Chapter Thirty Two: The Graveyard
"Holmes," I whispered, gently tugging his sleeve. An animal like cry echoed through the silent graveyard and something in that cry triggered a twinge of remembrance in my brain, although I could not for the life of me figure out why. "Holmes, did you hear that?"
The detective nodded and briefly glanced down at me. "Yes Mackenzie, I heard it. Quiet now, we must wait and listen."
I shivered in spite of myself and fervently wished Holmes had allowed Becky to accompany us, because if he had, Watson would not have stayed behind, and would have been beside us, his trusty service revolver tucked snugly in his coat pocket.
Damn you Holmes! Why must you make everything so difficult?
I shook my head and tried to force all negative thoughts from my mind. I was here to watch and listen and that is what I intended to do. I moved slightly closer to Holmes and peered into the darkness, watching the viscount and the soprano quietly conversing, their silhouettes illuminated by faint moonlight.
"Raoul, what was that?" Christine asked, grabbing the viscount's sleeve. "What was that?"
Raoul de Chagny shrugged his shoulders in attempt to appear brave. "It was nothing Christine. Probably just wolves. Come," he said kneeling in front of a large tombstone. "Let us pray for your father."
The two figures knelt down and bowed their heads in silent prayer. Suddenly, for reasons I could not explain, I had the strongest urge to turn around and head back to the Setting Sun, leaving the two to pray in peace. Prayer was something sacred, something private, not meant to be shared with complete strangers, and that is what Holmes and I were, strangers to the couple. I felt as though I was invading their privacy, by standing behind a tree watching them, as though I was making their prayers sacrilegious by attempting to make out their words.
As if he sensed my doubt, Holmes squeezed my shoulder, breaking into my thoughts and forcing me to return my attention to Raoul and Christine who were now standing.
"Do you think the Korrigans will come out tonight?" Christine asked, her voice floating softly on the breeze, and into my ear. She pointed to the moon. "You remember the Korrigans, don't you Raoul?"
Even in the darkness, I could see a smile of remembrance on the face of Raoul de Chagny. He took Christine's hand in his and held it tightly. "Of course I remember the Korrigans, Christine. I remember everything your father ever told us," his voice was soft and soothing to listen to, "I remember our time here. The way we were so many years ago, long before operas and men's voices in dressing rooms."
At the viscount's last statement, Christine started. "Raoul, what did you say?" A tone of icy fear was evident in her voice.
"The night I went to your dressing room Christine. I waited in the corridor; I waited for you to come out so I could speak with you. While I was waiting, I heard a voice coming from your dressing room. It was a man's voice Christine. It said, 'you must love me. You do love me don't you?'
'And you replied Christine. You replied 'how could you say such a thing? I sing only for you.'
'He answered. He said 'your soul is a beautiful thing child. The angels wept tonight.'
'Who was that Christine? Who said those things? Tell me, I have a right to know!"
Even in the moonlight, I could see the singer's normally placid features contort into a look of both horror and disbelief. "You heard that?" She asked, grabbing the viscount by the arm and forcing him to stare into her wild eyes. "You heard?"
Raoul de Chagny nodded and seemed as surprised as I did by her outburst. "Yes Christine, I heard the man's voice. I heard everything that was said! Now tell me who it was!"
Christine paled and for a moment I feared she would faint. She quickly recovered and stared at the young man before her, as if seeing him for the first time. Her face took on a look of complete wonder, and not for the first time, I was impressed at how many emotions the human face could take on. "Raoul," she said her voice so soft that even in the almost silent graveyard it was a struggle to make out her words. "Raoul, I have decided to tell you something very serious."
The Vicomte squared his shoulders manfully, as though he expected some type of physical blow from the opera singer. "Tell me Christine."
"You said you remember everything Papa use to tell us. If that is so, you must remember the story of the Angel of Music. You do remember that, don't you Raoul?"
The viscount nodded. "Of course Christine. How could I ever forget that?"
I tapped Holmes on the shoulder to tell him that they were talking about the Angel! But before I could make a sound, one of his cold fingers was against my lips signaling for me to be quiet. I swallowed my words and continued to watch the unfolding scene before me.
"Remember how Papa promised me that he would send me the Angel of Music when he went to Heaven?"
Raoul nodded. "He made that promise to you everyday Christine."
"Well Raoul, Papa is dead and he kept his promise. I have been visited by the Angel of Music."
I expected an exclamation of surprise from the viscount, but he did not seem phased by her confession. "I do not doubt it Christine. When you sang at the opera that night you sounded celestial. No human, without divine intervention, could have sung the way you did." The reverence he held for her was evident in his tone.
"Raoul, there is more I must tell you. I am not the only person who has heard the angel."
"Oh really? Who else has heard him?" The young de Chagny asked, his voice taking on a mollifying tone. He spoke to her as though he were speaking to a child, who longed to touch the moon.
"You have heard him Raoul."
The viscount started in shock. "I…I don't understand Christine. I have heard him? When?"
"When you were listening outside my dressing room! I thought I was the only one who could hear him, but I guess I was mistaken. He visits me everyday in my dressing room and gives me lessons! You cannot imagine my surprise when you just admitted you heard him too!"
After a moment of silence, the viscount's laughter pealed through the air. "Oh Christine, that is grand! Bravo, excellent story! You have out done yourself my dear girl. For a moment, I honestly thought…"
Christine did not allow him to finish his statement. Instead she turned on him angrily and pushed him squarely in the chest. "How can you laugh? What do you think Raoul, that you did hear a man's voice in my dressing room?"
The
viscount's laughter turned into chuckles. "Well…"
"I
cannot believe you Raoul! You my old playmate, my father's dear
friend! You have changed Raoul, changed for the worse. Your brother
has influenced you Monsieur le Victome! Despite what he says, I am an
honest girl and I do NOT lock myself in
dressing rooms with men's voices! If you had opened the door you
would have found no one in there save me."
"You are right," the viscount said, his laughter stopping abruptly. "I opened the door after you left and I saw no one."
"You see, I am telling the truth!"
"Christine," his tone softened and he grabbed her arm. "Christine, my darling Christine, I think someone is playing a very nasty trick on you."
Christine Daaé was about to reply, when suddenly, from out of no where, a violin began playing. Never in my life have I ever heard such beauty, such passion. The swells of music filled the night air, and if seemed as though the world stopped to listen to the divine sound. My eyes filled with tears when I heard the simple yet haunting melody.
I looked up at Sherlock Holmes and noticed that he too seemed affected by the music. He straightened up and stared at the star speckled sky. When the music ended and silence once again settled around us he ran his hands over his eyes and an ironical smile played across his lips. "Is there an Angel of Music?"
I did not reply for there was nothing to say. The same thought passed through my mind but I chose to ignore it. Instead, I once again peered through the darkness and watched the two figures.
Christine Daaé had here eyes fixed on the sky and her arms were held out in front of her. Her face was set in a look of absolute ecstasy. "Oh Angel!" Her voice was breathless and her face was flushed as though she had just experienced the most intense orgasm in her life.
Raoul de Chagny also noticed this change and he stiffened. When his face turned toward us, his eyes blazed with fire. "Your Angel is here Christine? Where is he?"
"I am here Monsieur!" A voice said from somewhere in the shadows.
At the sound of the voice my breath caught in my throat. It was the very voice that had spoken to me in the alleyway in Paris the night before. A paralysis of fear filled my body and I could not move a muscle. Memories of the previous night assaulted my mind, memories of the unseen presence, the amber eyes, the cold flesh against my own. I attempted to swallow but there was a lump in my throat making it nearly impossible. I remembered too the strange odor of decay that surrounded him and my urge to vomit. Suddenly, my zeal for catching the Phantom of the Opera was greatly reduced.
"Mackenzie! Mackenzie what is the matter?" Holmes's voice brought me back to reality.
I know when I answered him my voice shook. "It's him. From last night Holmes, it's him."
"So you remember me Mackenzie? How very sweet of you! I am glad I evoke the same amount of fear in you twenty four hours later."
My knees knocked and my bowels loosened. I grabbed my friend's arm tightly and refused to let go of it. "Where is he?"
"I'm here Mademoiselle!" He said, his voice sounded as though it was right next to my ear.
I spun around but there was no one. "Holmes…"
"No I'm here!" The voice sounded like it was directly behind Sherlock Holmes.
The detective turned in the direction from which the voice came, but when he saw no one, his face blanched and he looked around, his eyes focusing on every shadow. "Where are you Monsieur?"
"I'm here, I'm here, I'm here!" The voice continued to move, the speed of the change was disorienting, the voice was so hypnotizing that I began to loose touch with reality and fantasy. The Phantom, as he was known, knew how to manipulate the senses, making the impossible seem possible and visa versa.
"Holmes," I muttered attempting to break free from the trance the voice was quickly putting me in. "How can he be in so many places at once?"
The detective was silent for several minutes, his eyes scanning the area once again. "This way, quickly!" He whispered, pulling me roughly along. We were running toward an old church, and Holmes uttered one word, "ventriloquism." It took me a moment to realize he was answering the question I had asked him moments before.
When we were about five yards from the entranceway, Holmes stopped with a screeching halt, causing me to crash into him. "Holmes what the devil are y…" my words died in my throat when I saw the sight before me.
