Chapter Seven: The Masque Ball
Paris, France, January 1, 1882
The clock had just turned to midnight, spinning the world to the New Year, as Christine entered the opera's magnificent foyer. Several actors and patrons congratulated her on her newest performance in December of 1881, in the opera's production of Mozart's La Finta Giardiniera. She politely thanked them. When she saw Raoul, she smiled and walked towards him.
Much had changed in the six months since the sole performance of Il Muto in June of 1881. Carlotta had taken a leave of absence, and Christine, by the managers' request, took the prima donna's place until she returned.
Directly after the performance of La Finta Giardiniera, the managers had come from behind the curtain. They announced the opera house would, on the eve of the New Year, play host to a grand, extravagant masked ball, a fête, a masquerade; it was an ideal way to lift the spirits of the Parisian nobility. The nobility had taken to the idea like ducks to water. The opera performers were left to find old, unused costumes out of the Wardrobe Department. As she was the temporary lead performer of the opera, the wardrobe mistress had given Christine two choices. One costume was a silver dress with an argentate feather headdress. The other was a hideous dress, with a lavender bodice and rosy skirt. Christine had always gotten the sense that the wardrobe mistress did not approve of her, for whatever reason. Therefore, when she had chosen the silver dress, it mysteriously had "ripped beyond repair" and the only available dress was the pink-and-purple monster of a costume. It looked hideous, but there were no other options.
Christine now wore Raoul's engagement ring on a light chain around her neck. In the beginning, she did not even want her to carry it with her, in apprehension of the phantom would discover their engagement. Raoul understood and agreed with her concern, but compromised by having her wearing it on a chain, not her ring finger. There was less chance of Erik discovering them that way.
Erik, the opera ghost, the angel of music, the phantom: the ballet dancers called him many things, but the subject of their gossip had mysteriously vanished from the happenings of the opera since the performance of Il Muto. Christine was grateful for the peace his absence brought, but she knew the serenity could not last forever. Everyone in the opera knew the phantom was biding his time, waiting for the right moment to strike. Thankfully, he remained hidden. Nevertheless, the opera staff had been on their guard ever since the disastrous performance of Il Muto.
Christine shook herself. She had not been to a party since she accepted the job at the opera. She would spend the entire evening with Raoul, and she was determined to push all thoughts of the phantom out of her mind.
As she reached him, Raoul smiled and offered his arm. "You look beautiful, Christine."
Christine took his arm and walked with him to the Grand Ballroom. "You don't have to lie. You and I both know this dress is a disaster."
"You make the dress look beautiful. You could be wearing rags, and you would still be the most beautiful woman in the room."
Christine smiled. "Thank you, Raoul." They entered the ballroom unnoticed, scanning the swirling mass of dancers. Christine glimpsed Meg, looking unhappy in the arms of an unknown patron, and Cecile Jammes, who had a glass of champagne and was flirting with another patron.
"Would you care to dance, Mademoiselle Daaé of Uppsala?" Raoul said, bowing.
"I would be honored, Lord de Chagny of Perros-Guirec," Christine answered in kind, trying to keep a straight face. She was unsuccessful, and broke into a delighted smile as Raoul took her hand and led her into the dance. As they danced, all Christine knew was the glittering candle flames all around them, Raoul's hand in hers, the music that swirled around them as they circled through the room.
Without warning, the music and the dancers stopped, almost as if they were responding to a signal. Christine and Raoul turned, their eyes locking on the opera's grand staircase in the foyer.
A figure dressed in blood-red fur and velvet robes slowly descended the flight of stairs. His grinning, eerie mask was of the Red Death; his eyes burned through the gargantuan, grotesque skull.
The phantom had returned to his opera.
Erik addressed the managers in a mocking, dry tone. "Quite a success, monsieurs! Did you think you could keep me at bay?" Out of nowhere, he produced a manuscript and tossed it to the managers. Christine's memory immediately flashed to the page of music she had seen, in the room with the Turkish settee. "I have written an opera for you, monsieurs, which I expect you to produce. Make sure to follow all of my instructions, or I may have to send you a little, ah, reminder." His gaze flickered to the repaired chandelier, and the managers paled.
Then he looked at the mass of dancers. The crowd parted until Christine could see a clear path to the staircase.
Abruptly, Christine felt a strong urge to walk to the phantom. In a subconscious part of her mind, the part that was still hers, she knew it was a trick, an illusion, of Erik's. The subconscious voice fought against the force as best it could. In the end, Erik won, as he always did. She walked forward, hating every step.
When she came close to him, she saw hate and anger in Erik's dark eyes, making her shudder. His fury, she realized, focused on her revealed engagement ring. There was no point of trying to hide it; the phantom now knew of their engagement.
His hand suddenly moved to her throat, to the ring balancing there. With a single movement, he savagely broke the chain from her neck and clutched the ring. Eric spoke quietly, but everyone in the room heard his venomous words.
"Your chains are still mine, my angel. You will sing for me alone."
With a flash of unbearable light, he disappeared. Then he appeared on the top of the staircase, laughing madly, and then vanished for good.
Christine turned and pushed through the crowd to Raoul. He instantly embraced her. She buried her face in his shoulder, unable to look at anything.
"What have I done?" she murmured. "What have I done?"
Raoul stroked her hair, horrified by what had just occurred. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Madame Giry, a culpable expression on her face, disappearing through a side door.
He looked at Christine. "Christine, if I am going to discover anything about the phantom, I have to go." He kissed her briefly, looking her in the eyes, and left.
Raoul walked as quickly as he could to the side door where Madame Giry had entered. The hallway was dark, but from the light of a taper, he saw a black-clad figure.
"Madame Giry!"
She hesitated and tried to dissuade him. "Lord vicomte, please don't ask me anything. I don't know any more than anyone else."
"Please, madame. You are our only hope if we are ever going to vanquish the phantom."
"I…" He saw uncertainty in her eyes, and finally she came to a decision. "Very well.
"It was… years ago, lord vicomte. There was a traveling festival, a circus-like fair, which came to Paris during the winter of 1879. Le Cirque Incroyable de Freaks. There were magic-workers, trapeze-flyers, animal-tamers. And… there was a man— the memory has never left me, lord vicomte, even after all this time. There was a man locked in a cage, treated no better than an animal…"
"A cage?" As much as Raoul hated the phantom, he felt a moment of pity for him.
Madame Giry nodded, looking faintly ill. "He was a composing phenomenon. He was a musician, a scholar, an architect. He built a labyrinth of mirrors for the Persian Sultan." In his mind's eye, Raoul saw images.
A hunched man. A bag covering his head, faceless silhouettes mocking him. In a vicious movement, the bag torn from his head, and the silhouettes recoiling, hissing and jeering. The bended man shrinking away even further, his hands over his head.
Madame Giry continued, breaking Raoul's vision. "He was the attraction of the circus. A freak. Deformed, hideous. He was more of a monster than a human.
"He mysteriously escaped from the circus, not long after I saw him there. The manager of the circus reported him to be dead."
"But he survived…"
She turned. "I have told you too much, lord vicomte. If you gain too much knowledge…" She hurried off into the darkness, leaving Raoul with his thoughts spinning.
Who is this man? How can humans hate each other with such fervor, just because of physical appearances?