more than fifteen days the monthly sum that he owes the Phantom of the Opera—that sum, fixed, until further notice at 20,000 francs—240,000 francs per year.'"
Milfroid scoffed. "We found no such entry, just the ordinary, everyday rules regarding salaries and the like. Certainly no rules added by a ghostly hand."
Erik glanced surreptitiously in Mme Giry's direction. He saw the corner of her mouth turn up in a secret grin, and knew that she'd removed the damning evidence. Confound it, what did people see in him that made them feel he was worth saving? Maybe he should stand up and end this farce once and for all, demand to be taken to the gallows. What purpose did this serve, dragging it out this way? And then he heard it, a slight sigh of relief coming from Christine, a tiny indication that she was pleased with this turn of events. If she wanted him to win, then, he'd see it through for her sake if nothing else.
Bruguière's booming voice brought him out of his reverie. "Then I assume you found nothing that said, 'At all performances, box five of the first tier will be put at the disposition of the Phantom of the Opera.'"
"Nothing of the kind, sir." Milfroid could not hide his smirk at the ridiculous suggestion.
"Then, the only evidence you found…"
"…is of improprieties committed by Monsieurs Firman and Andre!" Milfroid exclaimed, again pointing an accusing finger in their direction. "They are the ones who should be on trial!"
Bruguière was delighted with this new evidence but hid it under the veil of professional demeanor. "Inspector Milfroid, were there any other unusual events at the opera house over the past months? Any unexplained deaths, for example?"
"No," he said, then vacillated with a frown. "Well, there was the unfortunate matter of Joseph Buquet, who hung himself during a performance."
Bruguière seemed surprised at this revelation. "During a performance? That's rather strange, isn't it?
Milfroid shrugged. "He was a heavy drinker with a lot of debts. His wife had left him and took their children with her. His death was ruled a suicide."
"Tragic. Our condolences to his family. But his death was in no way related to this fantôme?"
"None at all," Milfroid confirmed.
Bruguière gave him a half-smile, at once sympathetic and reaffirming. "Thank you, that will be all."
-0-0-0-
A second headache powder had taken the edge off his migraine, but now pains were shooting through Angelet's middle. "You are Signor Ubaldo Piangi, principal tenor at the opera; is this correct?" he asked tersely.
"Si," Piangi replied. Dressed in the latest colorful fashion from Milan, he looked like a proud peacock strutting among the formally attired court officials.
Agnelet minced no words on the popinjay. "Please tell the court what happened to you on the night in question."
Piangi took a breath and spoke in sweeping, theatrical tones. "I was singing the role of Don Juan and was backstage, waiting for my cue to join Mlle Daaé for the final duet when I smelled something…odd. Something different."
Erik remembered it well; he used the Mazandaran Perfume to render Piangi unconscious. Fast. Effective. Efficient. And it smelled much better than that overpriced cologne Piangi doused himself with several times a day. Why, it was enough to stagger an elephant. He could smell its stench now, emanating from the corpulent tenor all the way from the witness stand.
"You…smelled something? Was it a perfume? A fragrance?" Agnelet narrowed his eyes as he awaited an answer.
"Si. Something like that. Very sweet, cloying. Then…nothing. I woke up several hours later in my dressing room, surrounded by many strange persons. They told me I had been unconscious, drugged."
"Were you injured?" The prosecutor seemed genuinely concerned for Piangi's welfare.
Piangi broke out in a cold sweat. "Physically? No. But my nerves, they are shot! That man," he said, wagging his finger at Erik, "he took my place on stage!"
"He attacked you, drugged you, and left you unconscious while he usurped your role on stage. Is that all he did?"
Piangi was outraged. "Is that all? Is that all!? What kind of stupid question is that? I could have been killed!" Spittle flew as he raged.
"Yes, you could have been killed. Your voice might have been damaged beyond repair. You might never have regained consciousness. Many possibilities can occur when a man thinks he can play with other people's lives and jeopardize their safety. It was a serious attack on an innocent man, a man who was victimized simply because he stood in the way of the defendant and Christine Daaé! You, Signor Piangi, were the innocent victim of a man who showed callous and complete disregard for the welfare of others— including Mlle Daaé." Agnelet stared hard at his old friend, Bruguière. "Your witness," he said simply.
"But you weren't," Bruguière said as he approached the witness, carrying a letter in his hand. "You weren't hurt at all. In fact, you have told several people that you've not only made a full recovery, but you're in better voice than you have been in years." He held the letter aloft so that Ubaldo could see it clearly. "In this letter to your managers, you state, and I quote, 'I have never sounded better. I should have found this Phantom years ago, and asked him to work his magic on me. If it is good enough for the Daaé girl—who is the best diva in all of Europe—it's good enough for me.'" He turned and walked away, letting Piangi wither under the cold, hard stare of his consort, La Carlotta.
Piangi blanched, realizing he'd made a fool of himself with the damnable letter. "But…that's not the point."
Bruguière paused. "And what is the point?"
Piangi was red-faced, apoplectic. He took out a lace-trimmed handkerchief and wiped the foam from his mouth. "That man took my place…on stage!"
"Yes, he did, and by all accounts, he put you to shame," the lawyer added. "Thank you, Signor Piangi."
-0-0-0-
There was practically no point to going any further with this mockery of a trial, and Guillaume Agnelet was tempted to request a closed session with Bruguière to discuss a plea. He knew his old friend well, though, and nothing short of exoneration would satisfy him. It was beginning to look as though that was exactly what this man, Erik Delacorte, deserved. The fact that the public had been screaming for blood only compounded the situation. It would not do to leave the question of guilt or innocence unproven. Guy sent his clerk to the apothecary for a stronger powder, hoping the man would be back soon.
Something about the next witness apparently unnerved the staid prosecutor. Perhaps it was her innocence, an unaffected air of naïveté that simply radiated from her. He approached the witness stand with care, seemingly drawn to her by the same spell that every man fell under.
It was Christine Daaé's turn to speak.
-0-0-0-
