Chapter 37
Bid me not speak,
For my secret I am bound to keep.
Gladly would I reveal my innermost being,
But fate does not give me leave.
-Heiß mich nicht reden, Franz Schubert
"What?" Christine said.
Erik slid open the mirror. After stopping to drape his coat over her, he pulled her a little ways into the chilly passage, half-closing the mirror behind them.
"What is it?" she asked again.
"You'll never guess," he said with a sneer, "What has blown in from the Arctic."
Christine stared at him. "R- de Chagny?"
"In the flesh." He grinned horribly. "What an honor! A visit from a vicomte! Oh, my dear, you ought to have dusted! And me with my hair like this."
"But that is impossible," she said, still in disbelief. "He is at the North Pole."
"Not anymore."
"But… but... how can he be here?" she said. "How did he get into the opera house? It is a Sunday night - it ought to be closed."
"I believe you will find he has a key," he said.
"Oh, how marvelous!" Christine fumed. Even the stars of the cast did not have keys. The only reason she was able to get in and out when she pleased was because of Erik's extensive collection of stolen keys, which she took full advantage of. (Only concern for him had stopped her from using them to fill the managers' office with mousetraps. It was a lost opportunity she would always regret.) "I suppose these days thousands of francs at a place every month give one carte blanche to trespass whenever one pleases?"
"So," Erik said with no detectable emotion in his voice, "It would seem."
"What in Heaven's name can he be doing here?"
"I think perhaps you can answer that question."
"How can you say that?" Christine cried. But suddenly she was unable to meet his eyes. "Mon cœur, I was abundantly clear in my refusal."
"And yet," Erik said, "Here he is."
There seemed no possible reply to this.
There was an excruciating silence.
"Perhaps he is going away again," Christine ventured after a few horrible moments, "Or he is here for... something else. He would have knocked by now."
"Oh, no," Erik said in a horribly cheerful voice, "I think he is getting up the nerve. He was oscillating in front of the door, you know - the obligatory behavior of every anxious suitor."
As if to confirm this, there came a knock at the door. "Christine?" said Raoul's voice, muffled, from outside.
"Voilà!" Erik said with false gleefulness.
"Well, I don't know what he means by coming, but I certainly do not wish to see him," Christine said. She pressed herself against him and trailed one hand down his chest. Perhaps she ought to have tried this approach sooner. "I had much rather get back to... what we were doing," she said in what she hoped was a seductive voice.
She ought to have known this attempt would not work. When Erik was in a temper he was as responsive to her caresses as a block of stone. It was one of the many things about him that both infuriated and enthralled her.
Indeed, he merely glared.
She abandoned the attempt. "Let us sit quietly for a few minutes," she suggested. "He will go away eventually."
"Yes, perhaps," Erik said.
But he strode back out into the room, brushing past her as though she were not even there.
To Christine's horror, he stood at the piano and began to pound out a noisy rendition of one of Chopin's Nocturnes. No. 1 in C-sharp minor, Op. 27, to be precise, not that Raoul would know the difference - all he would hear was that there was someone there.
Christine leapt out after him. "What are you doing?" she hissed. "Stop this!"
"Perhaps, however," he finished, his hands still moving relentlessly across the keys, "It is best you hear him out while I am present."
Christine looked at him in surprise. "You cannot be seen!"
At last he stopped playing. "Yes, mon rêve, yes, the thought had occurred to me," he said in a grating whisper. "I shall conceal myself, naturally."
"Erik - if you are suggesting what I - he is not here at my invitation."
He treated her to an aggressively blank smile. "Surely you do not think me jealous? I think jealousy the meanest idea in the world. It would be degrading to the both of us."
Christine sighed. She hated it when he took that tone - high-and-mighty and sarcastic at the same time. It was enormously irritating.
What a ridiculous predicament he was putting her in. If she refused to go along with this, he would be suspicious. He seemed no more sure of her affections than he had been when they first began to court. It was putting a terrible strain on her. "Very well," she said, not bothering to hide her annoyance. "I have nothing to hide. But I wish you trusted me."
"Oh, but I do, mon rêve. It is him I do not trust." Erik shut the mirror and spirited himself behind the dressing-screen.
What a lot of nonsense! Are all men out of their minds? Really, I begin to think every one of them is as ridiculous as the next! Crossing the large room in a few swift strides, Christine grabbed his jacket, snatched up his hat and cloak from the coatrack, and flung them at him. She seized a shawl and threw it over her low neckline; then, her temper close to boiling, she flung open the dressing-room door just as Erik disappeared out of sight.
"Christine!" Raoul exclaimed blissfully. He looked drastically different than when he had left. His hair had grown longer and he needed to shave. The only thing missing to create the impression of a renegade explorer was snow in his hair.
He spread his arms and beamed, as if to say 'Voilà! Here I am! Is this not remarkable?'
Indeed, this was not unreasonable. His safe return after such an expedition was indeed something to remark upon. Under any other circumstances, Christine would have been delighted to see that he was alive and well.
"Raoul," she said tiredly. "Good Heavens." She did not invite him to sit or offer to take his coat.
His smile faded slightly at her muted reaction. "Christine. I have just returned!"
Inwardly she winced. Already she had erred. She was too subdued. He knew something wasn't right, that something had changed that she hadn't told him about. She ought to have played both sides, pretended she was delighted to see him. But then Erik would have been jealous... what an impossible situation this was! Curse Erik for throwing her into it. "I am very glad to see you well," she said, with all the enthusiasm he could muster.
"Thank you," Raoul said. "And I you! Are you quite well?"
"Am I well?"
"Yes- after that commotion at the masquerade ball."
"Ah- yes, quite well, thank you," she said. "How... kind of you to ask."
"Ah... good," he managed.
There was an awkward silence. His momentum was gone.
"When did you arrive in Paris?" she asked. Her confusion was still overwhelming.
"Tonight!" he said with a proud smile, as though this rash gesture would delight her.
"Tonight!" she cried. "But... but... Why have you come here? Oughtn't you to be at home?"
His expression went from merely confused to insulted. "Is that all you can say? I would have thought-"
"-I am tired. Forgive me. I was not expecting you. You come to my door at eleven o'clock on a Sunday night... It is rather unconventional..."
He looked sheepish. "I was going to leave a note. I did not think that you... but then I heard you playing..."
"Yes, wasn't I playing beautifully?" Christine said with a sarcasm that would be quite lost on him. "Well, I am here now, aren't I? I answered. Voilà. Are you satisfied?" This last aimed at Erik.
"What do you mean?" Raoul's look of bewilderment returned.
"I… I don't know. I am tired." Christine took the opportunity to ease a few steps backward. "I don't know what I am saying." Please, would you go?
"I went to your flat," he began again awkwardly. "Your flatmate said you are here most of the time."
She backed away further. "How did you get my address?"
"From when I took you home," he said.
Christine felt her hair stand on end as she imagined what Erik must be thinking. Stupid, not to have recalled that, Christine! What a dreadful blunder. Even the most reasonable of men would be jealous upon hearing that, and Erik... well, Erik was Erik! "That was a long time ago," she said firmly.
"Not so very long ago," Raoul said.
She looked away.
"You look utterly beautiful," he said.
She knew she looked well, and this only irritated her further. Erik had spent a great deal to buy her this magnificent gown, he ought to be the one to enjoy seeing her in it (or out of it, as the case may be), and he was stuck behind the dressing-screen while Raoul goggled at her. "Why have you come?" she asked again.
He almost laughed. "Is that all you can say to me?"
"Can you not answer me?"
"Very well." He drew a deep breath. "I have come for a reason - I shall not continue to delay you - I shall say this quickly."
"Does he ever say anything quickly?" Christine heard Erik mutter.
She had to stifle a laugh, and hurriedly stepped away from the screen so he wouldn't be tempted to fling out any more witticisms.
"You must know," Raoul said, "That I am still in love with you."
She choked. "Raoul… But..."
"Yes - I thought it was unreasonable at first, after all this time, but..."
"Raoul…" she said. "I wrote to you… didn't you receive my telegrams?" And then her blood ran cold as she realized: she had just revealed that she had not officially rejected the Vicomte till after he had left - til long after she had accepted Erik! Great Heavens, what must Erik be thinking? It was torture not to be able to see his expression.
"Yes," Raoul said, "But that was some time ago... I knew you would change your mind... I came back to convince you to…"
She shook her head slowly, letting it sink in. "I am sorry," she said, "Truly sorry."
"What?" Raoul backed a step away.
"I hate to cause pain to anyone, especially you, my oldest friend, but I cannot accept."
"But why?" he cried, aghast.
"I do not love you," she said. "I never have."
"Christine, how can you stand there and look me in the eye and say that? Don't you know how you are wounding me? It is cruel!"
"I do not mean to be cruel. I am merely stating what I know to be true. We are not right for one another. It would be cruel for me to pretend otherwise. We are much too different, you and I."
"In what way do you find me unsuitable? It does not appear to me that my hand is in any way unworthy of you."
She felt her anger return. "Yes, I am very aware-" She thought of Madame Giry and Meg, and most of all of Firmin- "Very aware of what an honor it is to be made an offer by the Vicomte de Chagny! I suppose I should fall to my knees and be grateful that you took notice of me!"
"Christine, you know I didn't mean it in that way!" He looked genuinely wounded, and she felt sorry. "But you know I would make you a good husband. Devoted, attentive, and you know you have my affection. I would protect you, guard you, guide you. I could give you-"
"-I'm sure you would make anyone a good husband," Christine said tiredly. She thought she heard Erik snort, but couldn't be sure. "But you would not be the proper sort of husband for me, Raoul! Our minds are not alike."
"What do you mean, 'the proper sort of husband'? What aspect of my suit offends you so? What reason have you for this?"
"There does not need to be a reason!" Christine cried.
"What?"
"My saying I do not want to marry you ought to be enough in itself," she said impatiently. "You are trying to make out that I have insulted you in some way, when I have done nothing of the kind. Nothing 'offends' me about you - except your absurd persistence when I have already stated my refusal several times."
"But this is madness!" he cried, practically undone. "I love you, and I could give you-"
"-It is nothing of the kind!" she said, truly angry. "Love me though you may, you could not make me happy. You wanted to take me off the stage, Raoul, when to give up singing would kill me! You do not have the artistic temperament; you cannot understand what it means-"
"-Don't understand you?" Raoul repeated incredulously. "We have known each other for fifteen years, longer than the women who you call your mother and sister; if I do not understand you, then who does?-"
"-We have known each other for a total of less than two."
"What?" he said in bewilderment.
"In between there was a lapse when we never saw or wrote to one another and neither of us had any idea what had become of the other," she reminded him. "Then we met again, briefly. In the intervening fourteen years, a great deal has happened - I lost my father, gained a new family, moved to Paris, began a profession, discovered my calling, and met a-" She stopped. She had very nearly said something damning.
"Yes?" he demanded, squinting.
"-Met… many friends," she hastened on, alarmed that she had left such an obvious pause. "And you suppose a childhood affection means you can presume to know me?"
"I have tried to know you better!"
"If so, you did not succeed," she said.
"You did not give me a chance!" he cried.
"-I did, but all you ever wanted to talk of was-"
"-All you ever wanted was to use my standing for your advantage, I suppose!" he cried.
"That is entirely untrue! Such accusations are-"
"-What excuse can you offer for your behavior?"
"-I do not see what 'behavior' I have to excuse!" she said. "I never made you any promise of any kind. I am not obligated to give you any justification or explanation of my actions."
"I should think you do owe me an explanation!" he cried. "I am your oldest friend! And what is more, you know I am in love with you! You have known it all this time! I should think I have made it inescapably obvious, unless you are extraordinarily stupid. Therefore it is indecent to break my heart with no reason!"
"This grows more and more absurd!" she cried. "I say again, you have no right to interrogate me in this way!" Flustered, she felt her words run away with her. "The only man who would have the right to demand an account of my actions would be- would be a fiancé-" Oh, God...
"-Your fiancé?" Raoul cried at once.
"…Yes, or husband, if I had one. I do not," she stammered, flustered, acutely conscious that Raoul was still staring at her, "And even if I did, he still would not have any right to- to order me about- and that is why I do not have to explain to anyone-"
"-There is someone else!" he cried. "I knew it!"
She flinched. "No."
"Then why-"
"-I answer to no-one but God, and what passes between Him and me is not anyone else's concern! I am the mistress of my own actions, Monsieur de Chagny! Neither you - nor anyone else!-" she added pointedly, for the benefit of anyone else who might happen to be in the room, "has any right to control them. I am free to do as I please-"
"-What, free to toy with the hearts of honest men and throw them away?" he cried. "You women are so duplicitous!"
"In what way am I duplicitous?" she said furiously. "In what way have I toyed with your heart? I am an honest girl, Monsieur-"
"-Is that so?" he sneered. "You were very receptive to my attentions in the carriage not so long ago!"
Christine's blood ran cold.
In her wildest dreams she had never imagined Raoul would be so ungentlemanlike as to bring that up again, or she would never have agreed to letting him in. She was about to open her mouth to shout at him for it. But she caught herself, realizing that to respond in such a way would make it sound even worse to Erik, as though she had done something she really ought to be ashamed of.
"I was nothing of the kind!" she cried instead.
But Raoul was not to be silenced so easily. "You have no soul!" he went on, red-faced, breathing hard, with tears in his eyes now. "To think it was my dearest wish to give my name to some chorus-girl tart!"
Christine gasped. "Raoul!" I have been deceived this whole time! He is not a gentleman. He is no better than any of those others...
Raoul looked as startled as she felt. "Christine, I didn't mean-"
But he never had the chance to finish.
Music: 'Prepared to do Anything' David Arnold and Michael Price
"-I have heard enough of this!" Erik stepped out from behind the dressing screen. He had his cloak and gloves back on, accompanied by the most menacing expression Christine had ever seen. "You may go, de Chagny! You are not needed here!"
Christine stifled a scream.
"What the devil-?" the Vicomte cried. Before she could blink, he had bounded into the room and shoved her behind him. "Who do you think you are?" he demanded.
"All you need know is that Christine Daae is under my protection."
"Under your protection?" Christine echoed furiously. "What do you take me for?"
Erik ignored her; his eyes were fixed on the Vicomte. "You, I am pleased to tell you again, you arrogant, sniveling little inbred rat, are not needed here."
"You forget yourself!" the Vicomte cried.
"No, you forget yourself!" Erik cried, so loudly Christine jumped. His eyes practically shot flames. "How dare you insult her? I shall rip you apart if you speak to her again!"
"It is you who have insulted her!" Raoul cried. "You scoundrel! You... you force your way into Mademoiselle's dressing-room - wearing a mask, no less- and you presume to make declarations of- of-" He lunged for Erik, but Erik sprang out of the way with dazzling speed.
From his advantage of several inches of height, he looked down at the Vicomte in silence, a smirk on his lips. "-I did not force my way in."
"But of course you did! Mademoiselle Daae would never let some... some vagrant into her private dressing-room!"
"But she let you in," Erik said dryly.
"Our acquaintance is respectable. As for you - How dare you come here, how dare you?" Raoul's face was transfigured with rage. If any traces of the amiable young man-about-town had remained before, now they had evaporated entirely. "She is a virtuous woman-"
"-I do not need you to tell me whether she is virtuous or not-"
"-How dare you form designs upon her!" the Vicomte roared. "You blackguard! You villain!"
Erik bowed.
"Have you been here all this while? Eavesdropping on a private conversation?" Raoul demanded, beginning to circle him, looking for an opening.
Christine's skin crawled. Ought she to say something? But even if she did, she doubted it would make a difference. They were snarling at each other like two angry wolves; anything she said might just provoke one of them to violence.
She was quite sure Raoul couldn't do any damage to Erik; her greatest fear was that Erik would attack the Vicomte. They would never be free again if that happened.
Even if he didn't put a scratch on him, it didn't matter. The Vicomte, Christine was sure, would like nothing better than to have an excuse to see Erik thrown in prison for years, which, she had no doubt, the Chagny family could easily arrange. He hated Erik. She could see it in his eyes.
Silently she cursed Erik for insulting him so bluntly. What had he been thinking?
"Oh, yes," Erik said. "I have been enjoying your little melodrama immensely. That is, until the part where you called her a chorus-girl tart." His face darkened menacingly. "She will never be yours. I will not allow it."
"You will not allow it?" Christine cried.
"She certainly will never marry you," Erik went on, continuing to address the Vicomte as though she had not said a word. "Especially not after that, I think. Her affections are engaged elsewhere, more suitably."
"What would you know of her heart?" the Vicomte scoffed. "How do you presume to dictate where she will bestow her affections?" Suddenly his face changed. "Has this why she has been avoiding me all this time? You have some kind of hold over her! I knew something was not right… I suppose you threatened to hurt her if she accepted me?"
Christine could see that Raoul had touched a nerve.
"No!" Erik cried with real emotion. "She loves me! Christine loves me!"
Raoul laughed incredulously.
"Why should I conceal it?" Erik cried, seeing Christine's look of horror. "It grows tiresome to keep it a secret. Why should I hang my head as though I have committed some crime?"
Because you have committed crimes! Christine wanted to cry. Secrecy is protection! Isn't that what you have told me all this time? Is that not why we have been taking such trouble to conceal our love all this time?
"I came by her affection honorably," Erik cried, "while you, de Chagny, you are not worthy to look her in the eye!"
"If you had come by her affections, and done so honourably," Raoul said, "There would be no need to conceal your identity in this way. Well, I will not let you be a coward and hide behind anonymity!"
He lunged again; Erik put up his hands to counter a blow. But that had not been Raoul's intent, and Erik was unprepared for what came next.
In a moment, the mask was off.
The change Erik's demeanor was instantaneous, like flipping a switch. He was transformed from a proud man to a pitiful, cowed, helpless, quivering creature. He fell to the floor, writhing in terror, clutching his face and moaning in agony, almost as though the light burnt it.
"Christine, don't look," he whimpered, the only words he could manage to form.
Raoul had meant to seize him, but clearly that was unnecessary; Erik was quite incapacitated. Besides, all the Vicomte could do was stand open-mouthed, his hands hanging limply with the mask in them.
"The tales are true after all!" he managed at last. "The opera ghost! To think I doubted the word of my brother!"
This was monstrous, Christine thought. God only knew what agonies Erik must be suffering. A sob breaking from her, she tried to grab the mask from Raoul. "Have pity!" she pled.
But Raoul's fingers seemed locked around it. "I thought all the stories about a horrible face were just the ravings of intoxicated minds," he said numbly. "But they weren't… Why, it all makes sense now! All the threatening letters about her - Those bizarre notes - Your vile, loathsome obsession with her-"
What had happened to Erik? Christine thought frantically. Where were the scathing remarks? Was he so undone?
At last he spoke. "-You know nothing of it," he said. His teeth were clenched and he still clutched his face, though from between his fingers one could see his eyes glinting. "You are incapable of understanding the passion I cherish for her."
"Indeed!" Raoul sneered. He was still frozen; Christine felt quite sure he would have attacked Erik physically by now if he were not too repulsed by him to do so. "I lack the perverted imagination necessary to do so."
Erik gave a roar of rage, though he could not push himself to his feet with his hands clutched over his face. Instead he merely staggered pitifully, like a wounded animal. "You-!"
Christine turned away. She knew Erik would not want her to see him in this state - though she feared that just now, he might think she was averting her eyes because she could not bear the sight of his face. A sob broke from her throat, and she bit her tongue so hard she tasted blood. His pain was a torment to her. She wanted to fling herself down on the floor beside him, throw her arms round him, shield him from all the harm in the world. She wanted to pour out words of undying love, tell him the kind of man he was, the kind of man she knew him to be.
Most of all she wanted to spit in the Vicomte's face and tell him precisely what she thought of him for humiliating Erik like this.
Any moment now she would break and give away the whole thing. Raoul was, quite without realizing it, a most effective torturer.
"Christine," Raoul said, "I am sorry to insult you with this question, but are you acquainted with this… this…?"
There was a long pause. Over her shoulder she could see two sets of eyes watching her piercingly, the blue and the green.
Erik, Christine thought, Please understand. Please remember the danger! You warned me of it yourself! Come to your senses!
Christine took a few deep, rasping breaths. "I am not," she said at last, her voice raw. It cost her everything she had.
Perhaps she ought to have said something more scathing - 'I certainly do not know him' - appear appalled and superior and insulted by the very idea. But she did not have it in her. She could not pretend to despise the one creature on earth she worshiped, her heart and soul, the very breath in her body.
"Christine, what is the meaning of this? Tell him it is true!" Erik pleaded.
With her eyes Christine tried to tell him how much she loved him, pleaded with him to understand. "Why should I do any such thing?" she said aloud, with the stilted feeling of reading from a script. "I don't know who you are."
It nearly killed her. Tears began to pour down her face. Making it infinitely worse was that Erik did not appear to understand. He looked as though he had been kicked in the stomach.
And perhaps she should not expect him to understand. She had stood there, witnessed his humiliation, and done nothing to stop it. Would he ever forgive her for this?
"You see Mademoiselle does not know you!" Raoul cried.
Erik did not seem to hear, or perhaps he simply did not care. He never took his eyes from Christine.
He said nothing.
At last, Christine succeeded in wrenching the mask back from Raoul, and flung it to him. He sprang at it with the frantic desperation of a wild animal.
With the mask in place once more, instantly he regained his frosty dignity. Anyone looking at him at that moment would have thought he could only possibly be on the floor because he wanted to be, that he was in control of the whole room and had been making everyone do just as he pleased all along.
The transformation was so instant and complete as to be frightening.
Worse, when he looked up at Christine there was a new coldness in his gaze. He had never looked at her like that before. She no longer saw any esteem in his eyes; he had relegated her back to the rest of the human race. She would have given anything to change that back.
She felt sick to her stomach.
As Erik rose to his feet and straightened his shoulders, he seemed to fill the room. He was like an immense, ominous shadow, the Phantom once more. He was a match for Raoul.
"Yes," he said, spitting out the words through clenched teeth, "the Opera Ghost." he seemed to fill the room. He was like an immense, ominous shadow, the Phantom once more. He was a match for Raoul. "And you, Vicomte, will pay for what you have done."
He stepped toward Raoul. Though he had not lifted a hand against him, his sheer physical presence, enveloped in the black cloak, was overwhelming; even Christine was awed, quite intimidated by him as she had been when they first started lessons together.
Before Erik could make any movement, however, Raoul did something Christine had not expected. He pulled a revolver from the inner pocket of his jacket. The next moment he had it cocked and aimed at Erik's heart.
Christine stifled a scream. "No!" she cried, throwing herself between Erik and the gun. "Don't! He's-"
But it was too late.
End of Chapter 37. Thank you so much to my wonderful readers! Thank you to Afaiths, Erinunu, Pandere, Ana, ForeverReading, and Asprankle for your feedback, wraithsnakezenith for your support, and Olive for not only being a support but now also an amazing proofreader - you are the absolute best!
*Note: Raoul insulting Christine is canonical (see Leroux). I am unsure about how to translate the word that he calls in the book, however. The original French version says "fille d'Opéra", and the closest translation I can find for this is "whore". However, I am not familiar with the nuances of precisely what the word insinuated back then or how insulting it was. (Whore? Slut? Harlot? Trollop? Hussy? Why does our language have so many insulting words for women?! ...) I would welcome input from any of the many people out there who speak better French than me. :) In the meantime, since to me Raoul's calling Christine the word 'whore' or 'slut' would make his character beyond sympathy, and I find stories more interesting and nuanced when all the main characters are at least a little bit sympathetic rather than having anybody be just a villain (heck, even Sauron in Lord of the Rings is interesting and complex if you read his backstory), I elected to go with "tart" instead. (Most translations I've read use "wench", but that just sounds so 16th-century that I didn't find it believable.)