Chapter 15: La Séance!
The Opera managers were not to be disappointed in their choice of schedule. Friday night arrived with impressive exhibition as a furious storm brought with it heavy rains and screaming winds. Alice pulled the collar of her cloak tight around her neck as she descended from the carriage that the managers had sent. A sudden gale startled the horses and nearly stole the umbrella from Dr. Mechnikov's hand. Fighting their way through the bedlam to the Opera Garnier, Alice and the professor struggled to keep their footing.
"Keep close to me when we get inside!" Mechnikov instructed, shouting to be heard over the wind. Alice nodded. After the managers' visit, she had explained to her tutor her involvement in the case of the murder on the Place Denfert-Rochereau, and the reason many people now objected to her further participation. Of course, she had concealed her discovery of the home of the Opera Ghost.
Lightning exposed the Garnier's colossal façade. Alice noticed with alarm that there were no lights in the windows and the outside lamps were also dark and lifeless.
The two visitors climbed the limestone steps against the wind. When they reached the safety of the eaves and Mechnikov struggled to close the umbrella, a door beside them opened tentatively.
Richard, wearing a formal swallowtail suit, stood in the doorway. He bowed to the two newcomers as they brushed the icy rainwater off their shoulders. "Mademoiselle Mifroid and Doctor Mechnikov, most welcome." He gestured with an exaggerated flourish to the interior of the Opera.
They stepped into the foyer, which was veiled in twisted shadows. In the center of the hall, nine chairs surrounded a large, round table lit by candelabra. The rain drummed against the windows like the impatient tapping of bony fingers. Richard himself took the visitors' coats and the dripping umbrella, while Moncharmin introduced them to the other guests. All were dressed as formally as Richard; the managers had instructed everyone to wear their finest attire, to produce the proper atmosphere. Mechnikov, who himself occasionally attended theater, had aired out his suit as requested. Alice had selected a white satin dress with golden trim and wore her long, white opera gloves.
She was relieved to learn that she was not the only woman attending the circle. Moncharmin introduced them to Marie Curie and her husband Pierre, the reserved physicist of the Sorbonne. The couple were a stern lot with drawn faces. Also in attendance was Mme. Giry, who, as Moncharmin explained, was the usher for the notorious Box Five. A frail gentleman with a curling, grey moustache was introduced as Marcellin Berthelot, a chemist from the Académie des Sciences.
The Curies had some experience in matters of séance, and had been recounting another incident to Berthelot, who still awaited the end of the tale with rapt attention.
"There was no explanation for the sudden wind that swept through the circle," Mme. Curie narrated once introductions were complete. "It was not a drafty room, and winds like that never blow through a house unless a window is open. And I assure you, Messieurs and Madames, all the windows were tightly closed!"
Mme. Giry nodded in absolute understanding.
Berthelot, however, was baffled. "But there must be a scientific phenomenon behind it!"
M. Curie crossed his arms. "In fact, there is, good Monsieur. But it is not an explanation that is widely accepted in our community of academia. The fact is, there are substances invisible to the human eye, which nevertheless can exert a physical force."
"Are you suggesting ghosts, Monsieur?" Berthelot laughed.
"We don't yet have a name for it," admitted Mme. Curie. "And there was far more than wind that night, to convince us of a presence."
Suddenly a hurried rapping interrupted the conversation. The scientists all hushed and turned toward the door. Richard, who had busied himself in lighting a fire in the fireplace, took slow and careful steps to the door and opened it just enough to peer outside.
"Monsieur," demanded an authoritative voice on the other side, "it's raining cats and dogs out here. Will you open the door wide enough so that I can enter, or will you have me do that myself?"
"Oh!" Richard sighed in relief, "I apologize, My Lord!" He opened the door wide and bowed quite low to the imposing figure that entered.
"Judge Henri Brousseau!" Moncharmin announced, and went immediately to attend to their guest of honor. The judge surveyed the room with his black eyes and stroked his short, brown beard. While Richard disposed of the judge's coat, hat, and umbrella, Moncharmin began formally introducing the guests to the judge, who presided over a magistrate's court on Paris' left bank.
Alice had met enough men of the Law through her father's work, and was therefore not as impressed as were the other guests. While they flocked to the new arrival, she turned to the fireplace and admired a lapis lazuli urn on the mantel. Her cheeks and fingertips, made raw by the weather, regained their vigor while she watched the fire's reflection dance on two gilded statues flanking the urn.
She was startled when a small paper fell into her hand. Upon it was a note in hasty handwriting, written in some sort of vermilion ink:
"Mademoiselle Mifroid,
Find some pretext to break away from your duties next Tuesday morning and come to the gate, to tell me what you've learned concerning my condition.
Throw this note into the fire before my managers see you.
~ Erik.
P.S. Please do not be frightened by what you see tonight. I will not harm you."
How had he sent her this letter? Alice examined the gilded mirror above the mantel, but could see nothing out of the ordinary. She studied the note again, tracing the assertive lines in the letters of his name. Please do not be afraid by what you see tonight… Obediently, she let the paper fall from her hand into the hungry flames.
"Mademoiselle Mifroid," Moncharmin called. Alice turned to see the manager approach with the judge. "My Lord," said Moncharmin to his companion, "this is Alice Mifroid, daughter of Michel Mifroid, Police Commissioner of the Sûreté."
Alice executed a graceful curtsy, watching the two men for any indication that they had seen the note. Thankfully, Moncharmin appeared to be too preoccupied by the judge, and the judge too preoccupied in himself, for either of them to have noticed anything.
"Madames and Messieurs," called Richard from beside the round table, "Now that we are all here and properly introduced, let us sit at the circle and begin the preparations for the séance!"
The excited guests assembled at the table in the middle of the foyer. A roar filled the hall as nine wooden chairs were pulled back to permit their occupants.
"Join hands," Mme. Giry commanded in a sober voice, when everyone was seated. She waited while the guests complied. "This is a séance, a communication with the spirits among us. Steady your nerves, and empty your hearts of negative energy."
A sudden clap of thunder caused the guests to jump; Mme. Curie gasped.
Mme. Giry hardly moved, the feather in her hat very still. "Concentrate… focus your mind on opening a channel with these spirits."
A knock sounded three times on the door. This time, all the guests gasped, including Judge Brousseau.
"Should… Should I answer it?" Richard asked the group.
All heads turned toward the door as the doorknob turned on its own. The door opened slowly, with a low moan. A figure with light footsteps and an unusual hat entered the foyer.
Alice recognized the Persian at once, but she dared not say anything.
He shook off his soaked coat, and cast his unnerving jade eyes upon the circle of people. "Messieurs and Madames, excuse me. I understand that there is a séance tonight, and I wish to inquire if I might attend."
"You!" shouted Richard, a bit embarrassed at having been so startled. "You're always meddling in the Opera's affairs! This is an invitation-only event."
"Allow me to make my case, Monsieur. As you say, I am frequently at the Opera and, as you are aware, my curiosity has often led me down into the cellars. I do hear people whispering about me, and I think you might be suspicious of me. Let me join your circle so I can prove that I am not behind what happens in the Garnier. You can observe me yourself and be fully satisfied that if something happens tonight, I was not the cause of it."
Richard snorted.
"The man makes a compelling argument, Monsieur Richard," the judge commented. "I would not object to his joining us. In fact, I would like for him to sit beside me, so that I can watch him myself and see if he commits any trickery."
An extra chair was brought for the newcomer, and the Persian took his place beside the judge. The guests again joined hands, and Mme. Giry repeated her commands.
"Focus your minds; open a channel of communication with the spirits!"
There was a pause, in which the air grew denser as each person struggled to reach out with their senses and feel any disembodied presence in the room.
Mme. Giry continued, "We are here tonight to speak with one particular spirit. To make him aware that we seek him, we have an item of his possession: the manuscript of Don Juan Triumphant, which this spirit wrote with his own hands!" So saying, she held the ream above her head for all to see.
Alice had been unaware of the rumors surrounding Don Juan's origins. It had never occurred to her that Erik was the author of that extraordinary work. She recalled the power of the music, how it had controlled her. It was the work of an incredible maestro.
Mme. Giry placed the manuscript in the center of the tabletop, beside the candelabra, and opened to the first page.
All the guests drew near, to see the writing of the spirit whom they sought. Music and verse danced across the page, in the same scratchy handwriting that Alice had seen on the note by the fireplace, and penned with the same vermilion ink. She imagined Erik authoring the piece at his pipe organ while his long fingers flitted from the keys to his pen.
"Spirit," Mme. Giry called, raising her voice, "if you are among us, make your presence known!"
The great clock in the fireplace mantel struck twelve. As the hour pealed, ten pairs of eyes stared at the music of Don Juan. The guests concentrated on summoning the Opera Ghost. Alice stared until the notes seemed to sear her eyes. The harder she stared, the brighter the music seemed to burn.
"Impossible!" cried Berthelot.
Alice blinked. It was not a trick of her imagination. The music was, in fact, burning. The flame seemed to start from the handwriting itself—the Phantom's perversion of the page. It snaked along the score, then increased in intensity until the entire manuscript was ablaze!
"My God!" exclaimed Judge Brousseau, "A fire!"
"Put it out before the whole table ignites!" shouted Berthelot.
Richard only stared, his frightened eyes as wide as saucers.
Acting on instinct, M. Curie tore off his swallowtail jacket and beat the fire with it until he had extinguished the flames. He fell back into his chair, shaken.
The guests looked at each other with terrified faces. Their hands were no longer joined merely for tradition—they all but clung to each other.
"Messieurs Moncharmin and Richard," said Mme. Giry, "the spirit you seek is here. You may ask your questions."
"This was your idea, Richard," Moncharmin hissed. "Ask the Ghost a question!"
Richard licked his lips. "Opera Ghost, our cast fears you, and w-we've had some trouble maintaining our standards. We would be… humbly indebted to you for any advice that you would offer."
A sudden gust of wind blew across the room, knocking the candelabra to the floor, scattering the ashes that had been Don Juan, and stifling the fire in the fireplace. The foyer was thrown into darkness.
A frightful whimper escaped Alice's lips. I will not harm you…
"Messieurs," said the Persian calmly, "perhaps the window on the far wall has sprung open."
Moncharmin broke the circle and rose to inspect the window. He lost his footing against the fallen candelabra and stumbled into Mme. Curie. A brilliant flash of lightening briefly illuminated the foyer, allowing him to get his bearings. But the lightning also revealed that the window on the far side was still closed!
Judge Brousseau's jaw fell open in disbelief, but none saw this happen because almost as soon as the lightning had appeared, it was gone again. A heartbeat later, a rolling clap of thunder shook the Opera Garnier.
The guests continued to hold hands, terrified that one of their number would be pulled away by unseen hands if they let go. As the thunder faded, the heavy patter of raindrops slowly ceased, and the storm blew itself out. Soon, the séance was in utter darkness and total silence.
Before anyone could relax or suggest striking a match, the group perceived the subtle sound of a violin beginning a slow, whimsical melody. The measured notes climbed the scale and descended again, at an even and contemplative pace, leading to a fanciful Arabian embellishment.
"Do all of you hear that, or have I gone mad?" asked the judge.
The music seemed to come from every corner of the room. It could only be a performance by the Opera Ghost. Alice closed her eyes and allowed the music to soothe her nerves as the Phantom's voice had done when she had opened the Rue Scribe gate.
"Hey, you.. Persian," Richard called in the darkness. "Do you know this music?"
The Persian's nervous chuckle was audible above the fragile violin. "Not I, Monsieur."
"I recognize it," said Mechnikov with surprise. The music continued as he struggled with his recollection. "I heard it this past summer, when I visited family in Russia. We attended a concert in Moscow, of some new works by Ippolitov-Ivanov. I believe this is one of his pieces."
As if to confirm what Mechnikov said, the violin grew louder.
"I don't understand this Ghost," confessed Richard. "How does this help us with our cast?"
"Perhaps the ghost prefers that you seek advice from this composer," the judge responded.
As suddenly as it had begun, the music stopped.
"Hello?" Moncharmin called out. "Hello? Is that correct? Should we bring Ippolitov-Ivanov to the Opera Garnier?"
There was no reply.
"The spirit is no longer with us," announced Mme. Giry. "I believe it has given its answer."
With a deafening bark, the fire in the fireplace returned to life on its own.