Author's note: Nothing to say, except for please r&r.
Disclaimer: Not mine, probably won't ever be mine, but I can dream about it…
Chapter Nine –
'Il Muto'
Christine resumes narrative…
I don't know what happened in the hours after my Angel brought me back to my room at the Opéra Populaire. All I can remember is faintly hearing his voice as he told me that he had to go, that everything would be all right, that I shouldn't worry. I must have asked him something about when I would see him again, for he had promised that he would be there whenever I needed him.
And I had been reassured.
Then, I vaguely recall falling asleep on the chaise lounge in the dressing room after he had left me; it was there that Meg had discovered me. I had been promptly whisked off to my quarters at the boarding house then by Mme. Giry, who asked not a single question on our way there, and found myself left to the quiet of my rooms.
That period wouldn't last for long, however, for several days later was the first performance of Albrizzio's 'Il Muto'.
I had been cast in a silent part by the managers, which had made Carlotta quite happy, in some strange way. I tried to ignore the overwhelming sense of nervousness and discomfort that I kept feeling about the whole evening as I threaded my way through the wings backstage, trying to find my position. The curtain would open at any moment for the first act and I had to be ready to go on. I couldn't let an alien sense of uneasiness throw my concentration off. I was already in enough trouble with the managers and Carlotta's roving eye of disdain and unkindness had once more centered on my person. To risk causing further havoc by refusing to perform would, I knew, be a bad move on my part.
And if it wasn't bad enough that I was uneasy, everyone else was nervous as well. The managers, for all their grand smiles and jovial laughter, seemed as if they were on the edge, waiting for something unfortunate to befall them. The stagehands, the ballet corps, and the actors – everyone – were forever shooting each other furtive, worried glances, as if they were expecting a disaster.
Little did I know that a disaster really would occur that evening.
The curtain went up on stage, revealing to the audience an eighteenth-century salon, complete with an elaborate canopy bed that stood center-stage. Waiting for my cue in the wings, I glanced at Carlotta, who shot me a questioning, haughty glare.
I quickly averted my gaze.
She was playing the Countess, one of the main roles in the opera of 'Il Muto', and I was the Countess's maid – who was really named Serafimo, a mute boy whom the Countess was enamored of. The Countess had disguised her young lover as a maiden to cover up their secret love from the watching eyes of the Countess's fiancé, the Count: a doddering old man. In the scene that we were preparing to act out, the Countess's servants were discussing their mistress's current affaire d'amour; later on in the scene, the Count would appear to inform his lovely young fiancée that he…well, I am getting ahead of myself. Perhaps I should merely continue.
As the music swelled from the orchestra pit, three of the bejeweled servants – two men: a hairdresser and a jeweler, a woman: the Countess's confidante, and Meg, who attended the jeweler – bustled onto the stage. They, apart from Meg, were all gossiping quite animatedly about the love between the Countess and young Serafimo.
"They say that this youth has set my Lady's heart aflame!" warbled the powdered and pinched confidante. "His Lordship, sure, would die of shock!" tittered the hairdresser, as the jeweler added, "His Lordship is a laughing stock!" Then, "Should he suspect her," rejoined the confidante, "God protect her!"
And all three chimed together, as they made their way across the stage to the trio of high-backed, ornate chairs that were already set for them, "This faithless lady's bound for Hades! Shame! Shame! Shame!"
I recognized my cue and minced onstage, my movements hampered by the restrictive costume and pair of extremely tight, high-heeled shoes that I was wearing. Quickly, I crossed to center-stage, took off my large, muffin-like, frilly white hat and mimed a kiss-kiss gesture with Carlotta, who was also dressed in a costume appropriate to the era that the opera had been set into. She beamed at me, her smile flashing in the light and her hazel eyes standing out against the backdrop of white, blue, and pink stage-makeup that she wore. I could see, however, the malice that hung behind her gaze.
The scene then commenced.
"Serafimo," Carlotta said, loudly, vivaciously, "Your disguise is perfect!"
She was about to say more when a loud knock at the door interrupted her. The Countess turned her head aside, her wig of powdered corkscrew curls whisking over her bare shoulders as she did so, and put on a look of concern.
"Why who can this be?" she asked, to which came the slightly muffled reply of, "Gentle lady, admit your loving fiancé."
The Countess then crossed the stage and opened the makeshift door. Don Attilio, the old fool, stood outside and she beckoned for him to enter. I did not see this, as I had turned and hopped up on the tall, counterpane bed, reassuming my part of Serafimo, the maid. I heard the following dialogue from behind me as I nonchalantly pretended to clean the counterpane with my ostrich-feather duster.
"My love," said Don Attilio to the Countess, "I am called away to England on affairs of State and must leave you with your new maid." He then turned aside and added to the audience, pointing to me as I continued to dust the counterpane, swaying my hips as I did so, "Though I'd happily take the maid with me!"
The audience chuckled appreciatively at the two-sided joke – not only was the old man rather risqué and faithless himself in saying such things about his lady's maid, but he was also quite hoodwinked, for the young woman whom he thought was so attractive was really a boy. The Countess turned aside and spoke to her servants.
"The old fool's leaving!"
Then, Don Attilio added, also aside to the audience, "I suspect my young bride is untrue to me. I shall not leave, but shall hide over there to observe her!" Then he turned to the Countess with an affected, "Addio!"
She waved to him, replying, "Addio!"
And both said to each other then, "Addio!"
Don Attilio left the stage, pretending to leave, but he really hid and watched the ensuing action. I climbed down, off of my perch, as Carlotta ran across the stage to me and ripped off the satin and tulle skirt of the Countess's maid to reveal the manly breeches of Serafimo. We then sat together on the bed, as if it was a couch, as the music swelled once more and Carlotta began her song.
Serafimo, away with this pretence!
You cannot speak, but kiss me in that
old man's absence!
Poor fool, he makes me laugh!
Haha,
Haha! etc.
Time I tried to get a better better half!
With that, then, the chorus joined Carlotta and sang with her.
Poor fool, he doesn't know!
Hoho,
Hoho, etc.
If he knew the truth, he'd never, ever go!
Suddenly, a voice broke in over the music, and the orchestra immediately stopped playing, the violins and woodwinds dying to a half-hearted stop.
"Did I not instruct that Box Five should be kept empty?" the voice demanded. It terrified my very being. Box Five – the Phantom's seat! I looked upwards, and then I saw that someone had made a terrible error.
Raoul sat in Box Five.
My mind began to whirl and I clamped my hands onto the sides of my head, trying to keep myself from teetering on the edge of insanity. Raoul was sitting in Box Five. The managers had disobeyed the Phantom – the Phantom, whom no one had ever disobeyed, whose commands were accepted as the ultimate law. He was, in the end of all things, the lord of the Opéra Populaire. And they had defied him!
He's here: the Phantom of the Opera…
Everyone looked about himself or herself, somewhat bewildered. The Phantom's voice had seemed to come out of thin air. Where was he? The audience began to murmur and turn in their seats, searching for a glimpse of the strange specter. Before I knew what I was doing, I heard my own voice entering the void and I couldn't stop myself from speaking my next words.
"It's him, I know it, it's him!"
Carlotta turned on me then, her face white with both rage and fear, and glared at me. "Your part is silent, little toad!" she hissed, grabbing my arm roughly. I simply stared at her, unable to do anything else. Far above us, the Phantom had heard her words. His voice came again, and this time, he seemed to be standing in the flies over our heads. I turned my gaze upwards to see, as did Carlotta, and I heard her stiff gasp as we both caught sight of him.
He was there – in person, above us, standing, watching, glaring.
"A toad, madame?"
His tone had changed to one of cool, smooth, complete and dire contempt.
"Perhaps it is you who are the toad!"
And with that, he swept into the curtains beyond the grand front façade of the flies, disappearing into the darkness beyond them. There was another moment of unease. Then, when it seemed that nothing further would happen, that he was truly gone, Carlotta shot me a venomous look and bustled across the stage to the conductor, who stood, in confusion, awaiting further orders. They two conferred together for a moment, and then the conductor nodded and signaled the orchestra's attention.
The music began again and Carlotta resumed her position beside me on the couch-like bed, as she picked up her song at the beginning of the scene.
Serafimo, away with this pretence!
You cannot speak, but kiss me in my
Croak!
Instead of singing, Carlotta had emitted a great croak. The Phantom had done it. I didn't know how, but he had. More perturbing, however, was a new sound—
The Phantom was laughing!
His laugh rippled out of the silence, sounding boyish and mellifluous and teasing, yet there was also an underlying current of something incredibly menacing in it. For a moment, there was a stunned silence in the theatre and we heard a few half-confused, half-uneasy chuckles from the audience.
Carlotta's hand flew to her throat and her hazel eyes bulged just ever so slightly as she sat there, in nervous apprehension. She regained her composure after a moment and went on, once more.
Poor fool, he makes me laugh!
Hahahahaha!
Croak, croak, croak,
Croak, croak, croak, croak, etc.
The Phantom kept on laughing with increasing hysteria as Carlotta continued to croak, more loudly and hoarsely each time. And then I saw him, standing in the flies – high above the stage – and he wore an expression of open derision and exhilaration at seeing Carlotta so humiliated.
Suddenly, the chandelier's lights began to blink on and off, flashing in the darkness and lighting our faces with a terrifying glow!
The Phantom's laughter, by then, was overpowering, and it made a crescendo into a great cry. "Behold!" he shrieked at last, pointing upwards, "She is singing to bring down the chandelier!"
And he began to laugh again, maniacally, as the chandelier began to rock, perilously, on its bolts. If it were to fall, it would crush to death anyone who stood in its way! Carlotta, frenzied with terror, turned towards the managers' box and shook her head, her eyes wide and blank, like that of a madwoman. "Non posso più!" she cried, sobbing like a child, "I cannot – I cannot go on!"
Then Piangi rushed onstage and gathered the hysterical, shrieking diva into his arms. "Cara, Cara," he said, in his broken, heavily accented French, "I'm here…is all right…Come…I'm here…"
And then the Phantom disappeared and the chandelier froze.
Silence filled the theatre.
Both André and Firmin came running onstage, out of breath and flustered. Meanwhile, Piangi ushered the sobbing Carlotta off the stage, into the wings, and I heard her weeping even as Firmin addressed the audience, trying to restore order. "Ladies and gentlemen!" he began, and everyone turned back towards him, waiting: each person holding his or her breath in terror and anticipation.
"The performance shall continue in ten minutes' time…"
He was addressing Box Five, I noticed, keeping one eye on the chandelier as it returned to its normal, stationary position.
"When the rôle of the Countess will be sung by Miss Christine Daae."
I caught myself up on a choke of shock on hearing that announcement and sat back in my seat, feeling my face burn with the heat of a fiery blush.
"In the meantime, ladies and gentlemen," André said, improvising hurriedly, "We shall be giving you the ballet from Act Three of tonight's opera. Maestro," he said to the conductor, who stood waiting for André to give him the proper cue. André didn't understand his waiting silence and abruptly became flustered.
"The ballet! Now!"
The conductor finally understood and he gestured for the orchestra to turn to the respective sheets of music for the ballet segment. I hurried offstage with the three cast members who had been playing the Countess's servants. I then collapsed onto a chair that had been left in the wings and let my head fall into my hands as the managers returned to their box, the stagehands cleared the salon scenery, and the ballet chorus – including Meg – danced onstage in their light, ethereal country costumes.
There was a slight, wooden thump as the background hanging of a sylvan glade dropped in from the flies, Joseph Buquet's work. I instantly recognized the choreography that the ballet chorus was performing. It was the Dance of the Country Nymphs.
My mind was occupied elsewhere, however.
I didn't understand this – what had happened to my Angel? Before, whenever I had heard his voice, it had comforted me because it was calm, soothing, musical, and gentle, and when I was with him, I felt that I was cherished and wanted and special. But the man that I had seen as the Phantom of the Opera tonight…I didn't know who he was! This Phantom was dangerous, cruel, and dark: willing and even glad to frighten and enslave all of those whom he saw as his opponents and potential servants! He wasn't my Phantom! What had happened?
Suddenly, something from behind the backdrop caught my eye – movement. Glimpses of a light and a flurry of shadows briefly flashed there, and then all was still again. Joseph Buquet was the only person who traversed the area behind the wings during a performance…and he never carried any sort of light with him.
Then there was a scream from onstage and total pandemonium erupted, and I saw that the garroted body of Joseph Buquet hung, like a stiff, wooden dummy, in the flies.
I felt sick.
"Christine!"
Raoul.
Yes, he was there, running up behind me. I stood and was about to ask what had happened when he grabbed me, his hand somehow finding mine, and then he was leading – half-guiding, half-dragging – me away from the stage, away from the wings, and out of sight of the stage.
I looked back, not quite understanding what had just happened. All I knew was that Joseph Buquet's body hung from the flies, that Raoul had somehow managed to find me, and that the Phantom was nowhere in sight.
Why didn't he come? Where was my Angel?
"Come with me – to the roof. It'll be safe there!" he said, pushing open a door that led to a set of winding steps that were lit by a single torch in the doorway. I whisked the cloak that he had somehow procured for me around my shoulders and questioned, "Raoul – why? What has happened? Why is Buquet—"
Raoul turned and stared at me, seeming incredulous, as if he was shocked that I didn't already know the answer to my own question.
"The Phantom, Christine – the Phantom – he killed Buquet!"
No!
* * * * * *
The Phantom resumes narrative…
I stared down, in amazement and sudden fear, as policemen, stagehands, reporters, and the two managers all milled about onstage, seemingly at a loss of what to do. The whole theatre was in an uproar. Those in the audience were all either hanging curiously about the stage, around the orchestra pit, or running about in total chaos. I ducked back into the shadows and raced down to the wings, hiding myself in the darkness behind the stage. Once there, I listened intensely to the manager's conversation with the police.
And what I heard didn't really shock me.
"It was the Phantom – it absolutely has to be." Firmin was saying. He looked quite shaken and very much disturbed. "He kidnapped Christine Daae: sent us a note demanding to have her placed in the part of the Countess in the evening's production, to pay him his salary, and to leave Box Five open, promising that 'a disaster beyond our imaginations would occur' if we didn't obey his commands."
"He threatened our principal soprano this very night and then he carried his revenge out – by this!" added André, to the head gendarme.
They thought that I had killed Buquet.
Let them think that I had murdered Buquet!
Suddenly, I remembered Christine. She had been standing in the wings only moments ago, when the body of the old stagehand had dropped down out of the flies, and now, as I cast about for a sign of her, I saw nothing of my beautiful young protégé. Then, I looked up to Box Five, remembering that Raoul had been sitting there that evening, in my place. Instantly, my anger grew ten thousand times worse.
Raoul wasn't there.
And the door that led to a stairway to the roof that crowned the Opéra Populaire's fabulous front façade was partially opened, revealing a thin stream of torchlight and the path of Christine and Raoul, the Vicomte de Chagny.
Within moments, I had found my way up to the roof and had stepped out into the night air. It was warm on this August evening. The stars were shining in the inky blue sky, like tiny, winking diamonds that had been cast into a backdrop more than a thousand miles away, and the moon was just rising: cool, serene, and guileless.
I felt nothing but cold – cold and harshness.
Trying to ignore the racing, sickening beat of my pounding heart, I looked down, towards the broad, flat expanse of roof that was accessible to human feet, and saw nothing. The moon, however, hadn't risen fully and that part of the roof was still cast in darkness, so I couldn't be sure if the pair had gotten there yet.
I would just have to find out.
Spotting a perch that I had used many times before, a statue that I could easily stand at the base of, unseen and unheard, I climbed across the roof to it and lowered myself down into its base. The statue was a golden rendition of 'La Victoire Ailée'; it was composed of a mass of figures, three women, all gowned in hedonistic, flowing robes, and two bearded, Vulcan-like men that looked more like monsters than humans. The center woman held a beaded mask aloft in her sculpted gold hands and a pair of wings, perfectly yet effortlessly etched, stretched out from behind her, enveloping and encompassing the entire statue. I took my position between those two wings and, resting my weight on the sort of ledge that the statues' heads made, gazed down at the roof below me. Christine and Raoul were there.
No.
I seemed to have come in on the middle of their conversation, for Raoul was speaking in a low voice to Christine. Suddenly, my rage and mad sense of jealousy at seeing her with him blinded me to all else, and all I could think of was how dearly the Vicomte would pay for returning to find Christine and taking her away from me. And Christine – had she abandoned me?
Then, the fatal blow was felled.
"Christine, I'll go with you anywhere you want to. Let me be your shelter, your light, your everything. Forget your fears – forget this Phantom. He's just a wraith of your imagination – he doesn't exist ! I exist, and I want to be with you. Let me take you away from all the nightmares and unhappy memories that this place has for you – let me be there every time you wake up and everytime you go to sleep. Christine, mon amour, do you understand what I'm saying?…I love you."
And then, as I watched them – as tears began to stream down my face – they kissed. My heart shattered into a million pieces.
How could she do this to me?
I watched as they hurried off of the roof.
Silence enveloped me. I was too numb to think for a moment. She had betrayed me. She had abandoned my guidance and protection and sought the love of this boy, this handsome young boy who was readily offering her himself and everything he owned, just as I had. She had rejected me for a handsome young boy.
She had left me – for him.
I was alone. She had betrayed me.
"Christine – Christine! After everything you said to me…after all of that…this? How could your heart have become so cold? Is it true that you can love him and not even think of me? I gave you my music…I made your song take wing! And now, look how you've repaid me for all I've done for you – you've denied me and betrayed me, sinking into the arms of a boy who can never offer you what I can! Christine!"
I wept then, sobbing her name in agony, turning my face to the sky and letting the moon pour her cold rays down upon my skin. For once, I – whose very name meant 'all-powerful' – felt utterly helpless. Raoul's words echoed back to me from the black, abysmal ether of my mind.
Forget your fears – forget this Phantom. He's just a wraith of your imagination…he doesn't exist; I exist, and I want to be with you. Let me take you away from all the nightmares and unhappy memories that this place has for you – let me be there every time you wake up and everytime you go to sleep. Christine, mon amour, do you understand me ?…I love you.
The words began to resound in my head, with ruthless, rythmic cadence.
I love you.
Forget…forget….forget.
Doesn't exist.
A wraith of your imagination.
I love you.
Forget.
I love you.
I love you.
I LOVE YOU!
With a cry, I tore myself away from those black, condemning words.
"You will curse the day that you rejected your Angel!"
Madness whirling in my mind, I wrenched myself away from the statue, ran back inside, and tore down the steps that led into the flies. The opera had already finished.
I paid that no heed.
Instead, I dashed to the edge of the flies and glared down at the stage. The principal actors in 'Il Muto' had come out to take their bows, and in the center of them all, I saw Christine, conspicuous and terribly, heartwrenchingly beautiful in her Countess costume. The orchestra, audience, and even the managers were standing in their seats and giving her a standing ovation as she dipped in a graceful swelling curtsey.
I hated them – all of them.
My maniacal laughter, frightening to even my own ears, swelled above the sounds of the applause and sent everyone scattering in terror. I shot a hand towards Christine, pointing straight at her, and the chandelier began to rock, its lights flickering madly on and off. Then, at my gesture, it descended, swinging more and more madly over the orchestra pit, then hurdling directly towards the stage as screams filled the air.
"GO!!!"
At the sound of my voice, the chandelier crashed onto the stage, amidst the cries of the people surrounding the theatre, the boxes, and the stage, and fell at Christine's feet. I stared at her, my heart void of all feeling then, my gaze fulminating and furious and black, as she stared up at me, with her beautiful blue eyes.
* * * * * *
Author's note: Oh dear, now he's mad – and only further violence will result…or will it? Read on to see…and if you would be so kind, leave me behind a few little reviews, would you? ^_^