The grand staircase of the Palais Garnier was flanked by two massive, light-bearing sculptures. Two pairs of women, elegantly crafted out of what Nora assumed was bronze, held blazing candelabras aloft. Nora had stared at the lights a bit too long and turned away dazed.
Dazed, as if with a blow to the head, was a suitable word to describe how Nora had been feeling since her last visit to the theater.
The strange events in Box Five had left her almost manic for days after the fact.
(Conversing with a disembodied voice? Allowing herself to be manipulated and ushered away from her box? Letting her amusement transform into annoyance, and the annoyance into anger? Confusion was another emotion that skirted the edges of her consciousness; she refused to admit to it. Clearly, she was not getting sufficient sleep…)
She had dismissed her carriage after Rigoletto that night, believing that a walk in the crisp air would do her good. Perhaps her anger would soften by the time she would arrive home. As it happened, she never managed to return home that night. Instead, she wandered the city, much too late at night, far too recklessly, and for far too long.
By the time she had arrived at Notre Dame, her evening gown was rumpled, the hemline stained irreparably. She had sat in the most inconspicuous seat, listless and unlistening.
…and then, the man at the bridge. What, exactly, had inspired her to accost her shy masked man?
His voice, of course. His voice was like brandy, warm and admittedly quite intoxicating. One could get lost in his voice. Throughout her bizarre 'conversation' with the disembodied voice in Box Five, she had been impressed with the same sensations from listening to the Ghost. The barely tangible sense of familiarity was what had so engaged her in that conversation.
If the masked man had been sullen that morning, as he often was, Nora might not have equated him with the voice at the opera. As it turned out, he was not sullen. Instead, he had been patently amused, as if he was privy to a delicious secret. It occurred to her then that he did have a secret, which was confirmed by his perfect iteration of the voice's parting words.
Perhaps Nora should have confronted the man then, accused him. That was what the heroine in an opera would have done, right? But for the life of her, she could not imagine what to accuse him of. Monsieur, you are either a man masquerading as a ghost, or a ghost cavorting around as a man. Either way, you removed me from the best seat in the house!
Instead, she had turned away and laughed. She continued laughing until she returned home, continued laughing until she collapsed on her bed, and once there, laughed herself to sleep.
Monday was little better on her nerves, for it had brought Didier Moncharmin into her parlor, all simpering servility and blazing curiosity.
Why she demurred and dismissed Moncharmin's inquiries about the 'prankster' was quite beyond her. Perhaps it was the feeling that she had stumbled into something that went far beyond her own interests, or the simple fact that she liked the masked man. Regardless, she had spent the short visit as nervous and vapid as a white-gowned debutante. Moncharmin may not have noticed, but Mr. Carey gave her a knowing look that made her feel all of thirteen.
The nerves stayed with her throughout the week and made her irascible. Nora knew for a fact that she had not succeeded in endearing herself to the new property lawyer she had engaged, and had possibly prompted her landlady to start delivering day-old bread.
And now she stood, back in the place where all of her recent troubles began. The chimes began to announce the forthcoming performance. She suppressed an unladylike growl, and started up the stairs.
Tonight, she was seated alone in Box Six. It had the distinction of being directly across from the memorable Box Five, which was unoccupied for the moment. Faces were carved on the two massive pillars that flanked the box: one a grinning Dionysian, the other a serene woman with downcast eyes. The Dionysian seemed to mock Nora's unabashed examination of the empty box; the woman appeared to be embarrassed for her. She continued in spite of them.
She rather envied that Sunday-stroll-taking apparition. If she wanted a box to herself—and she always wanted a box to herself—she was usually obliged to purchase six tickets. He had his empty box based on, what? Some strange sleight-of-hand?
The lights dimmed and Nora forced her attention to the stage. The curtain rose, and the first notes of an airy overture started. It was too light, too pastoral for her current mood.
By Nora's calculations, she succeeded in paying proper attention for all of three minutes.
Not to say that she usually paid better attention. Nora had often come to the opera and been distracted away from the main stage. The orchestra usually held her attention, or the stagehands waiting in the wings, if she was in a position to see them. Bit actors were especially funny when they believed themselves unobserved.
Tonight the entire cast and crew passed by unnoticed. She was fixated on Box Five.
The Flower Duet turned her to the stage for a short period of time. It had come into fashion over the past year, and Nora admitted that its popularity was fully justified.
By the beginning of the second act, Nora found that she was nearly at ease and savoring the performance appropriately. Seeing a new opera was a rare thing in North America. The new Metropolitan in New York would perhaps remedy that for the Americans; Nora did not believe Ottawa would be constructing a decent opera house in the near future.
A lengthy dance section began, and Nora found her eyes drawn once again to Box Five. The shadows had deepened since she had last looked. She lifted her unused opera glasses and looked across the auditorium. Empty, utterly empty. The shadow must have been an illusion, or a trick of the stage lights. She started to force her attention back to the stage but stopped.
There was something in Box Five. Through the opera glasses, she could just barely make out two glittering, glaring points of golden yellow light, shining unmistakably in her direction.
If not for the spectral color, she might have mistaken them for a pair of eyes.
Erik had been surprised when he learned that the Garnier would be staging Lakmé, even if it was a one night engagement.
He had always imagined the relationship between the Garnier and the Comique as something akin to a fierce sibling rivalry. It was obviously a subject he lacked personal experience in, but he had watched many an opera deal with the matter. Neither theater could stand to share a spotlight and both delighted in stealing it away if need be. The idea that the Comique would willingly lend anything to the Garnier instantly caused Erik suspicion.
During the first act, he personally observed as much of the backstage goings-on as possible. He was mostly satisfied with what he saw. He doubted that any of the singers would attempt sabotage; such a move would undoubtedly cause them more pain than it would the Garnier.
As the second act began, Erik made his way to Box Five. He found Lakmé to have a certain charm, though he thought Le Roi de Lahore handled similar themes with a bit more panache.
He noticed her within moments of sitting down. The woman with the rosary—the woman who had dismissed the Ghost and laughed at Erik— was seated in Box Six. From this distance, he could not clearly make out her features, but her bearing was unmistakable. She remained absolutely still, save the occasional turn of her head. She turned towards him, Erik realized. Every few minutes, her attention would drift from the stage and invariably settle on Box Five.
Erik was sure that he was well hidden until she seemed to startle and held up her opera glasses in his direction. A moment later, she lowered them and turned back to the stage. Was it Erik's imagination, or did she shudder? Why had she returned?
To enjoy the opera, you idiot. Erik waved away that thought—he put little stock in obvious answers. Had she come to speak with the managers? Did she intend to seek him out? If so, to what end? Time and again, her eyes drifted over to Box Five. Act Two was drawing to a close, and Erik made a decision.
Nora applauded as the curtain fell on Lakmé appealing to Durga to save her fallen lover. There! Two acts completed without the faintest suggestion of unpleasantness. She contemplated leaving Box Six during this final intermission but remained seated. Mingling with strangers had never been one of her strong points, despite gentle breeding and a decade of travel.
She wondered if she would see the man in the mask tomorrow morning. If so, would they simply carry on in their morning greetings, ignoring the Rigoletto incident entirely? Perhaps that would be for the best. After all, Nora fully intended to be back home—or at least elsewhere—by the New Year. She found it difficult enough to maintain friendships with those set right in front of her; at a distance, she found it impossible.
Yes, don't worry about the masked man, don't worry about the opera—it will all be over soon enough.
Nora took the reappearance of the box keeper in the faded black dress as an ill-omen.
"Madame," the old woman seemed to be in a better mood tonight. Nora did not find this comforting. "I have a letter for you."
Nora accepted the unmarked envelope. "How can you tell?"
"His instructions were very clear—'deliver this to the lady who had been in Box Five last Saturday. You will find her in Box Six. Await her reply.'"
"May I ask who he is?" The envelope contained a sheet of heavy cardstock, edged in funerary black.
"The Ghost, of course," the box keeper said, as if this was the most logical conclusion one could come to.
"Of course." The note was written in red ink and the most childish hand Nora had ever encountered.
Madame,
Wait for me at the far end of the Grand Foyer after Act III.
The command was unsigned.
"Did—ah—Monsieur give any reason for this?" Nora held up the card.
The box keeper's manner became stern. "Monsieur is not obliged to give reasons."
"Of course." Nora turned to look back at Box Five. It was well-lit now, and still quite empty.
"Madame's reply?"
Nora did not turn to look at her. "There can be no harm in complying… I suppose."
This appeared to be the correct answer, for the box keeper politely took her leave.
Madame Giry knocked on the door of Box Five.
The angelic voice of the Ghost responded: "Do enter, Madame Jules! "
She did, and found the box empty, as expected. "Madame read the letter."
"And her response? " The Ghost's voice seemed to hover directly in front of Madame Giry, as if a voice could maintain eye contact.
"She agreed."
"Did she indeed? " The Ghost sounded pleased, and Madame Giry smiled for him. 'Madame in Box Six' struck the box keeper as one of those irritating, autocratic ladies who possessed an excess of means and time. But who knew what the Ghost had in store for her, and who was she to judge? Her little Meg may not have caught the eye of an emperor, but she was now the lead of the ballet corps and had the attention of a very fine baron. All thanks, Madame Giry was sure, to her good, ghostly patron.
"Is that all, Monsieur?"
"Why, yes, Madame—but do remember to come back after the performance to collect your tip! "
Was it too much to hope that the tip might include a box of English sweets?