Chapter 11: "Should we pity him? Should we curse him?"
The chorus master sighed and shook his head at the new lead soprano. "The key is C minor! You're missing the high notes. Try again, Madame!"
"I'm sorry, Monsieur! The Ghost has cursed my voice!"
Gasps filled the empty theater.
The chorus master tugged on the tails of his jacket. Had the room suddenly grown colder? "And how do you know that the Ghost has done this, Madame?"
The poor woman had barely begun her new position as lead soprano. As an understudy, she had already trained her voice to the Opera's standards, but when the Garnier's most popular scandal ended with the disappearance of Christine Daaé, it seemed that not even the singers were much interested in opera anymore. Lately, rehearsals were as unproductive as this one had been.
"I know because these last two days, I have felt unusual pains here—" she placed both her hands over her diaphragm—"And it aches only when I am in this room, where the Ghost revealed his most formidable powers!"
The chorus girls behind her began to whisper. Many professed the same strange allergy.
The chorus master loosened his collar and cravat, then swabbed his brow with his handkerchief. "Stage fright, perhaps?"
The lead violinist leaned forward in his seat, his eyes feral. "Maestro," he whispered to the conductor, "I received a most distressing omen this morning: I discovered a dead rat in my violin case. But there was no rat in there when I locked it last night. Who but the Ghost could have put it inside while the box was locked?"
The theater echoed from a sudden commotion as every musician stood and looked in his case beneath his seat to see if he had also received such an offering from the Ghost.
The disturbance in the theater soon attracted Richard's attention. He flung open the great doors at the back of the theater and marched to the stage. "What in God's great name is happening?"
The maestro turned to Richard and replied, "The Ghost!"
Richard stepped back, an angry flush erupting over his face. "Every week since Christine Daaé left, you've used the same excuse! Can't the Paris Opera perform opera anymore?"
"Monsieur, the Ghost is angry with us!" the lead soprano declared.
"When has he not been angry?" Richard was so angry himself that his entire body was shaking. He pointed a threatening finger at the maestro and then at the chorus master. "Perform the opera!" he roared, "No more excuses!"
While Richard raged in the theater upstairs, the Persian treaded to Christine Daaé's old dressing room. He wanted to pay Erik a visit—if indeed the monster still lived beneath the Opera. The Persian worried endlessly what would happen when Erik realized that Christine wasn't returning as she had promised. Another encounter at his apartment had increased his concern:
He had hardly known what to do when his servant had answered an impatient knock at their apartment door early one evening, and Erik, wearing the robes of a Carthusian, had all but collapsed into the room carrying the fainted Alice Mifroid, a large traveling bag, and a hurricane lantern. The Persian could only rise from his seat and stare opened-mouthed like a fish.
Erik gently laid the unconscious girl on the settee then turned to glare at the Persian. "What did you tell her, Daroga, to incite her to explore the catacombs?" he roared.
At this accusation, the Persian found his voice. "The catacombs? Ya Allah! What was she doing there? Is she all right?"
"In the catacombs…" Erik repeated, setting the traveling bag and lantern on the floor as he spoke. "I thought perhaps you had told her that I might be found there."
"Are you mad? Why would I send a woman alone into the catacombs on the other side of Paris?"
Erik made no reply, but returned his attention to the woman on the settee. Her skin had such a deathly pallor that but for the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest he would have feared her dead.
"What could she have been doing there, besides looking for me?" he wondered aloud.
The Persian was examining Alice as well. Mud soiled her conventional indigo dress, and one sleeve was torn. The delicate fingers of her right hand were marred by small cuts that stood bright red against her pallid complexion.
"Is this how you procured your vengeance?" he demanded through his teeth. "What did you do to her?"
"I? I didn't know she was there. I heard a noise and turned….She saw this—" he raised his hand and gestured with spread fingers to his hidden face—"I wasn't wearing my mask. My face… I frightened her…" He paused for a moment as his voice caught in his throat.
His last words had been spoken with such unwarranted shame that the Persian felt his frustration melt with his heart.
The Phantom resumed his narrative as he unfastened the Carthusian robes. "She ran from me, and I feared that she would be lost, or injured—the dregs of society live in those tunnels—but it was dark, and when I took her hand to lead her outside, she screamed and tried to run from me… and fainted away… Here," he spread the robe over the unconscious lady like a matador flourishing his cape. "Keep her warm, Daroga."
The Persian watched as Erik bent and carefully wrapped his cloak around Alice before returning to his full height. Each movement was executed with regal poise; nothing in his behavior betrayed the depression that had possessed him when the Persian pulled him from the river, or the inebriation that had terrified the Persian during Erik's last visit. Now dressed in a debonair swallowtail suit and hidden behind a silk opera mask, Erik was almost majestic.
But the Persian knew that Erik's thoughts were still consumed by his own ugliness. His face cursed him to a lifetime of events like the one he had just recounted. Not even the charming Mademoiselle Daaé had shown compassion for his unlucky fate—her recent letter proved her infidelity. The Persian peeked at the fireplace, where the key and ring were buried beneath the ashes. He wished to God that good fortune would smile on his friend, so that the Phantom would never learn the truth of what his beloved soprano had done to him.
Oblivious to the Persian's musings, Erik stared at Alice. "She should have quit after I hid the trap door. Why did she persist?" he wondered aloud. "I don't know whether to call it courage or foolishness to dive into the catacombs the way she did."
"Perseverance, Erik," the Persian responded. "It doesn't seem to be in her nature to give up. It's an admirable quality." He had meant to imply that his friend should fight his feelings for Christine Daaé.
"You shouldn't influence her. For her sake, keep her away from me and don't arouse her curiosity with your stories!"
The Persian shook his head. "I haven't talked to her since the night you appeared in my drawing room. If she was brave enough to venture alone into the catacombs, there is very little you can do to stop her."
Erik sighed and pushed his fingers through his sparse hair. He closed his golden eyes while his mind worked at a solution.
The Persian groaned. "Go, Erik. I'll contrive some story so she'll forget she saw you. With any luck, she will leave you alone. But don't draw attention to yourself again."
The Phantom turned from the settee. "A wise decision. Erik must not be disturbed when Christine returns. I'm planning a spectacular welcome for her. To her, it will be like a magnificent dream. And I'll sing for her, too. She always did like my voice, even if my face repulsed her. I'll wait for her forever—I'll persevere for her!" Chattering to himself like this, he turned and left the apartment.
The monster had kindly returned the Persian's pistol during his earlier visit, but now had left behind the Carthusian robes. Bringing the robes to the Opera was a fitting way for the Persian to return the favor, and it would also provide the pretext he needed in order to check his friend's condition.
In the dressing room, the Persian stared at his reflection in the full-length mirror on the wall. His memory of their recent conversation made him hesitate—Erik was expecting Christine with so much hope, that if another should come in her place, it would cause a terrible disaster! And he hadn't forgotten that Erik knew the caliber of his pistol—Erik was an excellent marksman. If he found the second pistol, Heaven knew how he might use it. Perhaps the visit could wait.
The Persian left the Carthusian cloak in an empty wardrobe, where he knew the Opera Ghost would find it and discern that a friend from above was concerned for him. Then he slipped into the hallway and climbed the stairs to the Opera lobby.
When he reached the doors leading to the Boulevard des Capucines, however, he was nearly flattened as the doors were pushed open and an old woman who looked like a crow marched into the lobby. Her thin lips were set in a solid, straight line, and what was left of her eyebrows alternated between rising high in dignified surprise and drawing together in raging anger. She had a grandiose feather stuck straight in her hat. The Persian recognized Madame Giry, the keeper for Erik's box five. In her extreme anger she hadn't noticed him, however, and he followed her to discover what the matter was.
She stormed into the manager's office with the same force with which she had entered the Opera itself, waving a letter she had received. "I demand an explanation! When the Opera Ghost learns that you plan to rent his box, and that I must serve someone else, he will be furious!"
"Calm yourself, Madame," warned Richard. He had just returned from his battle with the maestro and the chorus master, and his patience was wearing thin.
"We are doing this at the Ghost's request," Moncharmin explained.
"I don't believe it!"
"Neither did we, at first. See, here is the letter that was given to us." Moncharmin handed her the Ghost's letter that had mysteriously appeared in box five.
Mme. Giry snatched the paper and read it with narrowed eyes. Her rigid pose seemed to slowly collapse, and the feather in her hat slumped forward in resignation.
"How can this be?" she cried as she nearly threw the letter back at Moncharmin. "What did I do to upset the Ghost?"
Both managers looked at her in surprise. The recovery of First-Tier Box Five had been cause for celebration for them, yet this woman seemed in mourning.
Suddenly her eyes grew very wide. "The Ghost is angry with us for talking to the police! They came last week and asked me about the box! The Ghost believes we betrayed him!"
Richard cleared his throat and shared an uncomfortable look with Moncharmin.
Mme. Giry continued, oblivious to their reaction, "You've said that the Opera's standards are waning. It's the Ghost's curse! He is furious! We must make amends."
Richard rolled his eyes, "And how do we reconcile with the Opera Ghost, Madame?"
The matron frowned in thought. "We must ask the Ghost ourselves. We must summon him with a séance!"
Both managers spoke at once: "A séance, Madame?" "And how do you suggest we conduct such a ritual?"
"Place a belonging of his on a large table," She nodded to herself, the hat-feather bobbing in the air with regained confidence. "We will summon him through his possessions. The table must be large, as I said, and covered in black velvet. It must be done at night."
Moncharmin smiled. "Richard! If we can summon the ghost, we might find a way to get rid of him. If he is a real ghost, he might tell us his story, which could provide some clue as to how we can release him from his ghostly existence. If he's a fake, we can catch him—we'll invite the most learned scientists in Paris to this séance, and see if they can explain what goes on here!"
"Yes, yes!" Richard agreed. "And maybe, once caught, this ghost will offer some advice for our chorus in exchange for his freedom!"
The Persian, with his ear to the wall, listened as the men made their plan. He, too, planned to attend the ritual in order to protect Erik's privacy. He could gain admission by offering himself as one having knowledge of the dark arts. His mysterious reputation would finally prove to be useful.