Here 'tis, the long-awaited (or not) Chapter 15, in which Erik does not marry a puppet (sorry, Phantomy-Cookies), nor does he masquerade as a buttered croissant (sorry, Gondolier), but he does consume a food product of dubious quality. Never let it be said that I don't listen to my reviewers! Really, guys, you mean the world to me – thanks so much for sticking with this story, especially through the recent enforced update drought.
Today's trivia: There really were all kinds of gala performances in Parisian theatres to celebrate the outbreak of the war. The performance described here really took place, though not at the Variétés. Also, the Marseillaise was not at this stage the national anthem; it had been banned for many years under the Second Empire and, to the best of my knowledge, was only legalised shortly before the war.
Chapter 15 – Giselle
Madame Giry met them in the parlour. She had been reading; Christine saw what looked like old letters set before her on the divan, with a loose bit of string around them, untied. Drawn curtains left the evening outside. Within, light from Madame Giry's reading lamp made a circle of warmth around her, casting shadows on the landlord's floral wallpaper. The room was not beautiful, but to Christine's eyes it looked cosy: the brown upholstered divan from Madame Giry's Opéra apartments; the old rug on the floor that had to be rolled away when they practiced for the ballet in defiance of the neighbours' wrath; the polished bulk of the piano and even the porcelain dancer presiding over the empty fireplace, frozen in her perfect second arabesque. Christine touched her palm to the doorjamb, solid wood under her hand. It was good to be home.
"We're back," Meg called, unpinning her hat and letting her hair swing free.
Madame Giry set aside the letter she had been holding as the two girls entered. The corners of her lips curved downward when she noticed Christine's blotchy face. "What is this?"
"I am not crying," Christine said hastily. "Raoul found us in the park, we – talked. Everything is all right."
"You have reconciled?"
"No," Christine admitted. She hid her hands, conscious of the missing ring. "But it is all right," she insisted. "Or, it will be."
Madame Giry did not look convinced.
"Maman, is that a picture of you?" Meg had come up to look at what her mother was reading.
Joining her, Christine saw that it was not a letter at all but a watercolour sketch, done on plain writing paper and faded with time. It depicted a dancer in semi-profile, in a white veil and with arms outstretched in the stylised attitude of a ballet farewell, but with her face pleading in a sorrow so deep that it could only be genuine. Meg had been right; the high forehead and elegant line of jaw and cheekbone were unmistakably Madame Giry's.
"May I see? Oh, maman – it's beautiful!"
Madame Giry tolerated her daughter's delighted examination of the sketch with a wry expression. "Well. I was young once also."
"You're still young," Meg huffed.
"Thank you, that is sufficient flattery for the evening. You may go wash your hands and set out things for supper. No, Christine – you stay a moment, please. I would like to show you something."
Surprised, Christine watched Madame Giry pick out three unmarked envelopes from the pile, yellowed around the edges. All three had been opened neatly with a slit across the top.
"What are those?" she asked in some confusion.
"Letters." Madame Giry held out the envelopes for her to take. "You may find them of some interest."
"But surely... Are they not private?"
Madame Giry gave her a look rich with irony. "If memory servers, you and my daughter had no such qualms when you were younger. I fairly had to drag you out of my things."
Christine coloured in embarrassment, but Madame Giry only laughed and pressed the letters into her hand. "They are not private. Come and speak to me when you have read them, Christine – it is important. But supper first."
Christine bobbed her head uncertainly, accepting them. She could not think why Madame Giry would share these with her; she and Meg had only rarely been allowed to look through Madame Giry's old things, and most of those had been news clippings, drawings or trinkets from ballets, never private correspondence. There was little time to wonder, however, because Meg was already setting the table in the dining-room. Christine took the letters to her room, and hurried to the kitchen to help with serving supper.
"Those are ready to go out." Meg nodded at a porcelain tureen of steaming-hot broth, and a basket of fresh bread. "Tell maman I shall be a minute longer. I'll just put the coffee on; Josette forgot to grind it again. She didn't lecture you about Raoul, did she?"
"No... She gave me some letters to read." Christine glanced at Meg, puzzled. "I think they must be from a long time ago."
"Perhaps it is something to do with your father," Meg suggested.
"Oh! I had not thought of it... I hope you're right."
Christine picked up the soup tureen, balancing the bread on top of the lid. "Meg, would you come to the cemetery with me sometime? I haven't been back since – since before the fire, and I don't like to go alone, anymore."
"Of course... Watch the bread!"
Christine caught the basket with her chin before it could slide off the tureen, taking it out to the dining-room in this undignified fashion and earning herself an amused look from Madame Giry. Christine sighed inwardly; if she and Meg ever found a practical way to help with money, it would certainly not be by waiting tables.
Meg followed presently with the rest of their supper and they settled down to a quiet, comfortable meal. Meg and Madame Giry talked little, and then of trivial things that required no more input from Christine than the occasional 'yes' or 'no'. She sensed they were trying to spare her unnecessary chatter, giving her space in which to grieve for Raoul, for the love she had broken. Their kindness shamed her. Madame Giry had warned her from the first that it was unwise to consider marriage so young, yet she looked at her now with compassion, as if she was a sick child instead of a foolish young woman, wilfully blind to the reality outside her dreams.
"The Théâtre Français are putting on a gala for this war," Madame Giry remarked, with a faint grimace of disapproval. "The Opéra Comique as well. What have the Variétés planned?"
"Much the same," said Meg. "We are to put on something about the Revolution, with the whole chorus dressed as washerwomen and soldiers and such, and a ballet about the triumph of the French people... Christine and I are dancing, and Blanche and Helena – but they are still searching for somebody to dress as Liberty and sing the Marseillaise."
"What of their regulars?"
"The Opéra Comique has Carlotta; the Variétés want to outdo them."
Christine felt their eyes on her and knew the unspoken question. "They have not asked me."
"They would if they heard you," Meg protested. "Christine, the scandal was so long ago. We've been dancing there three months and the roof has yet to collapse; they know you cannot be as cursed as all that. If you would only audition..."
Christine studied the pattern on the bottom of her empty plate. She knew Meg was right; this was an opportunity she was unlikely to have again. In the feverish atmosphere of competition, the Variétés might be willing to overlook her history and give her another chance – and there was also the question of money to consider... It would mean doing everything all over again. A chorus girl in the limelight, the newspapers snooping for another scandal, just when she had thought it was over.
"I can't. I am out of practice."
"But it is only the Marseillaise, not a real opera..."
Madame Giry came to her rescue. "There are better uses for a singing voice than belting out vulgarities about slaughter, Meg; it is bad enough that the two of you must dance them. Let Carlotta have her Marseillaise, if she has the heart for it."
She stood up, folding away her napkin, and the meal was at last at an end.
"Do you not miss singing?" asked Meg, while she and Christine cleared away the dishes.
"I do," Christine said quietly. "That's just it. I miss it far too much."
"Then you should sing. Uh!" Meg stopped Christine's objection with an impish look. "I'm finished. I promise; I won't breathe another word about it – after you have auditioned."
"Meg!"
"Singing! Singing! SINGING!"
Christine leapt after her. She never knew afterwards how they managed not to break the crockery in the chase around the dining table, the room, the kitchen, ducking this way and that, laughing, until exhaustion at last forced them to call a truce. They dropped into the old armchairs in the parlour, grinning stupidly at one another.
"Singing," Meg managed, between breaths.
"The neighbours must be on their way right now."
"Let them come." Meg kicked a dusty game box out from under her chair. "Draughts?"
Christine had caught her breath. She thought of Raoul and could not believe she had been laughing. The smile on her face felt like a mask, no longer hers. She remembered the letters.
"I'm going to bed, Meg. I want to read those letters, too."
Meg gave her a small nod as she stood up, gentle and serious once again. "I hope there is something about your father there."
Once in her own room, Christine lit the candle by the bed and took out the three envelopes. She turned them over, curious. None had been marked with a date, but the paper was obviously old. After a moment's hesitation, she picked up one at random and opened it.
Inside was a single sheet of paper, folded in half and in half again. Christine smoothed it out and saw that it was covered with precise, handsome calligraphy. To her surprise, she recognised Madame Giry's own handwriting: the letter was not addressed to her; it was from her. The occasional inkblots suggested a rough copy. Christine sat down at her dressing-table, reading.
The first line made her pause.
Jules, – she read;
I do not wish to marry you.
The letter was not about her father. It was about Meg's.
o o o
Shortly before the train was due to pull into Sedan, it started to rain. Erik remained in his compartment with the other passengers, all of them suspended in the restless silence of anticipation with nothing more to do than to stare at the interior of the compartment reflected in the impenetrable darkness of the window. Now that the bags had been retrieved from under the benches and the conductor had been paid his tip, entirely unearned, Erik had the impression of a gradual awakening, a return to himself as after a particularly engrossing piece of music. Raindrops hit the glass in rapid diagonals, but their noise was masked by the slowing rattle of the wheels as the train approached town. Watery lights swam out of the distance. A few minutes later the gas-lit platform came into view, and the corridor filled with the now-familiar voices and slamming doors.
"Well, my friends," summed up Egrot, the rotund gentleman who had regaled Erik with his political views – "It has been a most pleasant journey. I thank you all for your company."
"Yes, quite," the others agreed. "Pity about the weather, is it not?" Politenesses were exchanged all around, along with handshakes, bows to the lady, and the a couple of calling-cards. Erik found himself being farewelled for all the world as if he was a dear friend rather than the chance acquaintance of a few hours' travel. He could not decide whether he detested their false intimacy or envied it.
"Whereabouts in Sedan are you staying, Monsieur Andersson?" inquired Egrot, as they filed out into the narrow corridor and crammed themselves into the queue of chattering passengers all waiting to alight. "I can recommend one or two good hotels. You would wish to be somewhere in town, I'll wager, since you're to work on the courthouse."
"I've made my own arrangements," Erik replied vaguely. He had not the least intention of revealing his address to a perfect stranger. It was bad enough that he had been forced to admit to his profession and the nature of his stay in town; he had done this simply because he had not anticipated being asked such things point blank, as if this was a perfectly normal mode of conversation.
He hopped off the train onto the wet platform, after the puffing Egrot.
"Ah, well – then I shall bid you farewell, and the best of luck." Egrot wedged his hat onto his head and opened an umbrella. "If you have cause to visit outside town, I would be delighted to welcome you to my house in Bazeilles, though I vow I shall not risk another game of piquet with you, monsieur!"
Erik decided the last was meant as a compliment to his win. The man was not a bad sort really, despite his love of politics. "I have your card, Monsieur Egrot. Au revoir."
"Au revoir. Ah, there's the baggage now. Porter!" Egrot called, hurrying to where he could see the larger trunks being unloaded from the last car onto the baggage-carts.
Erik's only baggage was his bag and a half-size folio containing his sketches for the courthouse; he would not have allowed his things to be handled by random strangers even if he had been forced to carry an entire trunk of supplies. He threw his cloak over his shoulders, enclosing the bag and folio as well, and set out towards the interior of the train station.
Inside, it was warm and dry, but noisy with the echoing dissonance of bad acoustics he had come to associate with all train stations. At only ten in the evening, the place was nearly deserted; the only voices seemed to belong to the passengers who had come on the Paris train with him. Sedan was evidently no Paris, to come alight in the small hours. Erik purchased a map of town and, as a concession to the demands of his stomach, a hot greasy pie filled with a green gloop which the vendor assured him was 'mostly peas'. What the remainder was, Erik deemed it safer not to inquire. It tasted better than it looked, and he managed to wolf down another three while he located an empty hansom cab outside the station.
"Where to, sir?" asked the soggy-looking driver, slapping the reins lightly when his horse turned with an appreciative sniff at the smell of the last pie in Erik's hands.
"Rue Saint-Michel."
The horse trotted off. It was a brown shaggy animal, which constantly flicked its wet tail in Erik's direction, showering the bare half of his face with tiny droplets in the open cab. Erik took a good look at the map before putting it away, and he mentally traced the route as the cab pitched and slid through the flooded streets. The town was not as small as he had been led to believe, but the wet, dull facades meeting his curious gaze were completely unlike those of Paris. Erik made a mental note of the medieval fortress on the hill, its walls visible only as a darker shape against the rainclouds; of the spire of the church; of the old industrial building identified on the map as a textiles mill. The houses looked provincial, solid and wholesome and rather underdecorated. The footpaths, where they existed, were of cobblestones rather than asphalt, and in this weather they seemed to be all gutter, foaming and chattering with the rain. Nowhere could Erik spot a dance-hall, a café or so much as a tavern, but he did notice a soggy poster on a news-stand, advertising a performance by some church choir.
By the time the cab came squeaking and squelching into rue Saint-Michel, Erik had decided that Vincent Fiaux was likely right: the town's motto could well have been "Sedan: Puritanical And Proud Of It." It would be easy work to design a courthouse to suit this place. The outlines of the portico, pilasters, staircases rose in Erik's mind as easily as if his hand had started to trace them. It was not music, but it was something.
Perhaps it could be enough.
o o o
Christine tried to slip the sheet of paper back into its envelope, but her hands would not do as she wanted.
It was one thing to know vaguely that Meg's father and Madame Giry had not married, had gone their separate ways before Meg had been born. It was quite another to be confronted with it directly. Christine could not understand Madame Giry's purpose; she had no wish to know the particulars, it felt too much like prying, like a violation of the past. Surely Madame Giry did not intend by this means to persuade her to reconcile with Raoul? Christine half-wished she could return the remaining letters unread, but she knew she would not.
She took out the second letter with a sharp, defiant tug, ashamed at her curiosity.
Mademoiselle Giry,
Forgive my impertinence in thus contacting you directly, particularly on what could only be a difficult and personal matter. I assure you that I would not have taken such a step had I not been compelled to do so by my discovery of the conduct of M. Robuchon, who has been my dearest friend these past ten years, and whose actions I must therefore regard in the same light as I would the actions of my own brother or myself.
I have been given to understand by M. Robuchon, upon my return from Marseilles, that the connection between him and yourself has now been severed for some weeks, and that he has no further intentions in this regard; this, despite your delicate state. Naturally, I expressed my dismay at what I felt to be an ill-made decision, at which M. Robuchon further informed me that he had in fact offered you a certain sum of money, which you have refused, and that he therefore considers the matter to be out of his hands.
Our acquaintance has not been long, mademoiselle, but I have always felt you to be a young woman of great good sense, and I imagine you must have your reasons for refusing my friend's offer and thus leaving yourself in what seems to me an unnecessarily dire predicament. It is only for the sake of honour that I am thus forced to trouble you with my concern; I own it has occurred to me that the situation may not be entirely as M. Robuchon has described it. Should this be so, I consider myself honour-bound to extend such help as I may, where my friend's thoughtlessness (for I cannot believe it malice) has failed you.
I assure you that you may rely on my utmost discretion in this matter.
The letter was signed "Jean-Marie Duchamp". The date in the corner was June 15, 1853; six months before Meg's birth. Christine shook her head, mystified. Surely it should be Meg reading this, not her...
Evidently, Madame Giry had declined the offer of money once again, because when Christine opened the third letter, she found no text at all, but only an address. The town was unfamiliar, but from the name – Mme. Duchamp-Pierot – Christine understood it to be the house of some female relation of Monsieur Duchamp's. A sister, perhaps. In the same envelope was a small drawing, another watercolour like the one Madame Giry had been looking at earlier. Christine took it out. A white ballerina stood alone on a blue-dark stage, with the hazy white line-up of the corps behind her. It had been signed, For 'Giselle'. Jules R. 1852.
There was nothing else.
Christine re-closed the envelopes and held them with both hands, lining up the edges nervously against the dresser. An awful suspicion had been growing inside her; the more she thought of it, the more certain she became. She knew why Madame Giry had meant for her to see these letters. Christine recalled her own words, blurted out that very morning: I opened the window, and the Phantom came inside.
And Madame Giry had assumed—
Oh God. For some reason Christine wanted to laugh. Or cry. The edges of her mouth tightened; her eyes prickled. She had never been so grateful for the absence of a mirror on the dresser. She rose from the chair, paced around, sat on the bed, got up, took the letters again, went to the window. Stood there, her hands scrunching the heavy curtains.
A thought flitted through her mind: If she opened the window, would he come back?
She released the curtains and went back to her dressing-table. There, she took out the first letter again, then the second, then the note from the third, arranging them all in front of her. Somehow, knowing that it was a misunderstanding made it easier; she could stop thinking of herself. Christine opened the first letter again and began to read, carefully and without resentment. Some time passed, and she forgot everything else; there were only these few terse words, a piece of another's life entrusted to her hands. She felt a peculiar admiration for this woman who was the closest thing to a mother she could recall – but who was not her mother, who could make mistakes like her own. It was kinship, of a sort. Perhaps that was what Madame Giry had wanted her to see all along.
When she finished reading, Christine blew out the candle and went to take the letters back to Madame Giry.
She padded in her stockings across the cool parquet of the dining-room, and into the short corridor that led to Madame Giry's dressing-room. The door had been left open. Beyond it, a slice of candle-light under the bedroom door told her that Madame Giry was still awake.
"Come in," Madame Giry's voice called from within when she knocked.
Christine opened the door a little. Madame Giry turned around; she was sitting at her dressing-table with the candle lit and a book lying open before her. She still wore her day clothes, but her braid fell loose down her back. The dresser was hardly more ornate than Christine's own, save that it had a mirror and there were drawings and clippings pasted all around the frame, as a sort of scrapbook. Christine smiled a little, remembering how she and Meg had used to climb up to get a better look at the pictures. She closed the door and came inside.
Madame Giry accepted the letters from her hand. "You have read them?"
Christine stood near the second chair near the dressing-table, but did not sit down. "May I ask you something..."
"Certainly."
"Why did you not marry Monsieur Robuchon?"
The shadow of a smile touched Madame Giry's eyes. She closed the book she had been reading, not bothering to mark the page. "Life is not a novel, my dear. Or an opera. Come, sit down."
Christine pulled out the chair obediently, settling her skirts against the worn plush seat.
Madame Giry looked at Christine's face in the mirror for a moment, the two of them reflected side-by-side. "I was a dancer, ambitious – I did not wish to marry him, and he did not wish to marry me." She spoke gently. "It was not clever of us, to do as we did. The young are not always clever."
Christine had no choice but to nod agreement.
Madame Giry looked at her, seriously. "We need not talk about this now, if you do not wish to. But you must be aware that if something comes of this..."
"It won't," Christine said quickly. She struggled to find the words, painfully embarrassed all over again. "You mistook my meaning, Madame Giry. About that night... It was not like that," she explained helplessly. "He did kiss me but – nothing more. I was angry, and—"
She broke off. Madame Giry had closed her eyes and raised her hands to her face; then, to Christine's complete horror, her shoulders began to shake. She was laughing.
"I'm sorry to have made you think otherwise... Madame Giry?"
"It is all right." She was still laughing, quietly and with tears running down her cheeks. Christine had never seen anything like it.
"Do not look at me so; I am only – relieved. It seems I would do well to take my own advice."
"What advice?" Christine wondered.
"That life is not an opera."
Madame Giry brushed the tears away, impatiently. She gave Christine's hand a rueful pat. "Christine Daaé, you must promise me something. You will never again invite a man into your room through the window."
"All right," Christine agreed, "But then I shall need another tall mirror..."
She saw that she had startled Madame Giry, and so she grinned, feeling somehow light-hearted.
"You must not joke like that," said Madame Giry, and this time her tone was very dark. "It was unforgivable, the things that were done to you."
She was blaming herself, Christine saw – and she wondered at the strange mood lifting her up, this lightness inside her that made her want to embrace Madame Giry in friendship, in forgiveness, without awe. For the first time since the awful conversation with Raoul she allowed herself to catch up with the thought: I am free.
"It is in the past," Christine said aloud, marvelling. She sought Madame Giry's troubled eyes in reassurance. "I am free now."
Madame Giry studied her a moment. Then she nodded in the familiar, brisk way, and said:
"We must meet with him."
Christine thought she had misheard. Her lightness crashed to earth, hard. "What... What do you mean?"
"Only that. A dinner, perhaps, here."
"A dinner."
"Or supper. I assure you, he does eat."
Christine was certain the floor had moved somewhere from under her chair. She felt weightless and sick, falling down into an endless well. All she could manage was an appalled, "Why?"
"Because you are not free, Christine. Not while he remains thus, unreal."
Madame Giry unlocked the drawer of the dresser to put away the letters. When she spoke again, her voice was thoughtful. "He has been too long a ghost. We have all come to believe it, even he, and that illusion is dangerous – you would never have allowed a man to do as he did that night, and no man would behave so. Yet he is a man. That is all he is."
She turned the key to lock the drawer, and raised her eyes to Christine. "I will do nothing you cannot bear, you may have my word. But there cannot be another morning like this one. Not again. Christine, do you understand?"
After a moment, Christine rose, unsteadily. The fragile sense of camaraderie was gone; she felt adrift again, alone.
The worst of it was that it was true; she did see a ghost. The ghost of a man, the shadow of a voice. Nine years of hearing his voice through the walls; nine years. How could she be free?
"I would like to... think on it."
"Yes," Madame Giry said, "of course."