Chapitre Vingt-et-Un: La Madeleine
André frowned, circling Christine and studying her with an uncomfortable intensity. "I don't know—isn't Ilia's dress supposed to be Greek? It's too…too…"
"Frilly," finished Firmin with a nod.
Monsieur Bertrand, the head of the costume department, folded his arms in displeasure. "Yes, messieurs, Idomeneo takes place in ancient Greece." His tone was clipped and rather self-important, his eyes narrowed into haughty slits. "But in case you have forgotten," he continued coldly, "I am the costume expert in this opera house, and I have been for twenty-six years. And I'm certain that, if you will pardon my frankness, you will find more costuming knowledge in my little finger than in both of your heads combined."
Firmin and André glanced at each other, eyebrows raised, both highly offended. Christine watched them mildly from her position atop a chair, clothed in a half-finished wedding gown. With interest she noted that the managers knew each other well enough to confer without actually speaking. Firmin's face had reddened slightly, and his eyes flashed with anger at Bertrand's pompous remark. It was clear to Christine that he wanted to fire the man then and there. But André gave a small shrug, as if to say, He is the expert, and we need him.
Firmin nodded reluctantly, saying, "We do not contest that, Monsieur Bertrand. We simply ask that the one-hundredth anniversary of Idomeneo be accurate."
Bertrand gave a pert bow. "And so it will be, monsieur, if you stop badgering me and allow me to get on with my work."
"Allow me to remind you," said Firmin furiously, "that we pay your salary!"
"Let—let's not become unpleasant, gentlemen," begged André, dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief, looking rather pained. "Monsieur Bertrand, is there any way we could try to…ah…"—he fumbled for the right word, seeming loathe to voice something so distasteful—"minimize costs? If I am not mistaken, the Greeks wore much simpler garments than this one is turning out to be."
"Audiences don't appreciate accuracy," Bertrand refuted with an air of superiority. "They appreciate extravagance. To send Mademoiselle Daaé on stage in anything less than the latest fashion would be catastrophic." He insolently turned from the managers, fishing a box of buttons out of a mountain of bows and lace. "Monsieur le Vicomte de Chagny knows nothing about opera production, and even he realizes that simple fact—he especially requested that we spare no expense in her costumery. You can't risk offending your patron." Christine flushed with pride at hearing Raoul's title and his command. It had been a week and a half since his apology—which had ended with her apologizing for jumping to ridiculous conclusions—in which time he had showered her with flowers and gifts and constant praise of her beauty. She had never felt happier or more in love.
"Technically," said Firmin loudly, "our patron is the Comte de Chagny, who would undoubtedly take our side on this matter, both in terms of taste and economy."
"Ha!" Bertrand jabbed a needle into the dress with unnecessary force as he threaded a pearl button. Christine yelped.
"Did he stab you?" Firmin demanded.
"Um—well—no—I just thought he was going to—"
Bertrand kept right on talking. "How would you know what the comte thinks? He doesn't even venture out of his house, let alone come to oversee anything. He'll just have to live with whatever we decide. And by that, I mean what I decide."
As the managers glanced at each other again, obviously considering firing the haughty costumer, Madame Giry entered the room. Carefully stepping over the haphazard mounds of fabric and lace littering the floor, she surveyed Christine's costume with something akin to amusement. She had the tact not to say anything rude, but the flicker in her eyes conveyed more than words.
"Shouldn't her dress be more Grecian?" she asked at length.
"Aha!" exclaimed the managers in unison.
Upon hearing her comment Bertrand angrily threw down the box. Buttons scattered everywhere, but he didn't seem to care. "No one asked you," he spat, lip curling to reveal a set of narrow, overly-white teeth.
"Well then," Madame Giry replied calmly, "why don't you ask Mademoiselle Daaé? It is her dress."
All eyes turned to Christine, who had been forgotten in the heat of the proceedings. She stared at her reflection in a nearby mirror, hurriedly trying to decide. Accuracy was important, but the dress was very pretty as it was. Though it was only partially complete, the pure, ghostly white of the gown and the shimmer of her collar of diamonds made her seem almost like an ethereal being. In years past she would have thought immediately of Skadi, the Norse goddess of winter who gave Scandinavia its name, and would have wept as she recalled her father telling her of the beautiful goddess and her castle of ice in the mountains of Jotunheim. But now she wasn't sure what to think.
She hadn't set foot in the Garnier's chapel since she had realized that her own desires were more important than her father's plans for her. Even the stories—her father's beloved stories—had become less and less mystical and cherished to her as the weeks went on. She still prayed fervently to the gods at least once a day, but she couldn't bring herself to feel the same way about religion anymore. She wasn't certain what to think about anything.
She suddenly realized that everyone was waiting for her answer. As the silence dragged on, she wondered what Raoul would say—surely he would know which was more important. 'Why, my perfect angel,' she could imagine him saying, raising a surprised eyebrow at her ignorance, 'of course fashion is more important. Fashion reflects what people like today, rather than what they liked thousands of years ago. What does it matter if the play originally called for Grecian garments?'
But Erik would say the opposite—he would probably say that accuracy took precedence over the latest fashion. In fact, she could hear his voice as well: 'Christine, the beauty of music and opera is that they open a window to a previous time, to a life that is far different from our own. Would you destroy that by blotting out their culture with our own simply to impress the shallow masses?'
"Um, I—I don't know," stammered Christine, angry at her inability to decide. "It's very pretty—"
"Ha!" interjected Bertrand.
"—but still, um…" About to state that the composer had called for accuracy, she realized that she didn't know who the composer was. "Um, the composer—"
"Mozart," supplied Madame Giry.
"Yes, Mozart. If he wrote that the costumes should be Greek, then I think that's important too."
André nodded decisively. "Well, that settles it. Mozart was one of the greatest composers of all time—and I do believe his opinion supersedes yours, Monsieur le Costumer."
"But that's not what she said!" Bertrand snapped. "She said that she liked the dress—that means you'd like it better than a Grecian one, right, mademoiselle? Yes," he continued, without waiting for a reply, "she most certainly would. And may I remind you that our audience is made up of modern people, monsieur, not ancient Greeks."
As a heated debate ensued, Madame Giry said quietly to Christine, "I just came to tell the managers that they sold fifteen more seats for the opening night than there are available."
"How terribly embarrassing!"
"Indeed. And what's worse, the health officials are suggesting—almost demanding—that the managers cancel the performances to combat the spread of the pneumonia."
"Has it gotten that bad?" Christine asked, surprised. She had heard very little about the epidemic lately; she had assumed that it had begun to wane.
"Good heavens, yes—it's dreadful! It's creeping up from the proletariat to the bourgeoisie and into the very nobility."
"Bwah-gher-what?"
"That's it!" Firmin shouted, slamming his cane into the floor. "Monsieur Bertrand, consider this your notice! Have your things out of our opera house by tomorrow morning!" Madame Giry and Christine paused to watch the scene.
"Or you'll do what?" the costumer sneered, equally as loud.
"Or we'll charge you with trespassing, that's what!"
"You'll never survive without me!"
"Ha! You aren't worth the clothes on your back!"
"How dare you!"
Madame Giry shook her head. "Perhaps I'll speak to the managers later. You might as well leave too—no point wasting your day waiting for those three to stop fighting."
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"…so I said that if Mozart wrote that the costumes should be Grecian, then it would be a terrible crime to ruin the perfection of his opera—a window to another time, you know?—just to impress the masses."
Erik, who was cleaning out her closet, straightened up with a pile of clothing in his arms. "That's wonderful, Christine," he said with a smile, making her swell with pride. She felt slightly bad that he was doing her cleaning for her, realizing that she was treating him like a servant, but she certainly didn't want to do all that work, and he seemed happy to help her with anything, even picking up her dirty clothes, so she allowed him to keep cleaning while she sat at her vanity. Cleaning was a waste of time anyway—she was only doing it because he had lectured her on the virtue of neatness; it had been easier to say she would clean, and then get him to do it. She felt perfectly justified in her plan. It isn't as if he keeps his caverns neat and tidy, she thought righteously. The man is as much a slob as I am!
Well, almost. Sort of.
Not really, she finally admitted. But still, he could learn a thing or two from his own lecture.
She assuaged her slight guilt at his servitude by fiddling with the clutter on her vanity, throwing the obvious rubbish into the wastebasket and cramming everything else, including the rubbish she wasn't sure she wanted to throw away, such as chipped buttons and empty tins of blush, into the overflowing drawers.
"Then Bertrand objected," continued Christine, "and they all started yelling, and completely forgot about my dress."
"What shall I do with this?" queried Erik, holding up a broken hairbrush that had quite evidently been stepped on.
"Throw it out," she said, pulling a disgusted face as she dumped a moldy remnant of pastry into the wastebasket. How could her dressing room have ever gotten so messy? It would take hours to clean up the mountain of junk and dirty clothes that had taken over her floor space.
Casting a despairing eye over the dresses strewn everywhere—all either costumes, patched, stained, or too small to fit—she wondered when she would be able to get new clothes for herself.
Erik moved to the table to place yet another plate atop the growing pile of trays, bowls, and cutlery from the kitchens, and the movement caught Christine's eye. She took a moment to study his attire, formal and unadorned, as usual. She would have to get him to procure some clothes for her of the same quality—their plainness notwithstanding, they were a much higher quality than her own. When she married Raoul she would have all kinds of gorgeous gowns in the latest fashion, with lace and pearls and all kinds of extravagant fineries, but for the moment, she needed something besides the patched dresses Mamma had made for her. It was ridiculous that the managers had not paid her yet; she had been a diva for a little over a month now. But the contract she had so stupidly signed (before either Raoul or Erik could examine it) stated that she would receive her salary upon the successful completion of the performance of Idomeneo, and that she would receive only chorus wages until that time. According to Erik, the late date of payment was due to the combination of Christine's refusal to work on two operas at once, the possible return of Carlotta, lack of funds due to gross misspending by the managers, and Christine's proclivity to miss rehearsals—making her, apparently, in the managers' eyes, a potential liability when the opening performance came around.
It was absurd—but even she had to admit that she had missed a fair share of rehearsals, what with her alleged kidnapping, post-Ambassadeurs ailment, and numerous dinners with Raoul during practices. So she would just have to make do with plain clothing until she received her first paycheck. With that thought in mind, she resumed her examination of her instructor's attire.
Though the garments looked very good on him (as long as she didn't think about the mask), she couldn't appreciate them—they weren't expensive, they weren't ornate, and they weren't the latest fashion. Still, she couldn't picture him in anything ostentatious; it just wouldn't become him.
For a moment, as she observed him gathering up the hangers from the floor and placing them back in the closet, she was so struck by the elegance—a strange, plain elegance—of Erik's serviceable clothes that she wondered if they were not somehow equal to Raoul's glorious flamboyance.
Raoul's handsome face and golden raiment were absolutely divine, blinding in their brilliance, reminiscent of Baldr, god of beauty, of whom no mortal could look upon without being instantly blinded by his beauty. Every living creature in all the Nine Worlds loved him.
It seemed to Christine that Baldr had a brother. What was his name? She had never thought much about him, always preferring to hear about the more famous of the brothers. Hodur—yes, that was his name. Instead of the golden rays of the sun, Hodur's aura was soft and cool, like the faint light of the moon. His sightless eyes were pale and cold, seeming like the muted shadows of bluebells; they were gentle compared to the burning azure fires that made up Baldr's eyes. Hodur was rarely mentioned, even by her father, who had loved to tell her stories of the gods, but from what she could remember of him, he had been good and kind. She had always ignored Hodur; but now, in that fleeting moment of clarity, she thought that he was, in his own way, perhaps even more beautiful than his brother.
But that was ridiculous. She couldn't question the legends—and the legends said that Baldr was the most beautiful, and that the whole world cried when he was murdered. Who had cared when Hodur was killed? No one. That's what the legends said. If they said Baldr was the better one, she believed it.
"And Monsieur Bertrand gave in?" prompted Erik, bringing her back to the present.
"Well, no," she admitted, shoving her makeup tins, loose change, and dirty handkerchiefs into a drawer. "But the managers won that particular battle."
"I'm very proud of you," he said, and she smiled happily. If he was pleased with her, maybe he wouldn't make her help clean. "The managers decided to fire him," she added, hoping to distract him into tidying more of the room for her. "Of course, they couldn't go through with it."
"They should—he's talented, I'll give him that, but not enough to counterbalance his arrogance." He suddenly noticed what Christine was doing. "Christine, shoving clutter into a drawer does not constitute cleaning."
"But I'm just going to drag it all out again."
"Nevermind the makeup—it can stay on the vanity. But hand me those handkerchiefs so I can see to it they're washed." She opened the drawer to extracted the wad of dingy fabrics.
When he saw the drawer's contents, he shook his head in disbelief. "Just what is all this?"
"It's my collection."
"Collection of what, exactly?"
"Stuff I've found—you know, in the halls, under seats, that sort of thing. You wouldn't believe all the wonderful things I've found! Look at this," she said, pulling a handful of trinkets out of the drawer. "An army button! And here's a cuff link! It's a bit worn, and it's not even real gold, but it's still pretty.
"Oooh!" she squealed, holding up an earring for him to see. "This is the prize of my collection: a ruby earring!"
He examined the gold-set gem with a disapproving frown. "This is a garnet. But Christine—"
"What's the difference?"
"Garnets are not anywhere near as costly."
She scowled at the earring, feeling slightly betrayed. "Oh, rats."
"But it doesn't matter what it is—why haven't you taken it to the managers? The unfortunate lady will probably come looking for it."
"Well, if it's just a worthless garnet, what difference does it make?"
"It's not worthless, Christine, and it probably has sentimental value. It isn't right for you to keep it. You have to take it to the managers."
"It's two years too late," she informed him in a superior tone.
He continued to frown, and she set her face in a heartrending expression of loss and despondency. She had spent years perfecting that look, and now, so complete, with its wide, glistening eyes and trembling mouth, its power could not possibly fail her. "You wouldn't make me throw out these few little things, would you?" she asked, looking up into his eyes.
"They belong to other people," he said, but she could tell the look was already getting to him.
"But there's no way to get anything back to them now," she pleaded. "And most of it is absolutely worthless—just little trinkets that make me happy."
He sighed and handed her back the earring. She jumped up with a cry of joy and embraced him, then twirled around the room, looking so absolutely happy that he couldn't possibly change his mind. "Oh thank you!"
"Just promise me that you'll give anything more that you find to the managers."
"Oh, I promise!"
"Good."
She smiled radiantly at him and made for the door, hoping he was sufficiently distracted to allow her to escape the room before he remembered about the cleaning. "Well, I've got to get to practice, I'll see you later—"
"Christine, come back here. There isn't a rehearsal today—it's Sunday."
She took her hand off the knob with a feignedly self-conscious giggle. "Oh yes, of course, how silly of me. I meant that I was going home—"
"After you've finished cleaning up this mess."
"But it's the Sabbath! You can't force me to work on the Sabbath!"
"That's not going to work, Christine. You aren't even a Christian."
"You're mean!" she said loudly, pointing an accusing finger at him.
He didn't seem to take her declaration very seriously. "Yes, I'm very mean. Now, what I'm most concerned about is those trays." He shifted the mountain of clothing to one arm and gestured to the heap of trays, silverware, and food from last week's meals molding on the table. "They're attracting ants."
"It's more convenient to take them a week's worth at a time."
"I'm sure the kitchen staff do not appreciate scraping week-old food off their trays."
"It's not a big deal—it's not like they can have me fired or anything."
"Christine, it's a matter of consideration."
She arranged her face in a pout before stepping forward to take the trays. "Oh, fine then."
"Good. Before you go, tell me which of these to put in the wash." He offered her the mass of muslin.
"Goodness, how should I be able to remember? Just wash them all."
"Christine, that's—"
"Alright, I know, I know, extra work for the washwoman. I'll figure it out when I get back." She dumped the food and silverware onto the first tray and stacked the rest of the trays beneath it. She had started for the door when Erik said,
"As a matter of interest, La Madeleine is celebrating its fortieth anniversary as a church today. Madame Giry has informed me that they've purchased several carts filled with fireworks for the occasion."
"La Madeleine? That temple a few blocks away?"
"Yes."
"You mean it hasn't always been a church?" she asked, trying to balance the hefty pile of pewter as the bowls, poorly stacked on top of the molding food, threatened to slide off the tray.
Erik set the clothing down and took the stack from her. Within moments he had rearranged the tray's contents in a stable fashion. "Napoleon had it built during his reign as a 'Temple of Glory.' Years after his second exile it was converted to a church."
"How nice." Christine hadn't even known that Napoleon was exiled a first time, let alone a second. How strange. Why had he been exiled, since the French people loved him so much even now, decades after the end of his rule? But it had all happened so long ago, she supposed it didn't matter. "Isn't it kind of stupid to have a celebration for some old building?"
"Well, this year is also the sixtieth anniversary of Napoleon's death."
"That's great. Fireworks, is that what you said?"
"Yes—and since it's so close, the celebration will be easily visible from the roof."
"Marvelous, fireworks!" She started for the door, thrilled with the idea of free entertainment and heavenly bursts of colored light.
"Christine, wait."
"What for? Let's go watch the fireworks!"
"But it's three o'clock."
"So what?"
"They won't start the fireworks until nightfall. There's no need to go up to the roof yet."
"Oh," she stammered, blushing. How incredibly stupid of her. "Yes. I knew that. I was just going to—uh—return these dishes!" She grabbed the trays out of his hands.
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She met but a few people in the halls on her way to the kitchens. It made sense, she supposed; all the Christians took Sundays off. She didn't really understand it—the majority of the rats, stagehands, and other unimportant persons did not attend church; why would the managers give them the day off for worship if they weren't going to use it? On the other hand, she had no desire to attend church either. When she had first been hired at the Opera Garnier, she had obediently gone with Mamma to Mass, Communion, and all the rest of it, but after a while she had point-blank refused. They never said anything about the Angel of Music there and had even gone so far as to deny his existence—not that she was even sure of it herself anymore. In any event, it was a waste of time to attend the services of a religion she didn't believe in, and even when she had used the time to pray to the true gods, she could always think of better things she could be doing. She could pray to the gods any time.
There was a lone worker in the kitchen preparing supper for the boarding rats; he scowled when he saw the extra work she had brought for him. She ignored him and flounced away, filled with the ecstasy that came with absolute power. She could do whatever she wanted, and none of her fellow workers, now so below her divine status, could say anything! She could use as much gas as she wanted for the lamps in her dressing room; she could order outrageous meals; she could demand gifts from the managers (well, she was still working on that one); she could—
"Christine!"
"Hello," she said cheerily, suddenly noticing Raoul coming down the corridor. He looked particularly dashing as he strode towards her, wearing a double-breasted overcoat and top hat, and carrying his gloves in the same hand as his cane. She hadn't seen this particular cane before—a black wood with a mother-of-pearl cap. It was simply beautiful!
He bowed and kissed her hand. "My fetching faerie, how are you on this lovely day?"
"Simply marvelous! I can't wait for the fireworks!"
"Fireworks…?" Suddenly he scowled. It did nothing to diminish his radiance—the way his eyes, so light, so beautiful, glittered like ice in the gaslight; the way his hair, so immaculately styled in the latest of fashions, shone like beaten gold…. "Oh yes," he said, sounding slightly annoyed, "that's what Veronique was going on about this morning—some anniversary of Napoleonic something-or-other. It seems the peasantry of Paris will use anything as an excuse for a party."
"Yes, it's the anniversary of the—who is she?" she demanded suddenly, willing herself not to be suspicious. She didn't think she could stand to feel jealousy ever again. "Oh, wait," she said, a wave of relief washing over her, "she's your brother's fiancée. Nevermind." She was slightly embarrassed now. "Are you going to watch the fireworks?"
"I'm afraid I have no choice in the matter. Veronique wishes to go—the historical significance, or something like that—and so I must as well."
"Why?"
"Because…well…my brother is so uncomfortable around other people, you know, so even with his fiancée there, he still made me promise to come with."
"What a wonderful brother you are!"
"Yes, I suppose."
They talked for a few minutes more before Raoul bid her goodbye and continued down to the managers' office (apparently to reprimand them for over-selling tickets to the first four performances). Christine skipped back to her dressing room, in good spirits on account of the fireworks and the fact that she could just relax for the rest of the day.
She was sadly disappointed, therefore, when upon her return she learned that had Erik unearthed her Idomeneo script from where it had been languishing under a pile of costumes in a corner. Handing it to her, he lectured sternly, "If you're going to prove that you'd make a better diva than Carlotta, you need to know your lines."
Christine folded her arms, intending to look daunting and superior so he wouldn't address her like a procrastinating pupil. However, judging from the amused flicker in his eyes, the effect she achieved was closer to that of a pouting child. "But I have the most wonderful mentor in the world to teach me," she said, smiling flirtatiously. "I shouldn't have to memorize lines."
His amusement was replaced by a more serious look. "Christine, no amount of talent can make up for a lack of dedication."
She scowled. "Fine, fine," she groaned, eyeing the script with loathing. Raoul wouldn't lecture her like this. He'd accept her decision without question. Then why does he order dinner for you when you go out, instead of letting you decide? murmured the voice in the back of her mind. Her scowl worsened as she pushed this thought away. Raoul was helping her. But so is Erik, the voice pressed, and over something much more important.
Christine, unable to decide which side was right, decided that she didn't have to come to a decision at that exact moment and dismissed it with a sigh of relief. She took the script Erik was offering her, and, in an attempt to avoid cleaning, sat down to memorize her lines.
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Christine shivered as she reached the top of the stairway, pulling her shawl tighter about her shoulders. The late-November air was crisp and cool, and the icy breeze, full of swirling leaves from the gardens of the Champs Élysées, where Raoul lived, easily pierced the shawl's thin wool. The sky was clear, without a single wisp of cloud to mar its pristine depths. The stars were just starting to appear, seeming like luminous diamonds against the Prussian blue of the firmament.
Slowly she walked out onto the roof, wondering if Erik was already there. She couldn't see him; the only figures visible were the angels of gold and marble, forever watching over the great city with loving eyes. Fortunately there was no snow—the last thing Christine wanted was to spend a night freezing on a rooftop.
She sat down on the stone base of a statue, thinking mildly. It was too bad she couldn't watch the fireworks with Raoul. He would have taken her to the Madeleine and made sure she had the best view in the whole city. He would have treated her to dinner and purchased more fireworks if they ran out too soon. But the evening would still be enjoyable. It wasn't that she minded being around Erik. He was wonderful to her—he had saved her life twice, he was a marvelous teacher and he catered to her every whim. He met almost all of the requirements on the list she had written up for the perfect man qualifying under devotion, subservience, strength and connections. Except where money and looks were concerned, he was a rather wonderful man.
She heard footsteps, and she looked up to see Erik. "Good evening, Christine."
She smiled brightly. "When will the fireworks start?"
"Soon," he replied, walking out onto the roof. "But I'm afraid you won't see much from where you're sitting."
Christine frowned and looked about her. "Why not?"
"Because the Madeleine is over there," he informed her kindly, gesturing to a part of the city obscured by a protruding section of roof near where Christine was sitting.
"I knew that," she protested, though she knew it was pointless to lie.
His smile was affectionate. "Of course. Where shall we sit?"
She thought for a moment, scanning the rooftop for a good vantage point. "Can we sit up there?" The place she was pointing to was a higher echelon of the roof. There did not seem to be an easy way up, but it seemed to Christine that it would provide the best view.
As Erik helped her up to the lofty place she'd chosen, a cold wind reduced Christine to prolonged spasms of shivers. It had been a mistake not to wear warmer clothes.
"Do you want me to fetch your coat?" he asked her.
About to refuse, Christine sat down on the roof and immediately felt its freezing touch through her thin dress. But it would be unfair of her to send him on an errand, just when the fireworks were about to start. "No, that's fine," she said, teeth chattering in contradiction to her words.
Wordlessly Erik removed his jacket and draped it over Christine's shoulders. She started to thank him, but a burst of scarlet light cut her off.
"It's beautiful!" she cried, clapping her hands together in childish joy at the explosion of fireworks. The entire sky had been lit by that first red blaze, followed by silver waves of sparks that melted away into the darkness. Even the lights of the city, usually so bright, appeared weak and diminutive compared to the opening blast of the Madeleine's celebration. After a few seconds of serene darkness, the sky exploded into an infinity of colors. Christine forgot all about the cold, completely entranced by the erratic flashes of electric blue and emerald green that illuminated the blackness. An audible cheer went up from the crowds gathered near the Madeleine, who had momentarily stopped their celebration in awe of the spectacle.
Christine gasped as a blinding flash of light gave way to a shower of golden sparks. "How is such beauty possible?" she gushed. Erik seemed content to sit in silence, so she continued, "My father told me that they were fallen stars that had been caught before they touched the ground, so they wouldn't die. Their light would be put in bottles and thrown into the sky, so the star could return to the heavens. The jar would explode, and the star would escape—but it would give us a beautiful flash of colored light, to thank us for saving its life. But…" She paused sadly, about to give voice to a terrible blasphemy: "But that's not true, is it?"
Erik shook his head. "I'm afraid not."
"What are they really?" She wasn't certain she wanted to know—it would be much easier to keep her father's story intact; it was horribly painful to admit, even to herself, that he had been wrong, even about something small like this.
"If I recall correctly," Erik said thoughtfully, rubbing his chin, "saltpeter, sulfur, and charcoal are ground together into a powder, to which various metal shavings are added to produce colors—strontium for red, copper for blue… I can't recall the metals. A ball of slow-burning powder is used to…"
She listened intently, trying to force herself to accept the truth; it was difficult, because she understood little of what he was saying.
"…the powder is made to burn, but not to explode," Erik continued, seeming to warm to his subject. "When it's lighted, it burns slowly, you see, giving the firework time to shoot up into the sky before the fire reaches the inflammant—"
"Please," she interrupted, unable to keep herself silent. "What does all that mean?"
"Well, put simply, you take a paper tube and fill it with saltpeter—"
"What's that?"
He thought for a moment, searching for a simple explanation. "Gunpowder, basically. Then you add metal shavings to produce the colors."
"How?"
He opened his mouth to tell her, and she said hastily, "No, wait, nevermind. I'm really not that interested."
Christine thought for a long while, too busy digesting this revelation to appreciate the sublime display lighting the sky. She didn't really want to contemplate it—the last thing on earth she wanted to do was discover anything incorrect in her father's wonderful stories.
She slid closer to Erik, realizing that his body was much warmer than hers was. Erik noticed that she was shivering, and he hesitantly wrapped an arm around her shoulders. He still loved her passionately, which made her feel a little awkward, but he was too much of a gentleman to try anything, so she welcomed the buffer against the icy winds. As her shoulders and arms grew warmer, so did her disposition.
A dozen fuchsia orbs burst in the night sky simultaneously, forming a vast crown above the roof of the Madeleine. As their vibrant rays grew longer, they turned a dazzling silver and fell to the earth. The effect was so beautiful that for a few moments Christine decided it was even better than Les Ambassadeurs.