Chapter 57 Tactics
Erik hadn't known what to do. When he'd delivered his final note to Emilie first thing that morning, she'd been - rather unnecessarily, he'd thought - cold and quite discourteous. He'd wanted to go into her rooms and see Christine again. Ask his beloved how she'd slept, how she was feeling? If she needed anything? If she wanted to perhaps come to the Chapel and rehearse for Il Muto with him? But Emilie's icy reaction and firm assertion that Christine was still asleep had cooled the ardent fire in his blood and made him retreat like a wounded animal to the flies above the stage.
Though Emilie was quite right in keeping them apart, he now mused. He had thus far in his dealings with Christine behaved without the manners befitting his breeding. Yet when they were together, convention could not possibly hope to apply. What they shared transcended what many took for granted as normal life. The rules of courtship had - by necessity of his, rather unique, situation - been thrown to the four winds to scatter upon the breeze.
The times they'd already been alone and unchaperoned were far too numerous to count. And he wondered why he'd let Emilie stop him that morning, when he knew nothing on earth would stop him that night. The thought of having Christine in his arms again made him physically ache for time to pass and the performance to be over. And the vision of having her writhing beneath him, naked in his bed, made his stomach and jaw clench against the wanton images flooding his mind.
Would there even be a need for words of seduction? Or would she be as brazen as she'd been that morning - asking to be taken into his arms, holding his hand to her heart, just above her breasts? The memories washed over him again, threatening to tear down his good sense and send him running back to Emilie's room to throw convention straight to hell and take Christine right there, upon Emilie's own chaise.
He jumped up at the thought and started to pace up and down along the small ledge. But what if the opposite were true? What if, when it came to it, she grew hesitant and afraid? Would there be any way he could control himself if she asked him to stop? He grimaced at his own stupidity. Of course, he'd stop. They'd take everything now at her pace and he'd gauge his own actions accordingly. His lack of control when she'd unmasked him had obviously un-nerved them both. He was determined never to frighten her again.
And besides, he'd walk across the stage wearing nothing but Carlotta's new hat if Christine asked him to. He snorted with laughter at the mental image that presented and sat back down upon the ledge, unable to tear his mind away from that one train of thought.
He imagined running his fingers down Christine's flat and toned stomach. His breath caught as he thought how soft the skin of her inner thighs would be as he brushed his hands up her legs, underneath her skirts. Leaning his head back, he closed his eyes and let himself be swept away with the idea of slowly undressing her, of constantly kissing her, of feeling her naked breasts brush against his bare chest. He groaned aloud and forced himself to stop. The way he was going he'd have to go back to his home within moments and take himself in hand, or else he'd never get through the day.
Perhaps that would be a good idea anyway, he didn't want tonight to come to its forgone conclusion too rapidly and embarrass himself. Or leave her unsatisfied. He knew that he'd never feel more of a man than when he held her later that night, sated in his arms.
He looked down through the rigging beneath him as Reyer stopped the rehearsal for some reason and people scurried about like ants upon his stage. He pitied them. How could they ever know a love like the one he and Christine shared? But then how many of them truly ever gave themselves to another? For was that not the pinnacle of love - to put the object of one's affection far above your own? To worship and adore; to give them everything their heart desired, as he did to Christine?
He began to watch the dress rehearsal beneath him, staring dispassionately at the ballerinas. Not one invoked even the slightest flicker of desire in him. They all had similar shapes to Christine; long legs, ample breasts - yet he felt absolutely nothing. He belonged to her so completely that it was beginning to physically hurt to be away from her. He wondered if she knew she already held his heart and soul in the palm of her hand - hers to do with as she wished. He felt weak before her, helpless to resist. Yet at the same time it seemed as if a power had been flowing through him since that morning, when she'd touched him again during her apology, that couldn't be abated.
He smiled malevolently. The Opera Ghost ruling the theatre that day was stronger than he'd ever been before. His new instructions would be heard and obeyed soon enough. And then they'd all bow to his will. His words were not merely empty threats. He already had a new concoction to replace Carlotta's usual throat spray. Her reliance on that particular prop would be her undoing, if she continued to throw her ever-increasing weight about and refused to accede to Christine replacing her again.
He licked his lips in anticipation; then wondered why he'd never thought of it before. Carlotta would be humiliated before the entire audience, before all of Paris - maybe all of France. For all the scurrilous reporters who frequented the drinking dens of the stagehands to source gossip would be able to sell such a tale to the highest bidder, after the fact. What a shame he couldn't forewarn them and have them all sitting front and centre in the audience, ready for the real 'show'.
"Ah," he said, as an echoing shriek rang out beyond the auditorium. "There you are, Signora."
Moving swiftly from his position, Erik moved across the flies and then crouched down in the darkness to watch as Carlotta's voice grew louder.
With a crash, she flung open the doors at the back of the auditorium and came down between the aisles, flinging her hands into the air to punctuate each word she screeched.
Like some grotesque parody of a wedding procession Andre, Firmin, Piangi and their usual cronies followed quickly behind her, trying to placate her any way they knew how. She, of course, ignored them all.
He noted that Emilie and Marguerite were also part of the fracas and delighted in the scowl upon Emilie's face.
Though Meg had an anxious expression, she knew better than to even talk during the melee, realising - thankfully - that such an action would only cause their resident Diva to turn her performance up a notch. But Emilie was in no mood to put up with such histrionics and though she didn't voice her protest, her pursed lips and scornful eyes made her feelings plainly known to all.
Furrowing his brow, Erik noticed that the last person in the group was de Chagny. It was strange that he wasn't next to Firmin and Andre as they tried desperately to reason with Carlotta, but hanging around at the back. "Like a bad smell," he sneered.
As Carlotta climbed onto the stage then stormed across it, Erik noticed what de Chagny carried in his hand. "You got my note then?" he smirked. He stood up slowly, and the smile faded from his face. "Heed those words, Vicomte," he snarled. "Do not think to go near her again."
It was a wonder Raoul didn't feel the burning hatred emanating from the shadows as he passed, with Erik's eyes blazing down at him through the dark.
In an instant the commotion left the stage and was off through the corridors behind. People watched for a moment, huddled in gossiping groups, then Reyer called them all back to attention and the ballet rehearsal began anew.
It was some moments before Erik calmed sufficiently to sit back down, yet his mind still whirled. What would the Vicomte know of real love? The pain Erik had felt when he'd written his note came back full force. At the time, he'd thought Christine was lost to him forever - but he'd be damned if that meant de Chagny could have her instead! Now it held a slightly different meaning. Christine was his by her choice - and if de Chagny knew what was good for him, he'd heed the warning and stay very far away.
His attention was taken however, when the Carlotta's noise again seemed to be coming back towards the stage. Moving swiftly to a different position, Erik watched as she stormed back down the corridor, still screeching at the top of her voice. Yet to his great amusement, it seemed as if the whole company was jeering and laughing at her. Leon even had the audacity to bare his rather considerable backside to her. "How utterly perfect," he smiled. "Why did I never think of that?"
Grinning wickedly, he watched as she went across the stage, knocking ballerinas out of her way without a care. They cried out in protest but knew better than to push the point when they realised just who was doing the knocking. "Goodbye, you vicious hag," he said, standing tall and defiant in the shadows. "Do you see now that no one will miss you?"
He noted with particular glee that she seemed to have already packed, and taken anything of value - well, to her anyway - and gave a sarcastic little wave of his hand as she disappeared through the top doors once more.
Several sayings came to mind - a job well done, good riddance to bad rubbish - yet none could truly encompass the joy he felt at being rid of her at last. No doubt she'd find employment at another Opera House, but as long as it wasn't his, what did he care? His stage was ready for Christine - and only Christine - from now on. Surely his managers and their vapid patron couldn't be too upset with the change of employee? Not after the Gala last night. He hadn't yet had time to check, but he was certain that the newspapers would be full of praise for his angel that morning.
He glanced back up at the closed auditorium doors. If Emilie was out there dealing with their departing Diva, then Christine was in Emilie's rooms. Alone.
He bit into his lower lip, thoughtfully. It was perfectly permissible to enquire about her health. Or to, perhaps, take her back within the hidden passageways of the Opera to Carlotta's dressing room, and help her claim it as her own. The thought of having her next to him again in the dark corridors where no-one could see them thrilled him beyond measure and he began to climb silently down through the flies.
He paused only once on his journey through the passageways, taking a slight detour to stand at the grate leading to his managers office, wanting to crow a tiny bit more over his victory at ridding the Opera of Carlotta at last. Smiling with anticipation of their acquiescence to his demands, Erik stood quietly and slid the covering of the grate back, to better hear their defeat.
"She's gone home to rest," Firmin said, standing behind his desk.
Erik moved to the left slightly and saw that he was talking to Emilie, who stood with her hands folded before her, her face stern. Andre stood behind her and the Vicomte sat in a chair before Firmin's desk.
"You will tell Mlle. Daae that she will be playing the pageboy tonight and Carlotta will be the Countess," Firmin snapped.
"But she's only ever rehearsed with the ballerinas," Emilie protested, her eyes flashing angrily. "She doesn't even know that role." What idiots these men were; full of hot-air and no commonsense at all.
"Then perhaps it would be wise if Mlle. Daae told this 'Opera Ghost' imbecile to stop meddling in her affairs," Firmin said, his voice rising with every word. "And realised that chorus girls stay in the chorus until I tell them to move elsewhere!" His nerves had stretched beyond breaking point this morning when the letter he'd been sent had mentioned 'debtors', let alone having to sort out all of this nonsense.
"I'm sure she knows nothing about any of this," Raoul protested calmly. He felt uncomfortable watching Firmin raise his voice to a lady, yet he'd also had quite enough of this Opera Ghost nonsense. And she did rather seem to be on his side.
Erik barely restrained a growl when he heard de Chagny refer to Christine as 'she' and not 'Mlle. Daae' as the others did. Just how well did they know each other anyway? What gave him the right to flout propriety and disrespect her in front of those two cretins?
"As I told you all, Mlle. Daae," Emilie used the term pointedly, looking at Raoul as she did so. "Has been asleep in my rooms since the Gala last night.
Raoul stopped sighing and turned quickly to stare back at her. But she'd told him that Christine had gone to dine with another? And now to find out that Christine had been asleep…. in Madame Giry's rooms…. since the Gala? He let out a sharp breath of relief, ignoring the argument around him for a moment. Thank God. Nothing had happened. Maybe she had to ask for permission to leave and being so young and without a suitable chaperone, that permission had been refused? Yes, that would be it. What other reason could there be, he now realised, for her to not accept his request to dine? His hands went to his waistcoat pocket instinctively, and his fingers felt the invitation to the Dechanet estate that he'd composed for her earlier that morning. Glancing back over at Emilie, he decided that she'd be the perfect person to give it to Christine and resolved to instruct her do so, forthwith.
Erik watched with narrowed eyes as the Vicomte's expression turned from disinterested tolerance to rapt attention at Emilie's lie. He saw hope flare back to life in the young man's heart, while fear rose like bile within his own throat.
"Then keep her there until the performance," Firmin said. "I don't want her upsetting Carlotta again."
With a swift nod of her head, Emilie made to leave the room.
"Madame," Raoul said, rising to his feet as he took the small letter from his pocket.
"Yes?" Emilie answered, fighting hard to ensure her expression was one of deference and not annoyance when facing her patron.
"Would you be so kind as to give this to Christine?" Raoul asked, handing her the letter.
God above! More notes! "Yes, of course," she replied demurely, before swiftly exiting the room.
Anger replaced the fear surging through Erik. How dare he treat Emilie like a common servant! And what the hell was in that letter? And why wasn't anybody taking the Vicomte to task over his constantly appalling manners? With a growl of frustration, he also realised that no matter how much he might beg Emilie himself, she'd never allow him to see the contents of that letter either.
Closing his eyes for a second, he willed himself to calm down. He needed time to figure out what to do next. So; they'd managed to placate Carlotta and she'd be returning? Right. That made the way forward much clearer. Time for his original plan to be put into action.
"That was a bit harsh, don't you think?" Andre kept his voice low and steady; the last thing he wanted was to bring Firmin's wrath upon his own shoulders.
"You can't tell me she doesn't know who this bounder is," Firmin replied, pointing at the door. "Always bringing us his instructions, looking at us as if we're all idiots because we're not following them to the letter."
"But he did say there'd be a 'disaster' if we didn't do as he says," Andre said meekly.
"What rot," Firmin sneered. "This is no more than some love-struck young pup wanting Mlle. Daae to notice him. Disaster indeed."
"But perhaps we should be prepared in case something should happen," Raoul suggested, though he didn't actually believe it was necessary either. "Warn Christine, perhaps, that this man is using extortion to try and further her career?"
"My dear Vicomte," Firmin said, sitting down in his chair at last. "With all due respect. I know you have some prior acquaintance with Mlle. Daae, but we have no proof that it is not she who is behind all this either."
"Oh Richard," Andre scoffed. "That's absolutely ridiculous. As if that darling little girl could ever think of such a thing."
"That's preposterous," Raoul agreed. "I can assure you that she would do nothing of the sort."
"And how would you know that?" Erik said, his voice no more than a low growl. "When you've not even seen her once in the last nine years?"
Raoul stood up suddenly; he'd had quite enough for one morning and his hangover was beginning to make him long for his bed. "Gentlemen, I must take leave of your pleasant company," he said, walking towards the door as both Andre and Firmin scrambled to their feet like annoying lapdogs. "I shall see you tonight, at the performance."
"Yes, yes, of course," Andre said, shaking his hand and helping him out of the door. When it was firmly shut, he turned back to Firmin. "Was that the wisest course of action? Heaping blame on poor Mlle. Daae, when it is obvious that our Vicomte wishes to renew - and perhaps deepen - their acquaintance?"
"Over my dead body," Erik hissed, his face stone.
"Blast the little chit!" Firmin snapped. "She's caused nothing but trouble since we arrived."
"Yes, but the Vicomte likes her well enough," Andre frowned, "it wouldn't be wise to upset him over this."
"He'll tire of his new plaything soon enough," Firmin answered. "I don't for one minute believe that she wasn't with him last night, as he claims."
"Well neither do I, but it's hardly her fault if some damned fool is using her to -"
"I don't care if she knows, or she doesn't know," Firmin interrupted. "La Carlotta is what brings people through the doors, and La Carlotta is staying."
With a look of pure hatred that could have easily burned through the wall separating them, Erik snapped the cover back across the grate and strode off down the corridor, leaving them to their argument.
With every step, he grew more and more enraged. And now he was too late to even go and see Christine before Emilie's return as well! "God dammit," he snapped. No doubt Emilie would keep her cloistered within her rooms until the performance - rightly keeping her away from the furor Carlotta's dismissal and reinstatement would continue to cause throughout the day.
It would be all he could do to stop himself placing a certain amount of Hemlock into the mixture he'd created to replace Carlotta's throat spray. It would serve the bitch right if she dropped dead upon his stage tonight, instead of just sounding like a true representation of her rotten soul.
Damn fools! You'd honestly think that he'd given them something inferior to replace Carlotta. But no – he'd shown them what an undiscovered treasure was right beneath their noses, and were they grateful? No! They scorned her talent, his tutelage - and for what? To be continually harangued by Carlotta Giudicelli? To be held to ransom to her increasingly ridiculous demands and tantrums? When his angel had the sweetest, calmest nature? When her voice had caused the entire audience to give a standing ovation last night? When had Carlotta ever achieved that?
It was obvious to anyone with a brain that his demands were the only sane course of action. Yet the Vicomte was far more interested in quashing a rival then promoting Christine. What did he think - that she'd be pleased about his intervention, when she heard? De Chagny knew even less about her than he claimed if he thought she'd be content to play the role of a mute and hide the heavenly gift of her voice simply because he'd decreed it. And he'd done so without even asking her opinion on the matter.
But it was not only Christine that was being ignored. So, too, were his orders.
Erik stopped suddenly, his mind racing, then settled on a plan. 'Perhaps then,' he thought, 'it is time for the Opera Ghost to reveal himself at last.'