Chapter 3: A Reprehensible Performance
Months after the final disappearance of the famous soprano Christine Daaé, the Paris Opera announced the début of a new score. Entitled Don Juan Triumphant, it promised all the scandal and indecency of any popular opera, and even required that a pipe organ be installed temporarily behind the stage. But the name of the composer was never revealed. An even greater riddle was how the opera's manuscript had fallen into the hands of the opera managers. Neither of them disclosed how they had learned of the mysterious work, but rumor had it that the piece had inexplicably materialized a few weeks after the murder of the Comte deChagny. Although little was known about Don Juan, Paris high society was eager for a fresh opera. The début sold out to the most famous Parisian nobles and aristocrats. For an opera that had not yet received any reviews, and whose composer was still unknown, the success of its first sale is quite extraordinary.
At last the long-awaited night settled over Paris, and the Opera seats began to fill for Don Juan Triumphant. Attendants gossiped in the gilded Grand Foyer, opining on the origins of the new score. Their talk inevitably branched into other topics, including the unusual daughter of one commissioner of the Sûreté, whose family lived close to the Opera Garnier. Unfortunately, Alice Mifroid was very often the subject of Parisian gossip due to the combination of her beautiful looks and deranged pursuits, not to mention her anglophilic prénome. Somehow, though a few accomplished suitors had offered their hand (and their impressive inheritances) since she had returned from abroad, the lovely Mademoiselle Mifriod remained unwed. Her private interests, when finally discovered—and she made a point of having them known—intimidated most men. People who did not know her very well also commented disapprovingly that her demeanor was too conservative and severe.
She had been introduced to a dashing young barrister upon her return to France, and mutual attraction had blossomed. Yet when she began to study alongside her father, her beau had insisted that while an educated wife would be beneficial to the family, such wisdom should not serve the gruesome investigation of crimes. They had struggled for a few weeks to come to an understanding. Then his visits and letters ceased quite suddenly. Eventually it was discovered that he had established a practice in Marseilles. Taking the experience all too seriously, Alice concluded that she would never find her life-long companion, and stopped looking.
Nevertheless, she took care to keep up appearances for the sake of her father's reputation. She was much softer in public than when she visited a crime scene. At the Opera the night of Don Juan's début, her gown of sapphire silk cascaded from her shoulders like ethereal waters, and slender tendrils of her russet hair framed her evergreen eyes. Her lilting voice echoed pleasantly among the lobby's twisted shadows as she conversed with her parents' companions by the flickering gas lamps. Yet her purpose at the opera that night was not for mere amusement. She and the commissioner had come to investigate an open homicide.
When the theater lights dimmed, the Mifroids took their seats in a box on the second tier shared by officers of the Sûreté. Alice lifted her opera glass and searched for the famous Box Five—rumored to be haunted by the Opera Ghost. The box was empty. The theater was quite dark, and it grew still darker until only the musicians' candles twinkled weakly from the depths of the orchestra pit. In the total darkness, those small specks of light had the brilliance of small suns, blinding the audience to all but their radiance. Alice couldn't even see her parents' figures beside her, let alone the box facing them across the theater.
As the curtains parted, Don Juan Triumphant began with a violent pounding of drums. The jolting tones of a pipe organ commenced the opening sequence as the stage lit up to reveal a perfectly dangerous Don Juan, boasting of his many female conquests:
"From the princess who resists
to a fishergirl in a humble ship,
there's no female who does not yield,
no enterprise I will not consider,
whether it smacks of gold or valor.
"Let the quarrelsome ones,
and the gamblers, come:
whoever is proud, let him see
if he can take advantage of me,
in gaming, in loving, or fighting!"
From the first burning note, Alice was entranced. To say that Don Juan evoked passion or even desire would not accurately recount the tempest that it stirred in her soul. In the dark theatre, a hot blush spread over her features as if the music itself seduced her. The bracing chords and the rush of the violins caused her to shiver as if a fierce lover of her own whispered gently in her ear. Meanwhile, Don Juan continued his tales of indulgence in raw, candid words, drawing inferences both intriguing and exciting:
"Such an alluring picture
inflames my senses, whole,
and fills my burning soul
with senseless ardor.
"It began as a wager,
followed by mad desire,
engendering the fire,
then doth the flesh alight!"
The music crescendoed, and with it rose the beating of Alice's heart. Her breath came rapidly with the notes of the opera until at last the music climaxed, the pipe organ pulsing with a crash of cymbals and a harmony of sighing violins. As the curtain closed on the insatiable lover, Alice rested back in her chair. Her heartbeat gradually slowed its wild rhythm as she fanned her flushed skin and shyly concealed her excitement. Her gaze swept across the theater to gauge the audience's reaction to the aria, and a motion from first tier box five caught her eye. She blinked, and the box appeared as it had been before the overture: empty.
Her pulse still roaring in her ears, louder than even the applause filling the theater, Alice wondered if the powerful music hadn't affected her sight as well. She had thought for certain that she had seen a face, white and glowing like the moon, floating in the darkness of box five.
No sooner had the consideration come to mind, when the stage curtains parted again. Thus began the first act of Don Juan Triumphant.
Intermission promised Alice some time to herself, as her father reviewed with the Opera managers the death of Joseph Buquet. Eager to escape and to calm her rushing pulse, she climbed the grand staircase and took the corridor to first tier box five, hoping to discover the source of that mysterious shape she had seen in the darkness.
She had not taken an interest in her father's work until after her return from the seminary, where her earnest studies had been the fruits of her fascination with the sources of life. There had been no better location to study such material than at the women's seminary, where faith in the Maker and the study of His creation were together promoted. At the commissioner's encouragement, Alice began learning the skills of law enforcement when she returned to France. She was particularly interested in the adventure of field work, where her knowledge of science could apply itself most aptly. Her lessons with her father and readings from his manuals had introduced her to the strategies for such interesting activities as autopsies, tracing a suspect, clandestine infiltration, and forensics. But her secret tiptoe to box five was no mere practice. She had the distinct objective in mind of finding the Opera Ghost.
As she dodged past other finely-dressed patrons, she reviewed her earlier conversation with the Persian. Before attending the opera that night, Alice had paid a visit to that enigmatic Persian who, according to Monsieur Faure, lived in a small apartment on the Rue de Rivoli. Accompanied by her mother's pert housekeeper Heloise (at the commissioner's insistence), she had rung the bell and was greeted by an extraordinary servant. He was thin and tanned, and wore a strange red cap and a long robe striped like a peppermint. The quiet man had an unsettling stare that frightened poor Heloise, but Alice found his exotic appearance intriguing. She gave him her card, then followed him to the drawing room to await her host.
The Persian's apartment was nothing like the rooms of French society. On the hearth beside the fire, thin smoke rose languidly from a heavy brass censor, carrying with it the intoxicating fragrance of myrrh. Tiny amber beads of glass, strung together, fringed the window curtains like a virgin's lowered lashes. In one corner, a decorative bookcase held strange volumes whose spines displayed magnificent calligraphy. Beside an ordinary wingback chair stood a small wooden table with eight sides, the legs embossed in a stylized garden of blooms and fruit. Taking in the scene, the two ladies sat on a settee and felt as if they had been transported to an Arabian palace.
A tall man of olive complexion, dressed like a French gentleman but wearing another unusual hat, emerged from an adjoining room. His robust frame exuded authority, but the deep crow's feet at the corners of his wizened, jade eyes betrayed his aging years. "Mademoiselle, I am pleased to make your acquaintance. As you know, I recently gave my statement to Monsieur Faure, who no doubt has relayed it to your father. I am the Persian."
He sat in the wingback chair, prepared to entertain this young lady. But the memory of his previous discussion with Monsieur Faure made him nervous. He understood that the examining magistrate did not believe that a man named Erik had lived in the cellars of the Paris Opera, so why was the daughter of a commissioner of the Sûreté now in his parlor?
"My servant will bring us some refreshments shortly. Pray, how is your father, and what business brings you to my humble home?"
"Monsieur, my father told me of your statements to Monsieur Faure concerning a man living in the Paris Opera and committing crimes under the pretenses of an Opera Ghost. The police don't believe your story, but I'm interested. Is this man still living in the Opera, or has he left?"
Frowning, the Persian stroked his beard. The possibility that someone would believe his tale made him at once speechless and uncertain.
"And the message in L'Epoque. Is Erik dead?"
The Persian stared. This small, straightforward lady had read the Phantom's obituary and understood its meaning. For several moments he said nothing, as his startled mind turned over how he could possibly answer her. Then he shook his head. "Mademoiselle, whatever position your father holds, you are not yourself an inspector and I'm afraid I cannot oblige you. Forgive my rudeness, but I only betrayed Erik's secrets to the police to save two lives. But your interest in his story is a very dangerous curiosity."
"If I can bring proof to my father, then the police will reopen the case," she replied patiently.
The Persian looked down at his hands and rubbed his fingers nervously. "Your proposition tempts me, but many mysteries are best left unsolved. While I admire an inquisitive mind, your innocent curiosity could unveil terrifying secrets for which you—as a lady—would be unprepared. The story of the Opera Ghost, as you know it already, is of murder and deception. Would you disinter further horrors in your quest to capture the elusive ghost?"
"I beg your pardon, Monsieur, but I'm not a superstitious ignoramus. Surely you're familiar with the American seminary from which I received my education in science. Its missionary activities extend even into your Persia! And I've accompanied my father in his fieldwork, so my constitution is stronger than most women. As for what I hope to discover in my investigation…." she considered explaining to him about the recent murder, but then merely added, "I only know my heart yearns to know the truth. And to put the mystery to rest."
The Persian pressed his steepled fingers to his lips. Indeed, he was familiar with her alma mater. Missionaries from her seminary had founded a school in Oroomiah in Persia for the Nestorians, whose education was now renowned to be superb. He had no doubt that she was a brilliant young lady, but no matter what merits she invoked, she was not a police inspector. The Persian was cordial, but he refused to offer any information and denied all of her requests.
As Alice wandered the back halls of the Opera towards Box Five, she remembered that the Persian had seemed anxious about some matter, as if he had lost something important or feared some terrible event but wasn't certain. Her visit appeared to have exacerbated his anxiety. Noticing his distracted nervousness, Alice had at last taken her leave and thanked the Persian for his hospitality.