Disclaimer: Whatever comes next, I don't own any of it. Really, I don't. My, how I wish I did, though.
All right! I'm more invigorated now – if that is the right word I want – so I can speak. Yes, this is the masquerade chapter, finally – I have been looking forward to this for so long, as I'm sure all of you have as well!
As well as all this, I've decided to have a little fun concerning the costumes – a game, if you will. Here are the rules of the game: PLEASE READ FIRST!
(1) Read through the whole chapter, but miss out the bold at the bottom the first time around.
(2) See how many references to operas or stage productions you can find in the characters costumes – read through again if you can't think of many!
(3) Then read the bold at the bottom, to see if you were right.
Happy hunting! Enjoy!
Oh, one more word before you dive in. The narrative at the beginning and the end of the chapter is just that - a narrative. It's not from the point of view of any particular character, or any character at all, really. I put it in mainly because it seemed like a good idea at the time. We shall see if my hunch paid off.
None will be true Parisian who has not learned to wear a mask of gaiety over his sorrows and one of sadness, boredom or indifference over his inward joy…In Paris, our lives are one masked ball…
Gaston Leroux: The Phantom of the Opera
For all that, company, he began to think, would really be very welcome on that lonely shore, if only you could choose your companion. In his unenlightened days he had read of meetings in such places which even now would hardly bear thinking of. He went on thinking of them, however, until he reached home, and particularly of one which catches most people's fancy at some point of their childhood. 'Now I saw in my dream that Christian had gone but a very little way when he saw a foul fiend coming over the field to meet him.'
M.R. James: Oh, whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad.
Masquerade
When uninvited guests arrive at a social gathering, it is very rarely the host or their friends, or the chattering masses that talk and eat and drink and dance and laugh, that notice.
Instead, it is the person that is standing by the doorway, not sure whether to stay or to leave, queasy with the kick of an empty womb pounding in their gut, or too much alcohol in their blood, or simply nervousness blighting their limbs. In some cases, it is all three.
They may see the flap of a cape without any wind, or the flash of a jewel spangled in dark hair, or a pendant adorning a lily white throat; the glint of tawny eyes or the gleam of deep, dark orbs set in a tableaux of unnaturally pale skin, or sapphire and emerald together as splinters of treasures torn from the earth. And they may catch just a scent of dust, of the air in old rooms, of sweat that has not come from their companions, or of sharp sweetness that can cloy and rot.
For every witness, it is different.
For Cecile, sitting on a bench by one of the doorways, worn out after only a few waltzes and not daring to show Monsieur Raoul up with her atrocious dancing any longer, it was the sudden, startling flash of red streaming before her eyes, uncurling from the gleam of a grey dress; and the flashes of gold meeting earth; and the bone whiteness of two opposing faces; all there one instant, and gone before she had time to blink, taking with it the scent that had stuck in her nose, out of place even here…
Not so much the stench, as the very sense, of something that had been dead for far too long.
"Enjoying yourself, my dear?"
Celandine forced herself to smile at her grandfather, though it pained her horribly, before looking out once more over the assemblage of dancers upon the floor, the shells in her hair clicking together as she did so.
At least I don't have to dance with him, she reminded herself, relief flooding her fevered mind. That limp in his leg is at least one blessing.
"But, Celandine, why aren't you dancing with Louis? Genevieve is on the floor with Bernard already!" To her mind, his voice seemed to be entirely too smug, mocking her without relents. He knew as well as she did that at that moment her husband was lavishing attention upon his latest conquest; she was simply surprised that they hadn't simply avoided the masquerade and leapt straight into bed together already.
She could see the outline of his be-ruffed figure, complete with tights and doublet, leaning over his little dancer on the opposite side of the room, as she giggled and fluttered her fan, and batted her eyelashes, like some common street prostitute. She knew they were both doing it to torment her, like girls at school excluding another. Only this was more than a child's rivalry; this was a fight for dominance in a lifetime which only one could win.
And she would always, always lose.
She wanted a knife. Not a knife that was used at table; a sharp one, with a blade that could and would cut flesh like paper with the briefest movement of the wrist. She didn't know who she wanted to use it on at the moment, but Louis's throat looked so invitingly tempting beneath its ruff, and so did Sorelli's pretty, cursed face behind that fan.
"Grandpére, you know as well as I do that dancing is the last thing on my husband's mind. And even if it was, he has a different partner in mind, I fancy."
"Do you really? What a shame. With my elder grand-daughter and her husband enjoying themselves, it seems so unfair that you are not."
She watched Genevieve waltz by in her husband's arms, beaming at him, and he at her, seeming to exclude all else in their perfect moment; the very picture of a regal couple. She looked like the beautiful princess she had always wanted to be, and he like the handsome prince she now knew she would never get. Unless death do us part. "Very unfortunate indeed."
"But surely you should make an effort. It does not reflect well on the family, if Louis spends the whole of the night making eyes at another woman."
Or maybe she could stab Grandpére in the back. Eventually, if she stabbed and stabbed and stabbed, she'd get through that costume hump he was wearing, penetrate through the fleece and wool, and reach his flesh and skin and spine and what lay beneath it. And then he'd scream, or shriek, or gasp and bubble with blood. Anything, rather than speak with that odiously calm voice, reminding her that her so-called soul-mate spent much of his time making eyes at numerous women.
He is the one who is fickle, not me. Not me.
"Grandpére, it's hot. I'm tired. I don't want to dance." Least of all with Louis.
I feel sick.
He slowly turned to look at her, his eyes cold behind the black velvet, hook nosed mask, lending more than a little air of a grim bird of prey.
"But you must." His voice was still gentle, but it was now filled also with the chill that she remembered so well, from a night so very like this, but yet so unlike.
She felt so sick. So queasy, and not just from her vomiting bout that very morning. She knew she shouldn't have drunk that wine, knew that it was going to come up later, not giving her time to become intoxicated. She knew she shouldn't have come down tonight.
Now she wanted that knife so very badly, for something else to cut.
"I will not dance with my husband, grandfather. You know why I will not."
He knew. And he knew she knew.
She didn't watch him go as he limped away, a dark figure disappearing among the brighter colours of the vibrant costumes of the guests. She was already turning to make her way to the stairs, to her room, where she could lie on the floor without moving, except to occasionally lift her head to add to the bitter ocean that seemed to never stop flowing from her innards. Her sea blue-green silk rustled appreciatively around her slender, lissom form, her fish tail skirts trailed behind her, and the shells in her hair clicked again like applause, for her bravery in standing up to him.
But she knew that her form would not be lissom for much longer, and then her hair would no longer be held back by an elegant net, and her face would not be covered by a mother-of-pearl mask.
She had had her triumph, and her joy; but she knew that she would pay for it yet.
He watched her go, the woman whose life had already been destroyed, and so young. He could feel her rage and grief radiating from her as she brushed past him, not seeing him, seeing nothing but her own misery.
The emotion gave him warmth. It heated his chilled bones, which had shivered as they had been uncovered yet again in the night air. He deeply sympathised with her. Here was another who had been wronged and betrayed, and yet she still lived, because she would not die.
He was impressed.
Not that that would do her any good.
Carlotta watched as Celandine made her way up the staircase, past laughing bystanders and chattering groups, away from the dancing, most likely to her room. The woman's shoulders seemed to be hunched, as in defeat. Her whole body was practically a sigh of despair.
She was not the only one feeling it, though. Ever since Cecile's unthinking and unaware rebuke, she had been sinking further and further into the melancholy that always claimed her during these horrid social events.
No, she was not happy when she went to dance. She was never happy. Because she knew, from life and from experience, that she would always, always be left behind, left to the last. To the very last.
It wasn't even the horrible dancing that was the worst, though that was bad enough. It was the knowledge that she would be desperate enough to accept an offer from a youth or man she would inevitably detest, to take part in that action she so hated – simply because she could not bear to do anything else.
Being squeezed into a ridiculously lacy costume did nothing to improve her mood, either.
She caught sight of Meg, evidently enjoying herself with her partner on the dance floor, the vibrancy of her red dress and the matching feathers in her hair marking her out as one of the most noticeable figures, and her golden bird-like mask gleaming in the light. She wished she could talk to her, or at least do something, instead of simply standing at the edge of this overheated, over-crowded ballroom, looking like a fool and feeling terrible.
She wished she could slink off upstairs like Celandine, as well. But she had to keep an eye on Cecile. She was stuck here for much of the night, then, with no one to-
"Señorina?"
Spanish? Here? she thought wildly, even as she swivelled around quickly. Some one who spoke her language, someone who-
No. It hadn't been Spanish. It sounded very like it, but it was from a different language. And the person who stood before her was not Spanish – but then again, it was hard to tell what he was, since much of his face was obscured by a ridiculous black mask. And his costume was unlike anything she had as yet seen; a tunic and leggings covered with an absurd pattern of different coloured diamonds, and trimmed at the neck and cuffs with foaming white lace. She didn't know whether to laugh or simply stare. She settled for a forced half smile.
"Mon – señor?"
Her masked accoster stretched out a slightly plump but well manicured hand. "Will you dance with me?"
Her hand was in his barely before she had time to think.
Her little friend did not seem so regal now. They all seemed to be getting along fine without her. If she saw this, perhaps she might not be so eager to talk to her friends, since they could so very easily forget her.
But he had to keep an eye on her. He should not let his guard down, even now. He loved her, but he did not trust her. Not yet.
Meg could not resist a giggle as she saw Carlotta pulled onto the floor by the man in the multi-coloured costume. Truth be told the young Spanish woman looked a little stunned, as if not at all sure this was a good thing after all, but it was too late for second thoughts. The next instant they were swept up into the dance, and out of sight.
She turned her head back, to smile up at her partner. She didn't even know his name, much less what he looked like, but he had a well shaped chin beneath his mask with good teeth, and so far that was good enough for her, even if through the eyeholes his eyes did look rather shadowed and tired, with dark circles.
But why should she be thinking about such things? She felt guilty even doing it, when Christine was still missing, and they were all embroiled in such a dangerous plan. At moments, she regretted that she had ever even thought of it. How could she possibly have thought that it would work?
And yet it did seem to be working. The explanation of Miss. Daaé's sore throat had been accepted without challenge, and although the few dances she had seen Raoul and Cecile attempt had been far less than perfect, they didn't seem to have caused suspicion.
We might actually be able to pull this off.
In the meantime, she must dance as if she had not a care in the world, and as if there were no tomorrow, and…
She looked over her partner's shoulder, and what she saw in the watching crowd made her stumble and almost lose her footing, grabbing at his sturdy frame for support.
"Mamselle!" she heard his voice exclaim, as his arms came around her, pulling her up from her fall to the floor. "Mamselle, are you all right?"
"Yes," she muttered distractedly, as she stared frantically at where she had seen it, for the merest instant. But now it was gone. Disappeared.
Had she seen it at all?
The dance caught them again, and swept them away; and she was clasped to her partner's chest and again looking over his shoulder.
And she caught sight of something else. Something that, if possible, she liked even less than the apparition she must have dreamed.
So, she was afraid to meet her best friend's eye, instead of seeking out her confidence. Better and better. Perhaps this evening would not be so much trouble after all.
But there was still that danger. And he would curtail it yet.
Christine hadn't dared let Meg catch more than a glimpse of her, before she had ducked away behind a bystander, out of sight. She didn't think her friend would recognise her, of course – in this outfit, who would? – but the prospect of being seen like this, by an age-old companion…she didn't think she could bear it. It was repugnant to her.
She had seen Carlotta as well, dressed as a Spanish noblewoman virtually brimming with lace, and Celandine dressed as a mermaid, and Comte Philippe the Elder attired as some strange sort of hunch-backed black-clad villain, Genevieve and Bernard as glorious queen and king, amid the seeming myriads of costumes in abundance.
She hadn't approached any of them, though. She knew that she would not be able to talk to them, without breaking her vow to Erik. She had hardly dared to even speak, since she had stepped out from his crimson cloak in the woods and into the ball-room.
So, she did not talk. She fancied that this only added to the air that inevitably was building around her, as she silently made her way from one end of the room of the other, and back again, around and around, but never accepting an offer to dance when it came – if it came – answering only when challenged about her role; and then speaking one sentence. One sentence that summed up her existence here tonight.
"I am…"
…not mine.
Not yet. Not ever.
But I am yours, my love, my life, my new life.
I am yours.
Carlotta found, to her surprise, that she was actually enjoying this dance.
Her strange partner was evidently no more proficient than she was, but that didn't curb his enthusiasm. He seemed to take great delight in whirling her around until she was dizzy, but to make her giggle rather than to tire her out, though she wondered greatly how she did it – he was hardly taller than her!
She had worked out by now that he was Italian, and that made their pairing all the better; somehow it was comforting to be joined with another stranger to this otherwise unremarkable country. And he was so…different. Unlike any other young man she had ever met. He took such care of her, as if he regarded her as something precious, and not to be lost. It was a relatively new experience, to be cherished by someone who wasn't female.
She rather liked it.
At one point, he leant forward so that his mask brushed her ear, and whispered, "Che bella!" Understanding him at once, she was astonished at his apparent impudence – but also rather flattered.
"Non, señor" she shot back coyly, her mother accent more evident than before.
"Bella donna!" he insisted. She felt her cheeks flush. How dare he get the better of her! And by claiming that she was beautiful, which she so obviously was not! He was just teasing her, all along!
Well, two could play at this game! She shot back some piece of French opera that Christine and Meg had taught her: "No, my lord, not a lady am I, nor yet a beauty, and do not need an arm to help me on my way!" She grinned smugly at his black clad features, certain that she had caught him out now; yet inside she was mourning again. They were all the same, in the end, all the same…
But her partner seemed to have other plans. With a sudden alarming pull at her waist he had whisked her off the floor again, and was now grasping her wrist, however gently, in his large, almost beautiful hand, while with the other he reached up and pulled off his black mask.
"Let me gaze on the form below me,
While from yonder ether blue
Look how the star of eve, bright and tender,
Lingers o'er me,
To love thy beauty too!"
She noted, giddily, that he looked nothing like she had imagined under the mask. His face was slightly plump, but not overly so, and he had the most adorable pouting lips, rather like her own. And his lovely dark eyes quite matched his long, lustrous curls, that she had not until now noticed; but all this was at the back of her mind, along with all other distractions. For now, she was just amazed that he could quote Faust so well And one of her favourite parts, as well. And in that wonderful accent, so like her own, yet so unlike.
And so she could do nothing but reply:
"Oh, how strange!
Like a spell does the evening bind me!
And a deep languid charm
I feel without alarm
With its melody enwind me
And all my heart subdue."
And it really was no more than the truth.
Love flowered so quickly. It wilted quickly as well, of course, but he knew that here was not the case.
Like fire from heaven.
But where was she?
He should find her, to keep an eye on her. He would not let anything happen to his angel.
Meg was furious. She was seething.
She had abandoned her confused partner long ago, as well as the dancing. All other thoughts she had abandoned, save one.
What the hell does she think she's doing?
She glared at the sight that went again everything she had ever thought or reasoned about her mother-
-seeing her in the arms of a man.
The Comte Philippe the Younger, resplendent in his admiral outfit, cut a fine figure upon the floor, drawing the eyes of many of the women. But his eyes seemed to be occupied entirely with her mother's face.
Behind the golden bird mask, Meg scowled, her cheeks burning with anger. She barely took account of those brushing past her, in flashes of blue or shades of yellow of red – not even one red cloak, the vibrancy of which outdid even her own blood red dress. Nor did she take account of whoever wore them, or what was said – all that mattered to her in the world was her mother's face.
And the smile which was upon it, as Renée Giry gazed up at her partner, almost adoring, like one who was willing to give up everything for that person; their home, their way of life. Even their child.
Mother – what are you doing?
But it was already clear to Meg what her mother appeared to be doing, and she did not like it in the least.
She hated it.
She had already had one father. She did not want another.
Him.
Come closer to me, Vicomte, come closer. Come to me. Let me rip you apart. Let me shred your form into nothing, for daring to take her love from me. You do not deserve her. You do not even deserve to live!
Only a little closer. Let me…
No. Not here. Not in front of her.
Raoul felt so very, very tired; sick and weak and agonised. It had not been a good night so far. He was so occupied with trying not to think about Christine, and trying to act at least fairly normally, that he had drained himself in the process. The black coat with golden trim was squeezing his chest, and the boyar coat hanging half off his shoulder was irritating him to no end, and the general colour of his costume did him no good in the heat of this room.
At least he was not in as bad a state as Cecile. He had left her panting on a bench, pink skirts heaped up around her, with strict instructions as to how to behave in his absence, and some sweetmeats to take the sour taste out of her mouth. He could not resist a shake of his head, as he circumnavigated the crowd. Poor girl! She hadn't asked for this, but she had gotten it just the same. At least she did make quite a good substitute for…
Don't.
Where was Buquet? Where was Defarge? Where was Meg, Carlotta? He needed to speak to somebody, anybody, or he was going to crack and splinter and decay.
The swirl of a skirt caught his eye, and then his eye was further hooked and drawn by the…apparition that he saw, standing not a few feet away.
The woman's outfit was…extraordinary, to say the least. At first glance it resembled some sort of bridal gown; but that image was quickly shattered as the woman turned slightly towards him, though her face was obscured by another woman's headdress. For the detailed grey bodice, studded with pearls, was partially missing on the left hand side; and so, apparently, was the skin that should have lain under it. The sight of what seemed to be actual ribs showing through the hole in the dress was both grotesque and alarming, until one realised that it must be part of her costume, since it couldn't be anything else, surely. Surely.
But that wasn't the only macabre thing about this costume, he saw, as he noted with growing unease the glove that adorned the woman's left arm – or what seemed to remain of her left arm. It was a very good trick in making flesh resemble bare bone, but one in rather bad taste. Should such a sinister outfit really have place at a masquerade?
Still, there was something about this woman that drew him closer, like a moth to a candle flame. He could not resist moving towards her, wanting to see her face, masked though it might be.
"Mamselle?" he heard one tentative guest ask this strange, oddly fascinating lady, as he approached. "What are you known as?"
She turned her head towards the unwitting man, and he blanched white at what he saw. Her words, floating through the air, rooted Raoul to the spot.
"I am the Corpse Maiden."
He knew that voice. He knew it.
Christine?
He was not aware that he had spoken aloud until her eyes swivelled around to meet his. Yes, they were still her eyes, but set in a pretend visage that was almost unrecognisable; a curious half mask that stretched across the upper face and nose and down her left cheek, leaving only her mouth and her right cheek bare. He had to admit, it was a fantastic creation, almost like a second skin, and rather enchanting…right until he noticed what the left side of the mask made her face look like.
Oh, my-
"Raoul."
He could not help starting, as her familiar, beloved voice hissed right in his ear – but she was still standing so far away, her eyes turned away from him! What was this? Was he going mad at last?
"Raoul! It is me! Don't look at me, but listen!"
This time, he saw her lips move, however slightly; and by some strange, twisted means the teeth shown on the side of the mask seemed to move as well, giving the impression that a piece of her face really had been ripped away, leaving the bare skull open to the air.
No wonder the man had turned white.
All he could do at this instant was obey. He obediently turned his eyes to settle on a woman, dressed all in black and her eyes lined with khol and smiling at some unseen joke someone must have just told her, instead; resisting the urge to look back at his fiancée, or shake his head to see if he was only dreaming all this. If this was a dream, it was a good dream, of sorts.
"Listen carefully, now, Raoul," her voice hissed, as if she were right next to him. "Go out of the ballroom, to the ante-chamber. You remember…?"
He remembered times long past, when they would sneak down with Celandine and Genevieve to steal sticky treats from the refreshment tables set out in adjoining chambers, before being caught by their elders and shooed back off to bed. He remembered.
"I'll come to you there. Now go, quickly, but take care!"
He could do nothing else but set off at once for the doorway out, pushing his way as gently as he could through the raucous, buoyant crowds, all the while casting snide looks behind him, and was rewarded by an occasional flash of grey at the corner of his vision, as her pale shadow followed his own dark one.
It was a relief when he fought free of the crowds, and stepped out into the blessedly cool hall, free of any guests or servants, and at once into the ante-room. He had barely turned to close the door behind him when it snapped shut under Christine's gloved fingers, and he found himself caught once more in her brown gaze, now trembling with dampness.
"Oh, Raoul…" she sighed, as if in deep pain. "Raoul, I'm so glad to see you." But she didn't sound glad. She didn't sound glad at all.
But she was here. She was here, in front of him, however changed, and as far as he could tell she was real. He wanted to take her into his arms, and hold her so that he could feel her heart beating, so that he would be sure she was real. Later, perhaps, he might ask where she had been, but for now…
"Oh, Christine." He reached out to her, longing to touch her, enfold her in his embrace, kiss her cheeks, her eyes, her lips, in sheer love and thankfulness. He was like a pail of sweet water, brimming over. "Christine, thank God you're back! And you're safe"
"No. Don't thank God." The pretty, vapid face was lowered, the eyes torn away from him. "And don't touch me either, Raoul."
The sudden harshness in her voice stopped his fingers inches from her skin. "Christine…what...?"
Silk clad fingers came to her hairline to press against her skin, as her head bent further, in dejection. "Oh, Raoul, I'm…I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, but please…please, don't come closer, or…just don't." She drew back towards the door, as if to emphasise her point.
He felt as if all the sweet water in him had drained out. What was going on here? "But, but Christine, where have you been? What happened to you yesterday? Where-"
Her raised hand motioned him to silence. "I'm sorry Raoul, but that I cannot tell you. I swore I wouldn't."
"What?" He felt his relief abruptly burn away, to be replaced with annoyance, and more than that. "You cannot tell me? You ride away to visit the parson without any explanation, you've been away all night, you arrive without any warning in this-" he waved a hand at her sinister apparel, "this outfit, able to speak in my ear while standing far away, and you cannot tell me where you've been? Do you have any idea what's it's been like in you absence? What it's done to us? We've been trying to cover up for you all day, and you say you can't even tell me where you went?"
"Yes, Raoul. That is exactly what I am saying. And since you don't seem to be taking it very well, perhaps I should leave."
"No." He darted forward and slammed his hand down on the door, so that she could not open it and slip away. "No. I want answers, Christine. I want to know what you've been doing, while we've all been wondering whether you were alive or dead, and trying not to let my dear relatives find out." He found the edge of his mask with his other hand, ripped it off, instead of shaking her like he wanted to, to get some sense out of her. "Tell me!"
"And I tell you that I can't, Raoul," she retorted. "I'm sorry for all that you have gone through, truly I am. But I simply cannot."
"But why?" he raged, longing to tear off her mask and – he didn't know whether to shake her or kiss her now, she was so close and so full of stubborn pride, her rosebud lips set so firmly in a scowl. "Why can't you? What's the meaning of this farce?"
"Oh, Raoul." Without barely a movement, her hands, both whole and seeming skeletal, went to the back of her head, and slipped off the beautiful, death's-head mask. "Dear, it is a tragedy."
He did more than start; he drew back in barely suppressed horror, his hand leaving the door and going to his mouth barely allowing a moan to escape. However terrible the mask had been, to him it was nowhere near as terrible as what lay under it. Christine's beloved features, the memory of which had sustained him in the darkest moments of the day, had altered drastically, dramatically; a deathly pallor seemed to have washed over them. She was as beautiful as ever, but that beauty had changed from spring to winter seemingly overnight. Yesterday afternoon there had been roses in her cheeks and the wonder of youth in her eyes; tonight she might well have risen from the fresh grave and only just thrown off her winding cloth, her loveliness drained of all colour, though not yet withered by the mausoleum.
Merciful heaven!
"Christine! Oh, Christine!" He could not hold back a sudden sob, at her pitiful state. "Oh, my beloved, what's happened to you? You look so ill! You're sick!"
"I am not ill, Raoul," she replied quietly, leaning back against the door, and letting her poor, tired eyes close. "Not by any mortal means. Where I have been there is no illness, heaven help me! But I have been sickening for home and for all I love for a long time."
Taking advantage of her closed eyes, he quickly reached out a hand to feel her forehead. He flinched again at what he felt, though he did not remove his hand from her precious skin. "Your skin! My God, Christine, you're freezing! You're so cold!"
"But you give me warmth," she muttered distractedly, as she leaned into his palm. Then she drew hurriedly away again, much to his disappointment, raising her hands to redo her mask to her face. "I must go, Raoul."
Nonononononono-
"But – no!" he managed desperately. "What do you mean, go? How can you come here and then leave again at once?"
Her brown eyes gazed out again at him through porcelain holes, and the sadness held in them was enough to break his heart again, if it were not already seemingly broken. "Because I gave my word, Raoul. I am not here under my own will, but under that of another, and I dare not break my promise. I have been allowed to see you, and let you know that I am alive and safe; and now I have to leave. That is what was agreed. I cannot go back on it now, or else I risk everything."
"But look here," he grated, grabbing her slim wrist as it came from her temples, willing with all that was left of his heart and might and soul, "what do you mean? What is this bargain? And who is this 'other'?"
"Raoul, don't ask," his fiancée said swiftly, desperation entering her voice as well. "I beg you, don't even think of it, or otherwise you stray into deadly peril! You are already in risk of it. Do not tempt fate!"
"I shall risk anything, if you're in danger!"
"Danger? I have nothing to fear from him, except for you! I know that your life would be worth not so much as the smallest insect to be crushed under a boot; less than that! And so I must go; and you must not follow me." Her bone clad hand went to his face; with a shock her fingers truly felt as if they had been stripped of skin and bone. She whispered fiercely, "In the name of our love, Raoul, do not come after me when I leave this room, or otherwise you are doomed! Swear you will not! Swear for my sake as well as your own!"
And he was lost. He knew he could never refuse her anything.
"I swear it."
She nodded, and had taken her hand away when he burst out again: "But how can I not? How shall I find you again?"
"I don't know." Her voice shook, and her eyes behind the mask shone with tears. "Truly I do not know, Raoul. But know this. I love you. I love you. And I will do whatever I can to find my way back to you."
No, please, please don't go, he wept, as he stretched out his hand to her one last time, in a vain attempt to take hers, for she shied away again. Don't leave me alone.
Not again.
"But how shall I find you again, if you will not tell me who holds you in thrall?"
She shot a glance to the door, and then back at him. Then she clenched her teeth, both real and illusion.
And her disembodied voice slipped again into his ear, without passing her lips.
"Et in Arcadia ego."
She had pulled open the door and was gone in a rustle of silk before he had time to process the sentence. He let her go, still blinking slowly.
Et in Arcadia ego.
Times flowed back into his mind, when they were children, and Christine's father had taught them phrases in Latin which had made them laugh. Cogito ergo sum, simper fidelis, veni, vidi, vici. The meaning for this sentence came easily to him.
I am even in Paradise.
What did she mean? Did she mean that she had actually been in a type of Paradise? But then why was she so sad, so pale and drawn. But no, that was not the true meaning. Daddy Daaé had taught them that the phrase had a hidden meaning. Something that was always there, even in Paradise.
I am even in Paradise.
He felt a shriek start up within him; screaming and screaming.
I am even in Paradise.
Death.
Death.
Even in Paradise, there I am.
Death.
Death.
"Christine," he croaked. Then his bones unfroze; he leapt to the door and pulled it open again. "Christine!"
He checked at the sight that met him in the hall.
Christine was standing there, her head bowed, her hands clasped in front of her, the death's-head side of her mask out of sight. She stood in front of a most singular individual; a man, tall, well built, dressed all in scarlet, with doublet and breeches and coat and immense velvet cloak trailing on the floor behind him, all in that same, ghastly colour, save for his knee high black leather boots and tricorn hat. Even the lace at his throat and cuffs was blood red, and his mask was as black as a night devoid of moon or stars – save that two yellow flames seemed to burn within. If ever Mephistopheles had walked the earth by day or by night to tempt souls to damnation, surely he must have taken some gruesome form like to this.
The man, or creature, or whatever it was, seemed to have finished speaking to Christine. By some odd chance of fate, as the head straightened and turned, the eyes alighted on him, as he stood paralysed in the doorway. The twin yellow fires blazed – and then the mouth smiled a crooked smile, revealing several yellowed teeth more like to fangs; while the right arm snaked around an unresisting Christine's waist and pulled her close, the left reached up past the sable temple and tipped the tricorn, be-feathered hat lightly to him – allowing him to see that the hand consisted far more of bone than of flesh.
"Christine!" he cried again, darting forward – but too late, too late. Even as she looked up with horror and dismay at him, there was a flash as if from the very gulf of Hell itself, blinding him; and when he could see again both his beloved and her sinister companion were gone, leaving nothing but the merest trace of her perfume on the air.
He stood still in the empty corridor, hearing the sound of the masquerade continuing beyond the door, but no longer registering.
Et in Arcadia ego.
Check-mate, little Vicomte.
I win.
"Well, my dear, that was an interesting evening, I must say. Did you enjoy yourself?"
She buried her face into his chest, the raw scent increasing the tears that had sprung to her eyes at the last sight of Raoul's dear, desperate, hopeless face, as she had vanished.
"Take me back, if you must do so, Erik. Just take me back."
"As you wish. I am bored with this party anyway. Let us depart."
She cried all the way back to the wood. She didn't want to give him that satisfaction. But she couldn't help it.
A very interesting evening indeed. I feel so…alive.
But not as alive as when you are in my arms, my darling.
Whoever said death is forever?
When an uninvited guest leaves, most attendants of a gathering only notice by the sudden, mysterious relief that floats upon the air; perhaps the abrupt absence of a smell that they had unconsciously become accustomed to, or a texture that no longer washes over them, or an unimportant sound they can no longer hear.
For some at the ball that night, they were left with a feeling that they had missed a chance, missed something very important – and the most annoying thing was, they didn't even know what that chance was.
For others – those who had watched but had not seen as The Devil apparently walked through their midst with his rotting, decaying spouse on his arm – they were struck, when they least expected it, with the enigmatic thought that they had had a very, very lucky escape.
For one exhausted, tearful maid, disguised in silks and satins and abandoned by the doorway, eating sugared plums, it was the sudden knowledge of the tears of someone very like her, but different in many ways.
And for one young man left bereft outside the dance and the noise and the colour and the light, it seemed to him as if the night and the darkness had swallowed the love of his life, and his hope along with it.
Perhaps it had.
Well, my dears, had fun? I hope so! So, let us take a tally of costumes:
Raoul – …nothing much, unless you want to go for one of those drinking operas where everyone's in Russian boyar outfits, even the women sometimes (!).
Cecile – I don't know why, but for some reason whenever I see this dress in the film, I always think of The Nutcracker. Perhaps the Sugar Plum fairy?
Erik – Mephistopheles, so I'm guessing you're thinking of Faust. Of course, how that character is dressed is usually up to the director, but I'm thinking of P.G. Wodehouse's Jeeves' books, where one of the characters dresses up as Mephistopheles in a slightly over the top red ensemble, complete with a ridiculous goatee beard and red tights. Thank goodness I didn't go that far, huh?
Christine – If you can't guess this one, I'm not even going to bother.
Though perhaps I might forgive you if you thought of Gisele – that was just what was running through my mind the first time I saw the trailer for Corpse Bride. I mean, they even follow the same story line – young woman gets spurned, dies on sword blade, gets buried, one night comes back from the dead to scare the pants off whatever unfortunate male happens to be standing nearby at the time. You do the maths.
Meg – this one might not be so obvious, but the red colour of the dress and the feathers in the hair allude to the title character in Igof Stravinsky's ballet The Firebird, perhaps my most favourite ballet ever.
Comte Phillipe the Younger and Madame Giry – the naval officer and the geisha (can't remember their names) in Madame Butterfly. I swear I only thought of this after starting this chapter. It might have been more appropriate in this sense to have given Celandine and her husband these characters, since the naval officer in my opinion chalks up there as one of the greatest love rats in opera; but I felt there was only room for one woman in a kimono. And I'm sure Giry would agree with me. At least I didn't make her a character from The Merry Widow.
Louis – The Duke in Rigoletto. Now this character is a love rat in the extreme! Not only does he bed successive amounts of women before casting them away, he also has the nerve to sing a song entitled 'Women are fickle'! Makes you wonder what Rigoletto's daughter saw in him, really.
Celandine – her mermaid-like costume is a tribute to a perhaps less well-known ballet, Ondine, about a water spirit and a mortal man who fall in love, and subsequently are rather persecuted. Rather like 'Romeo and Juliet – Under Da Sea!'; only without any singing crabs. However, I also chose the outfit for less tasteful reasons – in past centuries, the mermaid was often seen as a sign of wantonness in women; and if Celandine's family found out about her little secret, being labelled wanton would be the least of her worries!
Genevieve and Bernard – I'm not sure exactly what you would call these two. In my opinion, it's most likely to be Titania and Oberon, from A Midsummer Night's Dream. Don't really know why exactly; it's probably because they're just about the only noble couple in opera or ballet that I can think of at short notice that aren't trying to catch each other out and trick each other. No, wait, on second thoughts…no, let's just stick with the fairy-king-and-queen theory. Or maybe Theseus and Hippolyta?
Piangi (yes, that is Piangi!) and Carlotta – Harlequin and Columbine. Strictly speaking these two aren't from opera or ballet, but they are from Italian plays, and I like them so much – especially after finding out more about them during my trip to Venice last year – that I felt that I had to include them. They're part of a series of comic Italian plays, in which Harlequin usually plays the clown, and Columbine plays his love interest. He wears, as mentioned above in the text, a suit made up of different coloured diamonds of cloth, though more from being so poor that he has to wear patch-work clothes than from any design or weave in the fabric; and he wears a comic black mask. Columbine often dresses as a shepherdess, or something to that effect, with lots of lace, and she usually goes without a mask.
Comte Phillipe the Elder – Richard the Third. Again, this is a play more than anything else, but I wanted to include this as a not so subtle tribute to a devoted fan. Cough, cough. And now I'm done. Seriously, though, I think they really need to make this into an opera, if not a ballet. (No. Definitely not a ballet.) Far more people die in it than Othello, after all, in far more interesting ways; and it has one of the most compelling villains ever written – plus, so many good opportunities to burst into song! I personally think the only reason it hasn't been done yet is because there isn't someone who's been able to write a good piece for a man who's bent over with a hump on his back (even though he didn't really have a hump – his shoulder was just higher than the other one, I tell you! IT WAS JUST HIGHER!) and a limp. But then again, they did it for Rigoletto…
Also, there is a reference – or more than one - to another of my very favourite reads in literature, even if it is rather controversial. The reading, I mean, not the reference. Haven't guessed? I'll give you a clue.
You can think of Erik and Christine stepping out together as Lucifer and Mazikeen, if you like. I always feel sorry for Mazikeen. How hard must it be to talk when you only have half your lips?'
Not much of a clue? Depends on how much you read.
Well, I'm afraid that this might be it for a while – not that I'm abandoning this phic, or any of my writing; not by any means! But I do need to study, unfortunately, if I want to get good AS results, and therefore good A levels, and thus get into a good university (yay, I'm thinking ahead, go me!). So I might not be posting in the near future. Never mind, there'll be lots after I've finished the exams, that a promise. Right until I go off to Mongolia for a month…
In the meantime, just bask in the goodness of it all.
Chips and out, from the Half-Irish Seamstress (who would really like some reviews, please!).
(And yes, that was Erik in the Italics. But you knew that already, didn't you?)