September 14th 1892: Christine
The opera began. Song followed song, dance followed dance, scene followed scene. Yet I was just staring at the stage without taking in a lot of what was going on. I sat on the right side of my chair, as far away from my husband as it was possible without crushing Antoinette. She didn't even seem to notice it, though, for she was busy listening to Jacqueline, who tried to explain what the singers and dancers were doing and why they were doing it. The maid had obviously heard a few things from her sister. I was glad that she kept the girl distracted. It gave me more time for thinking.
Once more, I was pondering about the two most important men in my life. Throwing Raoul a sideways glance I saw that his jaws were pressed together firmly. There also was a sharp line between his eyebrows, which always appeared at this spot when he was angry. At least I assumed it always appeared there; he and I argued so rarely that I had little experience in that kind of things. I turned my head away quickly, before he noticed I had looked at him. After all, I didn't want to give him the impression that I wanted to continue our argument.
Why did he have to be this stubborn in everything concerning Erik? Of course there were times in which I could understand his worries. When he had first heard about Philippe being Erik's heir, I had known right from the beginning that he wouldn't be pleased. But he had had quite a while to accept it, and honestly I had thought he had done so by now. If this was not the case, why had he come to the opera at all? He must have known we'd see our son and his teacher together here.
The problem was that Erik would never only be the boy's teacher for Raoul. No matter how much I talked to him and tried to make him see reason, he'd always regard him as the monster who had abducted his fiancée ten years ago. I barely recognised him in the moments when he spoke of him with so much hatred in his voice. It was as if the sensible and mature man stepped aside and let the twenty-two-year-old boy take charge. Arguing with that part of his character was almost impossible. It was enthusiastic, yet unfortunately sometimes for the wrong kind of ideas.
Trying to get Philippe away from Erik! The thought still made me shake my head incredulously. Why should we do that? Just because my husband didn't like to see his old enemy happy? He'd have surely preferred it if Erik had been miserable for the rest of his life. Well, as long as I had anything to say about that matter, it would never be like that.
I was glad about him being happy now. He had had such a hard life, and if my son's presence made him feel so much better, I wouldn't dream of forbidding him the contact with the boy. Looking over at Box Five I saw Erik showing Philippe something on stage. As the child turned his head to face him again, they beamed at each other. In this moment a wave of jealousy washed over me. It was not because of Philippe; he was a cheerful boy who smiled dozens of times every day. I didn't envy his teacher for being the receiver of one of them for a change. But what was it then?
After a few seconds realisation dawned on me: I was jealous because I had never been able to make Erik smile like that. The thought was so selfish that I hardly dared admit it to myself. Shouldn't I be content with the fact that someone made him happy, even if it was not me? Erik seemed more sensible than me in this respect. He obviously accepted my decision against him. Except for the letter asking me whether Philippe could stay with him for a couple of days he had not contacted me in any way. I hadn't thought too much about it before, but seeing him now made me feel strangely hollow.
High-pitched cries made me glance at the stage again. Even after all those years I had recognised the shouts of anxious chorus girls at once. I quickly discovered the reason for their discomfort: At the beginning of the performance, when I had still paid a little attention, their faces had been covered with white powder, just like everyone else's. Yet as the light had changed a moment before, they had turned…
"Blue!" Antoinette called, managing to tug at Jacqueline's and my sleeve at the same time to make sure we had noticed it, too. "Maman, Papa, Jacqueline, look! They're like… blueberries !" She squealed with delight. It was indeed a rather good comparison. The chorus girls were wearing costumes in a very interesting shade of green, and huddled up in a terrified mass of bodies, their heads resembled lots and lots of blueberries.
I could barely keep myself from bursting into laughter. Still I tried to be a good example for my daughter. "It's not polite to laugh at others," I told her, but interrupted myself as I realised how pointless my words were. All over the audience people were laughing openly, gesturing at the stage. Judging by the sounds he made even my husband was chuckling.
"At least it's not Clarille!" The maid's deep sigh made me notice something peculiar: Not all the girls were concerned. About half a dozen of them looked completely normal. "Which one is Clarille?" I wanted to know, and Jacqueline replied: "The one on the far right, next to your friend Meg.". She pointed at a rather small girl with long, light-brown hair, who watched the scene with a mixture of fear and fascination.
Worry had turned Meg's cheeks red, but apart from that she was her usual self. If something like that had happened to Mme.Giry's daughter, I'd have known there was a reason for being worried. Yet since that was not the case, I regarded it as one of Erik's jokes: crude, but harmless. He had probably only done it to impress Philippe.
As if she had sensed that I had thought of her, the ballet mistress entered the stage. "Have you forgotten everything I have taught you, Mesdemoiselles?" she asked, gazing down at the girls on the floor sternly. "It is not the interval yet, so why are you sitting around there? The performance will be continued, no matter what you look like." She banged her cane on the floor, and the girls nodded dutifully.
They took their positions, yet before the music could start again, Erik's voice interrupted all actions. "I am not finished," he said sharply. As he snapped his fingers, the light changed a second time. For a moment it was very quiet because everyone waited for something to happen. Then the first person began to laugh. Others joined in, but I needed the cry: "Oh God! Signora Marchesi!" to understand what was going on.
The diva had stood on the left side of the stage, waiting for the commotion to be over. Yet all of a suddenly she was in the centre of attention. In the new light her long white dress as well as the underskirts had turned transparent, so that the audience could enjoy the sight of her nearly naked body. But that was only possible for a few seconds. Then two of the male dancers had fetched two large fans which had been part of the scenery and used them to cover the woman's private areas. All this went surprisingly quickly, almost as if the men had practiced what to do in such a situation.
Yet if I had thought the most extraordinary part of the evening was over, I had been wrong. Signora Marchesi sank to her knees and stretched out her arms in a pleading gesture. "I give up, Signor Fantasma!" she cried. "The red paint on my evening dresses, the threats you sent to my servants to keep them from coming to work, the snake in my wardrobe – it's too much! I cannot stand it any longer! Please believe me, I would apologise at once, but I don't know what I've done…"
On the one occasion I had met the diva I had developed a certain dislike for her. But now I couldn't help pitying her. She looked like the picture of misery. "A few days ago you're nearly pushed a little boy down the stairs leading to the opera's entrance doors," Erik called. "That boy was my heir Philippe." "Oh, I'm so sorry!" Signora Marchesi exclaimed. "I'm so sorry! I'll buy him… sweets… or toys… whatever he wants, just to make it up to him! But stop this torture!" She burst into tears.
"Philippe, do you accept the apology?" Erik asked. Judging by his voice he wasn't touched by the singer's sobs. "Yes," my son called, sounding triumphant. I could see him smile yet again. "You can count yourself lucky that my boy has such a soft heart," his teacher remarked. "But I'll keep an eye on you. Oh, and you chorus girls… you won't discuss your scandalous love lives in the corridors again. I don't want my little one to be spoilt by listening to the stories of your… mating." The girls' cheeks turned purple as they flushed with shame. Once more I heard Jacqueline sigh in relief.
I was just wondering how it would go on now when Erik added: "It's time for the interval now. Everyone needs to calm down a little. Especially some of the male visitors appear to feel rather warm. Well, you know where to find the bathrooms…" He gave a soft chuckle, seized Philippe's hand and vanished from sight. After a moment's silence the audience started leaving the auditorium. I noticed that quite a few of them turned around several times, as if afraid to miss something.
"The door is really open," Narelle announced in a delighted voice. "Then I'll go and talk to the other box keepers now. I'll be back in time for the second act." With these words she walked away. "Do we want to go downstairs as well?" I asked with little enthusiasm. The maid nodded. "I'd like to meet my sister. Maybe I could take Antoinette with me, so that you'll have a bit of time for yourself," she suggested, confirming my suspicion that although she had been busy with my child, she had heard our entire conversation. "Oh yes!" my daughter said. "But be careful!" I called after them as they left the box.
Raoul gave me a tentative smile. "Well?" he muttered. "I guess we'll have to go. If we don't, people will talk." He stretched out his arm for me. "And do you think we could…" He cleared his throat before going on: "… I know you discussion isn't over, but could we maybe pretend it was? I don't want people to see us like that…". I nodded slightly and took his hand, trying to smile. There were many things a Countess had to do, and smiling and nodding were two of them.