Chapter 86 Dissolution
Christine looked at herself in the full-length mirror at the end of the room. Her costume for Aminta, her part in his opera, was beautiful. She loved the glittering gold beads, the dark red corset, the delicate white lace at her bust. But it was not that which gave her pause. Her eyes were the same, the pale arm that moved up and down as the seamstress measured beneath it was her own. The body that turned when requested belonged to no other than herself. Yet she hardly recognised the person staring back at her. Her skin was pale, her eyes darkened by sleepless nights, her face thinner. Could he see her, was he there? Did he approve of how she looked in his design? Would she ever know? Would he ever tell her?
The character of Aminta was brave, strong, passionate – everything she felt she was not. It was if her Angel was mocking her, showing her the kind of woman he wanted her to be. When all she did was keep silent, keep working, keep doing what she was told. She was weak, unresisting, unable to fight back. Her tongue forever tied; her spirit broken. Only existing now, not living, as she had in his arms.
They'd never staged anything so complex and demanding before. Everyone who had a role in it could constantly be seen with script in hand, going over their parts. Each one of the solos she had to learn was breathtaking in its beauty, it was as if every note had been written specifically for her to shine. She tried to do her best, singing only for him from the stage, as she had on Gala night.
But still, he didn't come. He'd forsaken her completely, it seemed. She wondered if he was through the mirror and could see the sadness in her eyes. Could he feel how much she needed him? Didn't he know how much she missed him? She heard the seamstress tut at her rapidly shrinking frame. But how could she think about eating with so much fear coursing through her? Food had lost any taste and would stick in her throat if she even tried.
"We're going to have to take the waist in again," Yvette sighed. She had so much to do; her fingers were already blistered from all the sewing to get the costumes ready on time. The last thing she needed was constant alterations of costumes already completed. Yet they all knew why Christine was so desperately thin.
"You must try and eat something today, dearest," Meg said, her eyes full of concern. She, Christine and Brigitte all stood up on small boxes as the seamstresses worked around them, pinning fabric and lace to their bodies, measuring an arm here, a waist there. This was usually a process done individually, with all the time in the world to ensure perfection, but with only a few days before the Ghost's opera was to be staged, they were crammed in together, all at once.
"I'll try." Christine replied quietly, knowing she could do nothing of the sort. What was the point of eating, what was the point of anything? She knew exactly what they planned to do. They intended to kill him. Raoul was going to shoot her Angel dead as soon as he revealed himself to them all again. It might be at a rehearsal, it might be at night backstage, or it would be on stage, as she sang his opera. He could be taken from her at any moment. They all wanted him dead.
"Let her be," Brigitte said, handing back her hair piece to Odette to fix more silk roses to it. "We've hardly time to breathe, let alone eat." She looked at Christine through the mirror, nothing by sympathy in her eyes.
Christine tried to smile in return; it should have been pleasant to have Brigitte be friendly to her after so many years, but the older girl looked as pale and worried as she did. Ever since Raoul had insisted they perform 'Don Juan' within a week, the entire place had been in an uproar. Every single person there was working day and night, taking hardly any rest. Anyone who complained would very quickly lose their position. Tempers were frayed, people were exhausted already. And they all blamed her.
She'd thought once she came home everything would be alright. She could escape from everyone if she needed to, become invisible again as she always had there. She'd had enough of being on display at Isabelle's, always under constant scrutiny, her every word, every movement judged. But now with Raoul's command, she was the object of everybody's attention here as well. There was no escape from their scornful eyes. They all knew she was to be used as a lure to draw the Opera Ghost out, to bring him to justice at last. God, how could she bear it?
"Looks like you've been managing," Elise said, walking past Brigitte with rolls of fabric in her hands, then handing them over to Yvette.
Brigitte covered her stomach with one hand, stricken that she might be showing already.
Elise turned her scorn to Christine, looking her up and down with contempt. "Maybe if she wasn't playing two gentlemen off against each other, we'd all have a chance to catch our breath."
Both Meg and Brigitte leapt instantly to Christine's defense as she shrank further inside herself.
"Please keep your opinions to yourself from now on, Elise," Emilie swept into the room, stilling any further gossip. "Meg, you're wanted back on stage. Brigitte, go from here to lunch, then come back for a final fitting." She stopped in front of the mirror, blocking it from their view. "Christine, please come with me."
All three girls did precisely what they were told, stepping down off the boxes and following Madame out of the room. As Meg and Brigitte went off in one direction, Emilie took Christine's arm and pulled her aside, "this way, quickly."
"What – " Christine allowed herself to be taken backstage, through a corridor, then down the back stairs. Nobody noticed their haste; they were all too busy with their own tasks. "But Raoul – "
"He's with Firmin in the office," Emilie replied breathlessly, bustling Christine ahead of her, looking around her fearfully. "With the Police Captain."
Christine blanched at that, her heartbeat fluttering inside her. "They haven't – " she could barely form the question; the idea was too terrifying. Had they captured her Angel already?
"No, not yet," Emilie replied, knowing exactly what Christine would be thinking. "They're making arrangements for opening night. We don't have much time."
It was only then that Christine noticed Madame carried a small purse. "Where are we going?"
"Out," Emilie answered, keeping her head down as they passed through the stables, sped across the courtyard, and went out the back gate. Only once upon the streets of Paris did she stop to take a breath. "Somewhere we can't be overheard."
-oo000oo-
Erik turned from the mirror the moment Christine left the room. For once in his life, he agreed with Marguerite – Christine did need to eat. The lace of her costume was supposed to sit on her shoulders, yet on her increasingly thin frame, it fell down her arms over and over.
He'd always thought he'd be thrilled to see her finally wear Aminta's costume, knowing it would mean she was to perform his work at last. She was breathtaking, of course. But her face was drawn with worry and there were dark circles under her eyes. He knew she wasn't sleeping, but then neither was he. There was too much to do in the dead of night, when all her protectors were long in their beds.
He knew of their plans, of course. De Chagny hadn't even had the brains to spell out his hapless scheme outside of the Opera House, where possibly he may not have been so easily overheard. Now Erik knew exactly what they intended; Christine was to be used to draw him out. Then the local Police were tasked to shoot him dead. That de Chagny actually thought barring the doors of the Opera could keep him inside confirmed everything he'd ever wondered about the fool's limited intelligence.
And the fact that de Chagny's blinkered arrogance meant he was putting so many other lives in danger hadn't occurred to him either. For all his protestations of wanting to 'protect' Christine, the Vicomte obviously had no compunction about her being on the stage when perhaps a fatal shot rang out.
Was that why she was losing weight? Was she stricken at the idea of her Vicomte using her as bait? Were her eyes finally open to the kind of man her fiancé truly was? One who thought nothing of using anyone around him to achieve his own ends?
Or was it fear for his own demise? Erik no longer argued with himself that she didn't love him. Her responses at her father's grave had put paid to any doubt in his mind. He saw her constantly looking for him during rehearsals, yet he deliberately hadn't gone to her. He would never put her in as much danger as her Vicomte was determined to do. No stray shot aimed for him would pierce her flesh on his account. So he stayed away. For now. Even though his soul cried out to touch her again.
Not that she'd ever been left alone even once since she'd returned anyway. From the moment de Chagny rode back from the cemetery with her, either he, Emilie, Meg, Reyer, Yvette – they constantly swarmed over Christine like ants, never giving her a moment's peace. It was possibly the only part of de Chagny's plan that was actually working. He was isolating Christine through the constant presence of guards and the crush of the rushed production. And her spirit was drowning beneath them all.
Within two days his opera would be shown to the world. It wouldn't perhaps be the opening night Erik had envisioned. Instead of standing with Christine at his side, possibly even taking a bow, they expected him to cower in the shadows. Or even try and snatch her from the stage. And then de Chagny would take her from the Opera House forever, away from him. He'd never see her again.
Without realising where his feet had taken him, Erik ended up behind the Chapel window. The room was dark. De Chagny certainly never let her come in here anymore. There was no one to light the candles; he no longer had the heart to do so. And besides, every moment of the last week had been spent in his own preparations. Thinking through every eventuality, every outcome. He had to be precise, he had to be prepared. He'd worked on the stage in the dead of night, ensuring his additions were hid beneath the swathes of ropes and curtains he'd drawn in his specific instructions for the set. It gave him no joy that they were finally scurrying around like rats, doing his bidding, and had recreated his drawings perfectly.
He was careful to send out more than a few notes to instruct for small changes, new directions, scathing reviews of Carlotta's tiny part. He wanted them to think he was always watching and enjoyed keeping them all on edge. The only part he'd altered was at the beginning, changing don Juan's plan into a confusing piece of nonsense to ensure the character had to wear a mask. He'd felt particular delight in watching Piangi trying to make sense of it all, endlessly explaining it to Carlotta until she'd screamed at him to stop.
He couldn't change anything else already written, not wanting to alert any of them to his plan. And it was perhaps a tad more difficult for him to move around there now, given that everyone was now actively looking for him. Most were so terrified of either being shot or having something dropped upon their heads by his hand, that they had to be forced to step foot on the stage. Firman was eating into the large amount of francs the Vicomte had given him, paying people double, just to keep them working.
He had to admit, he was immensely proud of how everybody there had created his Opera so quickly. Particularly Reyer. Hearing his music being played at last by a full orchestra had been an unexpected benediction. He only wondered now, what Paris would think…
And there was one other thing that had to wait for opening night – the chandelier. He couldn't risk loosening its bolts and pulleys before then. It weighed at least a ton. Unlike her Vicomte, he wouldn't risk Christine being beneath it when it fell. He hoped to God Reyer would have the sense and speed to get out of the way in time.
With all of it in place, he now took every moment he could to drink in the sight of her. Committing her to memory. She excelled in every part of her performance; he felt his heart swell at the emotion she'd wrought from everybody as she sang out Aminta's heartbreak. He'd watched everything apart from the end of the third Act, where Aminta falls to despair and dies by her own hand. Yet knew she did it justice when he saw so many wipe away their tears after.
He remembered writing it. He'd poured every ounce of despair at missing her into the words and music. When he'd thought she was lost to him. Those winter months when she'd been at the Dechanet estate, he now knew. He was absurdly grateful to Marguerite for being such an inquisitive child at last, as she'd pulled every possible detail from Christine the night before, when they both couldn't sleep. He now knew exactly who she'd been with all those lost months. Once he would have rushed to find out everything about the people who'd kept her from him, vowing revenge. But there was little point now.
Marguerite had been enraptured to hear of the Dechanet estate, the ball, the dresses, of being waited on, hand and foot. But there was something in Christine's tone, as she told the tale, which gave him considerable pause. It quite obviously had not been the sanctuary she'd hoped it would be. He wondered again what had happened to her there and what de Chagny had done to steal the light from her eyes?
He walked further into the darkness, down to his home. There had been other necessary arrangements to make of course. He finalised his affairs, placing all relevant papers in a trunk in his bedroom, with the monkey music box on top. In his pocket was a final note to Emilie, telling her where to find them, and a copy of his Will. Perhaps she would remember only the good memories – few that there were – when she listened to the music box play?
He'd left everything to her, of course, knowing she'd be the one to carry out his final wishes. And that she would be the one to find him, if de Chagny's bullets didn't first. He'd included instructions that he be buried next to his father, in the family crypt and wondered briefly if Christine had even known that it was in the same cemetery where her own father lay? Another unfortunate coincidence they shared. Perhaps, one day, she might visit him there? If de Chagny ever let her out of his sight again, which he highly doubted.
He sighed. There was no black despair taking his reason now, only grim resignation. He'd place the envelope in Emilie's room right before the performance began, not wanting to alert her to anything before. He'd put it by her picture of Jean-Michel, the man that she had loved. And lost.
Perhaps it was fitting that if he did die by the Vicomte's hand, he truly would become the Angel Christine had always prayed for. 'How poetic,' he thought wryly.
Let de Chagny then deal with the aftermath of that decision.
He hoped that every time Christine looked upon her new husband after that day, she would remember all that had been taken from her. He hoped her hatred would ensure the Vicomte never had a moment's happiness ever again.