Chapitre Vingt-Huit: Le Enlèvement

At the Garnier the following day, the six o'clock hour found the Vicomte de Chagny trying without success to control his anger. The whole week had been a veritable cavalcade of disasters: he hadn't been able to purchase the dinner jacket he had gone to great lengths to acquire, the Marquis de Montberon had beaten him at polo, D'Aubigne had utterly destroyed his relationship with Fleurette (they all found out in the end, but it was so blasted hard to find desirable women that didn't care about or hadn't already heard about the engagement), and he was being forced by Philippe to attend a dinner with the horrid Veronique, on top of which, he couldn't find Christine to protect her from the damned Marquis D'Aubigne—and then, as if all that wasn't quite enough, Carlotta Torres had just decided to voice her opinion of "dat Mademoiselle Daaé." And while he stood here and defended Christine's honor, Christine was alone in the opera house! All alone, devoid of protection, and perhaps in the clutches of the Marquis D'Aubigne!

He turned his attention back to Carlotta, who had been squawking at him for the past few minutes. "Dat Christine Daaé es mud on da bottom of my shoes," spat the ex-diva, finishing this statement with several Spanish curses. She was dressed in a monstrous gown, with cascades of decadent red silk and black lace. But Carlotta's excessive masses of bright make-up, combined with her towering inferno of black hair, made the whole effect rather overbearing. Anyone less cultured than himself would have assumed that this was the style in Spain and that she was just honoring her heritage—no one would look like that on purpose.

Carlotta had been talking all this time, and her shrill piercing voice was impossible to ignore for very long. "When dat rata ruins de opera, the managers will be crawling back to me, on manos y rodillas, you be marking my words!"

"Señorita, Christine is no such thing! She sings like a beautiful dove! Her skin is flawless alabaster, her eyes sparkle like—like shining stars!" An image of Christine floated to the top of his mind, causing him to pause in awe and reverence of her beauty.

A few moments later, the impatient tapping of Carlotta's foot brought him back to the present state of affairs. "Oh yes—and I would thank you not to say such foul things about her in my presence."

Much to Raoul's annoyance, she loosed a piercing shriek of laughter that could be heard throughout the opera house. "And 'oo are you, to be defending 'er so? 'Er lover?" She snorted. "Usted es muy guapo y rico—demasiado por ella." Carlotta batted her over-large eyelashes at him.

Raoul started. And not just because he knew enough Spanish to understand what she had said. In fact, her very posture implied… Goodness, no. Well, he supposed that someone with such handsome and regal qualities as himself would have to put up with undesirable women flirting with him occasionally. "As a matter of fact," he boasted pompously, "I am her lover."

Carlotta laughed again. "Ou' of all da girls in Paris, you 'ad to pick dat one? Christine Daaé es una don nadie! She cannot 'old a match to da beauty tha' es my voice." The flourish with which she rolled her r's was beginning to grate on his strained nerves.

"How dare you say such wicked things about my darling Christine?" he demanded, momentarily losing his control. He could feel the battle raging between his anger and his upper-class breeding. "Señorita," he managed through gritted teeth, "get thee gone, before I lose restraint over my temper."

This only brought more peals of laughter from Carlotta. "Vicomte, you might not be very bright, but you are deserving someding better dan a mere chorus girl!"

"She isn't a chorus girl!"

Carlotta's fluorescent lips curled into a sneer, and her overly-mascara-ed eyes narrowed hatefully. "Maybe no' at de moment—but after de first performance of Idomeneo she will be! You cannot 'ide a mongrel in a diva's clothing for long!"

"How dare you—!"

She waved his anger aside. "I' does not matter. I 'ave always said dere is no accounting for taste. I make you a deal."

"What could you possibly—"

"¡Cállate! Jus' listen! If you are 'er lover, you are a very poor one—dere are all kinds of men always around dat ballet rata, like bees buzzing around a piece of 'oneycomb! You are no' protecting her from all dese lobos!"

"Lobos?"

"Wolves, vicomte, wolves!"

"Who is bothering her? Tell me and I'll have them fired!"

"Dere are being too many to name! You get rid of dem, the next round of men will take dere place! And what about de Phantom? 'E is being responsible for 'er diva-'ood, you know—she couldn't have done it by herself. Ella canta como una comadreja!"

"Christine has told me she has no contact with the Phantom!"

"Ha! 'Ow can you be so gullible? She is lying to you!"

"Christine would never lie to me!"

"You go ahead an' convince yourself of dat, vicomte—it does no' matter. If de Phantom does no' get 'er, de plaga will! 'Ow you say—pneumonia, yes!"

"Why do you care?"

"You take de rata to your mansion—keep 'er safe from all dese tings. And I will take back my crown."

"I couldn't possibly do that to her—"

"It is being for 'er own protection, cannot you see dis? Take 'er out of 'arms way, 'ave your fun with your rata mistress, an' when you are being tired of 'er, she can 'ave her job back."

"How dare you say that I could ever tire of my darling angel—!"

"Well you certainly don't intend to be marrying 'er, do you?"

"Well—maybe—"

"You are engaged, you buey estúpido! To de Comtess de la Musardiere! You would be better to jump off de roof dan to renounce your promise to marry 'er!"

Though he took objection to being called a stupid ox, he shoved his anger aside. "Yes, you're right, of course—I can't marry her. And in a month when I wed Mademoiselle de la Musardiere, Christine may return to her position here, as diva?"

"Sí, sí, of course."

"Why would you agree to that?"

"Because by den I will 'ave arranged for a position at a better opera 'ouse. Dis performance of Idomeneo nine days from now is a—what is de word—'undred-year celebration, no?"

"Centennial. So?"

"So it is being talked about across Europe! I mus' play Princess Ilia!"

Raoul frowned, uncertain of the whole affair.

Carlotta sighed in irritation. "Fine, fine! I did not want to 'ave to be telling you dis, but a man is 'ere right now waiting for da re'er-sal to end so 'e can bag your darling little songbird!"

His head shot up. "What?!"

", a nobleman, with riches far beyond dose dat you are 'aving, vicomte. She will not be able to refuse dis man!"

"The Marquis D'Aubigne!"

"Yes, dat was 'is name."

Raoul wasted no time to reply and flew past the diva in his haste to reach Christine. He would have to whisk her away to the safety of his mansion at once before the loathsome marquis stole the most beautiful woman in the world!

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

After the vicomte was out of sight, Carlotta finally allowed herself to laugh. She had originally planned to steal the vicomte away from the Swedish rat, but this worked out much better. What a stupid, pitiful oaf that vicomte was, falling for a story like that! And what a poor amount of faith he must place in his precious little rata, to be so gullible (of course, given Christine Daaé's intellect, it was understandable).

She turned and strode down the hall, straight to the managers' office. Once they learned that their cheap little surrogate had bailed ship, just like the rat she was, they would have no alternative but to accept her, Carlotta, goddess of a thousand songs, back as the diva of the Opera Garnier, the only woman in the world who currently knew every line of Idomeneo.

She couldn't restrain a scream of triumph; she had succeeded in ridding the Garnier of the usurping little toad, and nothing would ever come between her and her crown again!

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

Christine walked off the stage and into the maze of hallways, feeling sulky and rather wrung-out. It was unfair that the managers had just wasted seven hours of her day—how stupid could they be, to try to conduct a dress rehearsal without enough stagehands to move all the sets! And how could they possibly expect her, their diva, their goddess, without whom there is no performance, to push pieces of furniture around like a common employee?

What was equally degrading was that, in light of the impossibility of a rehearsal, the managers had instructed everyone to stay and paint banners to hang above the street advertising the opening performance. How perfectly ridiculous that they would expect their cast to do it, just to save the few francs it would have cost to have the banners made professionally! Erik had told her the managers had almost run out of money—they had spent all of their own and almost all of Raoul's donations, the remainder of which they were keeping on hand for themselves in case Idomeneo didn't bring in enough of a return. She could understand that, she supposed—she would do the same in their position, though she never would have invested her money (if she had any) here with Firmin and André in command. They were very fortunate that they had Erik. They were still frightened of him for some reason or another (and yet refusing to pay him a single franc)—Erik only interfered when the success of the opera was at stake, and he seemed to do so in a non-threatening way when possible—but they couldn't help but reluctantly agree with his logic once it had a chance to sink in. Still, even with his help, the opera was likely to be a disaster, what with the epidemic, the crime (caused by the epidemic, according to Erik; she didn't understand the connection), and the poor management.

She saw a metal trash can inside one of the offices she was passing and seriously considered chucking her script in with the rubbish. She hated looking at the bound stack of pages with her name scrawled on it, which seemed to stare back at her accusingly as if conscious of the fact that she still did not know all of her lines. It was ridiculous; it wasn't her fault that the stupid opera was written in Italian. All Erik had said was that she should do everything humanly possible; well, this opera was humanly impossible. He couldn't argue with that.

She was halfway through the door towards the trash can when a man's voice stopped her: "Why, you must be Mademoiselle Daaé."

She turned to see a tall, thin gentleman striding down the hallway towards her. She quickly scanned his appearance, impressed with her findings. His clothes looked very expensive and were quite reminiscent of Raoul's; he must be at the very height of fashion—a nobleman!

He removed his hat as he approached, and she saw a gold signet ring on his hand. "I must say," he continued, in a smooth, self-assured voice, "you are absolutely seraphic! What an angel!" He kissed her hand, and she giggled as his lips lingered on her skin; how exciting that she could have two aristocratic suitors!

"I am the Marquis D'Aubigne—but you may call me Laurent."

Christine's ecstasy at discovering the lofty rank of her new beau was dimmed by the chilling look in his eyes as they raked over her body, his whole face transformed into that of some terrifying carnivore studying its prey. Goodness, he looked as though he wanted to eat her alive!

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Laurent," she said as cordially as she could manage. It must just be the lighting, she reasoned, trying to quash the creeping sensation that was threatening her spine. Surely his expression is simply one in awe of my glorious beauty. Yes, that must be it.

His face returned to a more amiable state, and she convinced herself that she had imagined its previous expression entirely. "Yes, quite a pleasure," he replied, in a drawling voice. "I'm sure you've heard of my family's extensive holdings." He sighed dramatically. "It's so loathsome having so much money and no one to spend it on—a young lady, perhaps; one with beauty and talent, but tragically poor, just waiting for a worthy marquis to sweep her off her feet."

"Why monseigneur, you flatter me—"

"I'm thinking of buying a restaurant near here—just a whim, you understand, but I would simply love to have a woman's discerning opinion concerning the place."

Christine, absolutely dumbstruck, could only open and close her mouth, unable to force out any sound as her mind raced. This man must be absurdly rich, to be able to buy restaurants on a whim like baubles!

"What's the matter, my adorable little angel? Hasn't the Vicomte de Chagny ever taken you to one of his restaurants?"

"No, I—"

"Oh, how foolish of me! I'd forgotten he didn't have any! A creature of such legendary beauty shouldn't be wasting her time on a lower-class noble like him. Now come; the reservations are for six-fifteen."

He grabbed her arm and steered her towards the exit. She walked along willingly at first, dropping her script on a nearby table in the hopes that someone would move it and she could honestly say she had lost it. (She had learned yesterday at church that honesty was important in the Bible—it was even one of the Commandments. Fortunately she was smart enough to think of ways around lying so she technically wasn't sinning.) She was congratulating herself on her intelligence when she realized that the marquis had just insulted her fiancé.

She dug her heels into the floor. "Take back what you just said about Raoul!"

"Fine, fine," sighed the marquis, still pulling her along. "I rescind that perfectly true statement. Now will you come? The restaurant won't hold reservations very long, even for someone as important as myself."

"At least let me change first."

"You look fine." He sounded a little impatient now, which annoyed Christine even more than his snide remark about Raoul.

"I'm afraid that I can't dine with you, marquis—I'm engaged to the Vicomte de Chagny."

To her surprise and horror, instead of falling to her feet and begging that she leave the vicomte and marry him instead, he actually laughed. "Chagny would never even consider marrying you. He may be tasteless, but he's not completely stupid."

"WHAT—"

"Hurry up—if you aren't in my carriage in one minute, I'll take some other, more appreciative chorus girl."

"I'M NOT A CHORUS GIRL!" she shrieked, stomping her foot in rage. "I'M A DIVA! I'm the most important woman in Paris! And you can't treat me like a servant!"

His impatient expression suddenly turned ugly. "You impudent little brat! You're little better than a servant! You should be thanking me on your knees for paying you any attention at all!"

Shrieking with fury, she was about to leap onto the marquis' face and claw his eyes out when she heard pounding footsteps echoing down the hall. She turned to see Raoul rushing to rescue her from the demonic marquis. "Raoul, Raoul," she cried, "get this horrid man out of my sight!"

"You heard her!" Raoul shouted, brandishing his sword threateningly. "Get out of my opera house!"

"She isn't worth my time," said the marquis calmly, fingering the gold cap on his cane. "Under normal circumstances I wouldn't even bother."

"THEN GET OUT!"

The marquis continued as if he hadn't been interrupted: "But since you seem to have some odd fascination for the little rat, I just can't walk away." He pulled a necklace from his jacket pocket and dangled the glittering pendant in front of Christine's eyes. "Look what I'll give you if you'll just have dinner with me."

Christine was about to damn the man to Niflheim—which, in the confusion, she had forgotten didn't exist anymore—when her eyes fixed on the enormous diamond an inch from her face. It was the size of a small plum and sparkled with a rainbow of colors in the gaslight. She started to say no several times, but she couldn't get it out.

"See, marquis," said Raoul triumphantly, "she doesn't want your pernicious pendant. Now, my sweet, we'll go—"

"Wuh—wuh—well, maybe I could—"

"Ha ha!" exclaimed the marquis.

Raoul shoved the diamond out of Christine's face and forcibly steered her towards the exit. "Come along, darling, move faster."

She continued to stare at the necklace in the marquis' gloved hand, stammering incoherently as he dragged her down the hallway.

"Buh—but Raoul, I could just—"

"NO! He won't really give you that diamond, Christine! He's not a marquis—he's a fiend—a contemptible scoundrel—the most threatening of the lobos trying to take advantage of your innocence!"

The marquis laughed coldly. "Come now, Chagny, don't be so melodramatic. And don't worry, pretty little Christine," he called to her. "I'll be waiting when you return to the opera house tomorrow."

"She won't be returning tomorrow!" Raoul hauled her around the corner and out of sight, but she could still hear the marquis' mocking laughter.

When they reached the doors, Christine finally rallied enough of her brainpower to make a coherent protest. "But there's a rehearsal tomorrow! I have to be here!"

"Nevermind the rehearsal!" Raoul snapped.

"But I'll lose my divahood!" she whined, falling to the floor and starting to cry.

"This isn't the time for a tantrum! Get up! I can hear his footsteps!"

"I don't care! I have to be here!"

"How can you be so abominably stupid, Christine?! Why it's enough to—" Raoul stopped abruptly as she started to cry harder and changed tactics: "It's not just D'Aubigne! There's the epidemic! It's reached this area of the city, and it's hitting it hard!"

She stopped crying long enough to consider this declaration. "Is that why there aren't enough stagehands?" she said, after a moment of intense thought.

"Who cares?! It's you that matters, Christine, and only you—if you stay here, in contact with the masses that come to view the opera, you'll most certainly catch pneumonia and die!"

"Really?" She wiped her nose on her sleeve. "Is it that serious? What is pneumonia, anyway?"

Raoul suddenly noticed a man at the end of the hallway from where Christine had just walked, and his entire body tensed, as if he were a fear-struck animal that has caught sight of a monstrous predator. "God, there he is! Come on!" he shouted, throwing Christine off-balance as he bolted for the front entrance.

"Raoul," she whined, trying in vain to pull out of his grip, "where are we going?"

"I'll tell you in the carriage! Hurry!"

"Take back the terrible thing you said!"

"Yes, yes, I'm sorry! Hurry up!"

"But I can't leave—Erik's expecting me for our lesson!"

"Surely you can miss just—" Raoul broke off suddenly, wondering if he had heard right. "Who is Erik?"

"He's the Phantom of the Opera and he'll be angry if you make me miss my lesson so close to the—"

"What?" Raoul breathed, his voice, almost a hiss, and his narrowed eyes made him look almost like a snake.

She gasped and clapped a belated hand over her mouth.

"You mean to tell me that you really are in contact with this—this womanizing fiend?"

"He's not a womanizing fiend!" she said loudly, extending her lower lip in a pout. "He's wonderful!"

"And you lied to me?" he continued, as if he hadn't heard, his eyes going red like a bull that had caught sight of a waving cloth.

"Yes, well, what did you want me to do? I couldn't let you challenge him to a duel and deprive me of my instructor!"

"And he was the hideous monstrosity who attacked me at Perros?!"

"How dare you say that he's a—what?!" she demanded. "Attacked you?! Why were you there? You followed me!"

"Christine, you little fool!" he snarled, gripping her shoulders furiously and shaking her. "How could you consort with a monster—a hideous, manipulative monster! My God, I've blindly let you stay here, under his influence, for months, and—he did kidnap you, didn't he?! Oh, God, you lied about that, too?!"

She squirmed out of his grip. "Let me go! Stop being so mean! It's all fine, don't you see that? He was teaching me to sing, but I want to be a vicomtess even more than a diva now, so none of it matters!"

He froze, hands still outstretched, and she could see furious thought behind his raging eyes.

"Well then come on!" he declared, grabbing her arm and tugging her towards the doors.

His wild anger seemed to have quelled somewhat, and she interpreted an acceptance of marriage in his response, so she happily walked with him for a moment before another thought suddenly came to mind. "Will I be back for supper?" she asked, dallying in the doorway. "Mamma is fixing mock turtle soup and—"

"Of course you won't! The pneumonia—and the damned marquis!—and oh, God, that monster!—they won't be gone by suppertime! I'll send a message to Madame Valerius that you won't be able to make it!"

She caught hold of a doorway, jarring their progress to a halt. "But I like that soup!"

"Soup!" Raoul exclaimed, staring up at the heavens as if begging for patience. "There are wolves and plagues and she's talking about soup! Christine, I'll have my chef fix you whatever you want! Soups, salads, caviar, araignée de mer, filet mignon—"

"But that necklace—"

"I'll buy you a bigger one!"

"You will?"

"Yes, yes, anything, just come!"

She considered for a moment, and then ran to keep up with him.

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

Raoul, having shoved the driver aside, whipped the horses to a full gallop along the streets of Paris, utterly ruining Christine's chance to enjoy the scenery along the nine blocks to the Champs Élysées. He seemed almost frenzied, and it frightened Christine a little; he ignored everything she said the entire way, just as he ignored the shouts from pedestrians and screams from those he threatened to run over in his mad haste.

She was already starting to regret her hasty decision to flee the opera house; she should have taken more time to think things out. It was a flattering and exciting thought that she could have two noblemen in love with her, but she wasn't sure she wanted it—the marquis had been so rude! She'd just have to live without the dazzling fortune he'd promised to spend on her.

"Where are we going?" she shouted up at Raoul.

"My mansion!" he yelled back, whipping the horses with even more fervor.

She thought for a moment. It would be nice to spend a few days at Raoul's glamorous mansion. The breach of etiquette would be overlooked, she was certain; they were engaged, after all, and it was an emergency. Besides, he could shower her with jewels and silks and chocolates to make up for the necklace she had just lost. But what about her divahood? She did want it, despite what she had just told Raoul. The managers had told her that if she missed one more rehearsal, she'd lose the part. And if the pneumonia were a danger, surely Erik would have warned her. Oh, dear—what had she gotten herself into?

"Get out of the way, you blasted peasants!" yelled Raoul, brandishing his whip as the passersby leapt out of the way of the carriage.

"Slow down!" she shrieked, holding on for dear life as they rounded a corner.

He ignored her completely, and she continued to scream until the carriage came to a jarring halt, throwing her to the floor.

Before she could get up, the door was yanked open and Raoul hurriedly helped her out of the carriage. It took her a moment to realize that the beautiful building in front of them was Raoul's mansion.

"Come on!" he said impatiently, grasping her hand and half-dragging her towards the front door.

Christine caught a glimpse of the horrid butler as they passed through the doors and into the foyer. "Sir, what—" the man began to protest, but Raoul cut him off:

"Prepare a room for Mademoiselle Daaé at once!"

The butler continued to stare.

"Get moving!" Raoul snapped.

A man entered the foyer from what appeared to be a library. "Raoul, why are you shouting?"

"Philippe!" Raoul seemed to force himself into a relative state of calm, though his body was taut and his eyes blazing with tension and impatience. "Philippe, this is Christine Daaé. Christine, this is my brother, the Comte de Chagny."

Philippe set down the book he was carrying and kissed Christine's hand. He was tall and quite thin, and though he looked about thirty, the light in his dark blue eyes, wise and wearied, made him appear much older. "A great pleasure, mademoiselle," he said, with grave sincerity. "I had the good fortune to witness your spectacular performance of Faust."

Christine decided immediately that she liked him. "Why, thank you, monsieur."

"Raoul, forgive me for asking, but what exactly are you planning to do? Mademoiselle de la Musardiere will be here any moment to plan relief efforts for the epidemic."

"Oh, blast it, I forgot! You'll have to deal with her!"

Philippe blanched. "What?"

"I'm busy!" Raoul propelled Christine up the stairs to the second story. "Please, Philippe, this is an emergency!"

"Raoul, you can't ask me to—"

Raoul stomped down the stairs until he was inches from his brother. "Do you recall the new Marquis D'Aubigne?"

"Arnaud's son? Yes—detestable fellow."

"He's targeted Christine as his next victim! I barely managed to get her away from the Garnier before he got her!"

"And you brought her here?"

"Yes! It's the only place she'll be safe from him!"

"And the plague," Christine chimed in.

"She means pneumonia."

"What about Idomeneo?" asked Philippe.

"It's not the primary concern here!"

"But Erik will be upset if I'm not there for the opening night!" Christine whined.

"Why do you care what he thinks? He's a monster, for God's sake!"

"STOP CALLING HIM THAT!" she screamed, so loudly and shrilly that her throat burned—but Raoul clapped his hands over his ears, so, in her anger, she felt it was worth the pain.

"Raoul," interceded the comte, "You don't think this is a bit excessive, bringing a woman to stay with us when the wedding is only—"

"Philippe!" Raoul shouted, gripping his brother's shoulders, on the point of frenzy. "PLEASE! At least entertain Veronique until I take care of Christine!"

"Veronique? She's your fiancée, right?" Christine asked Philippe.

"ENOUGH TALKING!" Raoul thundered. "When she gets here—"

A knock sounded at the door, causing them all to jump.

"She's here now! Philippe, please, please, if you value the reputation of the Chagnys at all, answer the door!"

Philippe stood frozen in the middle of the foyer, staring at his frantic brother; for a horribly long moment, Christine watched fear and honor battling on his thin face.

She tugged on Raoul's sleeve. "What's so bad about Veronique?"

"Be quiet!" Raoul snapped.

Shocked and hurt, she started to cry loudly. As Raoul hastily tried to comfort her, Philippe nodded hesitantly.

"Thank you!" snapped Raoul.

As Philippe headed for the door, Raoul raced back up to Christine and forcibly led her to a room at the far end of the hall.