Chapitre Cing: Le Vicomte de Chagny
Erik hurried up the steps to the trick mirror, trying to fold the two dresses he was carrying as he went. Christine was coming back to her dressing room, and he couldn't risk being caught. He hadn't even had time to grab his mask off the piano (which he had taken off to examine the gowns one final time in the dim light) in his rush to reach the room before her. He couldn't afford for anything to be wrong with the gowns—Christine's performance was tonight, and she needed appropriate costume.
He'd only been able to have two costumes made; he had asked Antoinette Giry to find a good tailor to make a gown for the prison scene and one for the rest of the opera (she had Christine's measurements already for chorus costumes; it was becoming quite useful to have the Ballet Mistress as a long-time friend, albeit a distant one. He wished now that he had allowed her closer to his heart during his long years at the opera house—if he had, he wouldn't feel as guilty coming to her for help now). For something so specific—the incredibly outdated fashion of a sixteenth century German noblewoman—it had been quite costly, even though the tailor was of the middle class. Though Erik had never made a dress in his life, he had been forced to ransack the Garnier's supply of fabrics to make alterations to the gowns after he'd gotten them back; the incompetent tailor had seen fit to ignore Antoinette's instructions and had given the beautiful dress short sleeves, as modern fashion dictated for evening gowns, instead of the long sleeves of the sixteenth century. Erik's sewing skills were a little rusty—he usually had Nadir (his only other friend in the world, who hailed from Persia) secure clothes for him from his own tailor—but he had managed it.
He wondered if Antoinette knew that he was acting as Christine's mentor. If she did, she probably wouldn't say anything; she had always given him the distance he needed. He supposed that he was rather glad of it, in a way; the last thing he needed was criticism concerning the mess of lies he had managed to tangle himself up in.
Erik flipped the switch and the mirror pulled away. He didn't wait for it to be fully out of his way before darting through the frame and placing the two dresses on Christine's vanity table. In doing so, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the vanity's mirror. With a cold frown, he averted his eyes. He didn't need any reminders of how disfigured he was.
When he had left the stage, Firmin and André had been telling Christine that she would most certainly be taking Carlotta's place. By now they would have realized that Carlotta's costumes would not fit their new diva and would have instructed her to find something suitable among her own clothing—of which, of course, there was nothing. He liked Christine's dresses—they were simple, well-made—but they were not fitting for the performance.
As he stepped back from the table, he realized that, among all the clutter on the vanity, it was doubtful Christine would ever notice the two foreign parcels. Perhaps he should hang them in her closet. No, her closet was just as utterly chaotic as the rest of the room. As the Angel, he would have to instruct her that neatness was a virtue. (Not that he practiced it much himself; his collection of rooms below played host to mountains of music books and instruments.) Blast it, where should he put them…?
The sharp sound of a turning doorknob echoed in the silent room—it was Christine! Oh God, if she saw his face—!
He snatched the dresses off the vanity and set them hastily on a stool before racing back to the safety of the mirror.
# # # # # # # # # # # # # # #
As Christine opened the door to her dressing room, completely preoccupied, she didn't wonder what the strange "click" was that came from the direction of the mirror. The old opera house was always creaking. And besides, she had far more important issues to worry about—what was she going to do? At first she had been thrilled that the managers had agreed to let her play Marguerite. She attributed most of this praise to her own hard work and talent, but the role Fate had played—injuring Carlotta and ensuring that she knew Marguerite's arias—suggested the Angel's interference. In any event, that wasn't the important thing right now.
Carlotta had no less than fifteen gowns for this opera, each one costing a king's ransom in silks and pearls. Unfortunately, the diva's sumptuous figure was far from Christine's thin, willowy one. It would be impossible to take in the garments to such an extent if given a week—but the performance was this very night! The new managers had told her, after a heated argument with the head seamstress, that she'd just have to wear something she already had, whether it fit the opera or not. Christine, thinking of the few worn dresses she owned, had given up all hope of finding a solution.
Angrily, she slammed the door behind her and stomped over to her small, dingy closet, throwing out all the boxes, food trays, knick-knacks, and other clutter. When she finally unearthed the five pathetic dresses she had, she examined each and threw them to the floor in disgust. They were all far too plain for Christine Daaé, lead soprano of Faust! It was so unfair! Why couldn't Mamma have parted with a little more money to make her dresses less plain?
A small voice in her mind whispered that Mamma made very little money as a seamstress, and Christine herself made even less; they couldn't afford sumptuous wardrobes, and the dresses Mamma had made for her were perfectly acceptable. Christine did not want to listen to this line of reasoning, however, so she shut it out. It was still unfair, no matter what!
Furiously, she kicked the closet door and sat down in a huff on the stool in front of her vanity. She realized immediately that she was sitting on something, and, still raging, she pulled it out from under her.
To her great surprise, the offending parcel happened to be a dress. It was a full, flowing gown, soft white damask with a teasing hint of pink where the shadows hit it. The sleeves were puffed and full at the shoulders, and the fabric was very fine, but other than that, it was a very simple design. It was far from Carlotta's dresses, which took an entire jewelry shop to decorate, but it was acceptable. Christine immediately tried it on and was surprised to find that it fit her perfectly.
Admiring the mysterious dress in one of her mirrors, she saw something in the reflection that she did not recognize. Turning around, she saw that it was another dress, previously hidden under the first. She lost no time in examining it and was severely disappointed in her findings. It was dull grey and completely unadorned, with a frayed length of rope for a belt. It was even uglier than the dresses in her closet. She threw it in the wastebasket, absolutely disgusted.
A moment later she was scrambling to fetch it out again, having realized what it must be for: the prison scene at the end of the opera!
But who had sent them? Someone who knew the opera, obviously, and the fact that she would be performing in it. But most mysterious of all was the fact that they were both exactly her size.
She was still puzzling over it when she heard a familiar voice echo through the room. "Are you ready, Christine?" The Angel's voice seemed, for a moment, a little uncollected and out of breath. But she must have imagined it, for his next words were spoken with his usual kind, composed air: "The performance starts in less than half an hour."
"Yes," she told the Angel, even though she had yet to arrange her hair or reapply her stage makeup. "But where did these come from?" She gestured to the dress in her hand and the one she was wearing.
"I couldn't have you performing your first starring role without appropriate costume, my dear. They are a bit simpler than they could have been, perhaps, but you must understand, I do not have much practice in dressmaking. But still, simplicity is purer than coarse vanity, wouldn't you agree?"
"Then—then you made them?"
There was a slight pause. "I had help from the other angels," he said at last.
For a moment her anger was revived; if it was angels who had made them, then why hadn't they woven a gown out of silvery star dust, or out of the golden rays of the mane of Skinfaxi, the horse that raced Day's shining chariot across the sky? Or the silvery light of the horse of Day's sister, Night? Didn't the Angel think she was good enough for something like that? It was so unfair!
But then she realized how many uncomfortable questions it would raise if she walked onstage wearing a gown from the light of a celestial body. She would not be able to give any reasonable explanation for such an impossible garment, no matter how hard she tried. Christine's shoulders sagged in embarrassed defeat. She had learned already that the Angel always knew best, and this case was no exception.
"Did you cause Carlotta's absence, too?" she asked, changing the subject. "Oooh! Did you steal her voice away?"
A momentary silence gave her the answer, despite his words: "That wouldn't be very Christian of me, would it?"
"Well, no…. But it was in a good cause."
"Yes, I suppose so," he replied cryptically.
Christine shrugged again and dismissed it. It was obvious that this wonderful opportunity was entirely his doing. "While you're doing marvelous things, can you fix my ankle? I can barely stand, let alone walk. I don't know how I'll manage to make it through the entire performance."
"I'm so sorry, my dear, is your ankle still hurting you?"
"Abominably," she said, her voice sour. "Curse that blasted Carlotta."
"Are you applying ice and exercising it as I instructed you?"
"You couldn't just snap your fingers and heal it?"
"Magic is inadvisable concerning such small troubles."
"Fine, fine," she sighed, moving to search her vanity drawers for a suitable necklace to go with the beautiful pink gown. "I used the ice, and that helped, but moving my ankle hurts far too much to even contemplate exercise."
"Small exercises will reduce the swelling and stiffness, Christine."
She held a faux-diamond collar up to the light for inspection. "Well, it's too late now." Some of the glass gems were cracked, and the clasp was broken. Absolutely intolerable for the future diva of the Garnier. She would have to sneak into Carlotta's dressing room and filch something more befitting of her impending station. "How do you know so much, anyway?"
"I've perused the occasional book of medicine."
"You're supposed to be an Angel of Music."
"It's never advisable to have one's entire store of knowledge constituted in a single sphere, my dear."
"Mm-hmm." She shrugged and stepped behind her screen to change. Her thoughts turned to the performance, and within moments, she had forgotten all about her ankle and cursing Carlotta.
"This is the most wonderful day of my entire life!" she chattered happily, giving little heed to what she was saying. Surely Raoul would ask to meet the beautiful star of the opera! "I can't wait for the performance!"
"Yes," agreed the Angel. "It should start an illustrious career for you. Within no time at all the new managers will have you replace Carlotta permanently. After this performance, if we are fortunate."
"Oh yes, well, that too." She paused, drawing in a large breath to shrink her waist while she struggled to lace her corset as tightly as possible. "Stupid corset," she muttered.
Apparently the Angel could hear very well, for he said, rather unhappily, "Christine, you shouldn't wear that."
She gasped, yanking the laces tighter. "Of course I should—a diva must be beautiful!"
"But it's very damaging for your body. It's crushing your organs."
"I don't care. I want to be as beautiful as is humanly possible!"
"You already are." His voice sounded oddly husky as he said it, but she was too busy to notice.
"You don't suppose you could use some heavenly magic to make me fit into this thing?"
"No, I don't suppose I could."
She gave the laces one final jerk and gasped in horror as one broke. "Blast it to Niflheim!" she screamed, throwing it to the floor. "The world hates me!" she shrieked, violently stomping on it. "Why, why would it choose to break now, of all times?! It's not fair! Why do I have to be so poor? Why can't I afford nice things?" She fell to the floor and began sobbing wildly.
"Christine, Christine," the Angel pleaded, "please don't cry! It's all right—sixteenth century fashion did not require corsets. You are doing the opera a service not to wear one."
She sniffed and wiped the tears out of her eyes. "I am?"
"Yes."
"But I won't be as beautiful!"
"Christine, you are so beautiful that no one could possibly find any fault with your appearance, corset or no."
"Really?"
"Yes!"
She stood, feeling a little better, and started to put on the costume. "Well, okay. I hope you're right."
A few moments later she stepped out from behind the screen and seated herself at her vanity to retouch her eye shadow. Unlike all the other chorus girls, she was already wearing her stage makeup, supplied by Madame Giry; it was the only makeup she owned, so she wore it all the time as a surrogate for normal cosmetics. It wouldn't do to have anyone suspect she was too impoverished to purchase any.
Feeling rather pathetic, she brushed these thoughts away and turned her mind back to the performance. "Yes, this is the most wonderful day of my life. But not just because of my divahood."
His voice held a note of polite interest now. "Oh? Why else?"
"The new managers have a patron—the Vicomte de Chagny. Well, actually, his brother is the patron, but Raoul's going to be helping him. He and I were childhood sweethearts."
"Oh, really." Christine did not notice the sudden iciness in his tone.
"I can't wait to introduce myself to him, as 'Christine Daaé, diva of the Opera Garnier!'" She arranged her face into the expression she imagined an aristocratic diva might have, giggling at the ridiculous result.
"I don't think you should do that."
Christine wasn't really listening; she was imagining all the wonderful compliments Raoul would shower on her when he realized that she had been the beautiful Marguerite! "Will he recognize me right off, do you think? Wouldn't it be embarrassing to introduce myself if he already knew who I was—"
"Christine."
She jumped at the burst of power in that single word. "Um—yes?"
"I don't want you to see him."
Christine's brow furrowed in confusion. "But…but why not?"
The air in the room was icy, and she felt a shiver quake her body. "He may seem like an honorable gentleman from afar, Christine, but I fear he is just a conscienceless womanizer, like so many of the aristocracy of Paris."
"How dare you say something like that!" she exclaimed, righteously infuriated. "Raoul could never do anything so horrible! How absurd!"
"Trust me, Christine, it's not absurd in the least!"
"No! I can't believe it! I won't believe it! He's a wonderful man, and I'll renew our acquaintance if I want to!"
"There's no way I can convince you?" he asked desperately.
"No!"
There was a long moment of horrible silence, in which Christine cringed against the surface of the vanity, praying to the gods that the Angel, his fury so palpable in the air, would not smite her where she sat. Though he was trying only to protect her, and she appreciated that, she couldn't allow herself to be pushed around. What if Raoul, love-struck on sight, as he of course would be, decided to propose? Or if he was already married, perish the thought, he might introduce her to another wealthy nobleman who would rescue her from this rat hole. She couldn't let the Angel ruin her chances!
Finally the Angel spoke: "If you bestow your heart on Earth," he said, sounding strangely cold, "I will have no choice but to return to Heaven."
Christine, who had not been expecting an answer of such gravity, fell from her stool. Scrambling to her knees, she cried, clasping her hands together in supplication, "Oh, no! Don't do that! Please! I didn't mean it! He d-doesn't mean anything to me, I-I swear—"
"I wish I could believe that, Christine."
"He's just an old friend, that's all. If you like, I won't even talk to him!" Her heart was pounding at such a pace that she feared it would explode. The Angel, leave her? What would she do? She had already discovered what would happen if he left—no, she couldn't let him go! "Please, please, Angel, don't leave me!"
His voice was somewhat warmer now. "Don't worry yourself, Christine. I won't leave you. But please, promise me you'll stay away from the Vicomte de Chagny."
"Yes," she exclaimed, "yes! I promise!"
"Thank you, my dear. Now, we need to review the chorus of 'Je Ris'—I know you don't want to, but this debut will make your career. We can't allow for any mistakes…."
# # # # # # # # # # # # # # #
Raoul de Chagny nodded politely to Messieurs Firmin and André, who were sitting in the box straight across the stage from him. It was fortunate that they had the Chagny family as their patron; the new managers had only recently amassed their fortune, and therefore had no experience with either nobility or managing an opera house. Why, just tonight he'd already corrected several grave mistakes that surely would have destroyed their enterprise. How on earth could anyone be so foolish as to seat Madame Valois in the very next seat to the Marquis de Morel? Morel had used their affair as leverage against her husband to obtain a government office; that was only six months ago, for Heaven's sake! Raoul shuddered to think what would have happened if they had found themselves seated next to each other.
And that wasn't even counting the vast funding he and his brother were giving the opera house. (He wasn't certain of the exact figure—he had always found counting money beneath him and had let his brother, Philippe, handle it. Philippe knew more about finances anyway; there was no need for he, Raoul, to expend efforts on something as distasteful as budgeting. It was enough to know that the figure was in the millions of francs.) It would certainly be gratifying to have other nobles watch these operas and say to each other, "Didn't you just love the diva's dresses?"
"Yes," the other would say. "Did you know that the sapphires were all real?"
"Really?" the first one would ask, shocked. "The Chagnys must certainly be a great house, to give so much to the Opera Garnier!"
Raoul smiled at the thought. Yes, the managers were very fortunate indeed. They seemed to know it, as well—they had presented him with the very best seats in the house, Box Five. It was a bit strange that Debienne and Poligny had not reserved it to someone before they sold the Opera Garnier to Firmin and André. Or perhaps they had, and the new managers shifted those distinguished personages to a different box. Either way, it was fitting of the managers to give him the best seats, in light of all he and his brother were doing for them.
The orchestra sounded the first notes of the overture, and Raoul sighed resignedly.
"Not excited, Raoul?" queried Philippe, pushing his chair farther back into the shadows.
"Of course not," Raoul said sourly. "I've seen it twice already in my life—and that's about three times too many, I might add—but even if I hadn't seen it before, it would still be a waste of time."
"Time that could be spent wooing beautiful maidens, I take it."
"That's right. Operas are a means to an end, that's it—an excuse to take a woman to dinner. And stop lurking in the shadows like some kind of fiend."
Philippe ignored that. "At least pretend to enjoy the opera we've financed, if at all possible. For subsequent operas you can bring all the women you want, but for this one could you try to act as if you're interested in our investment?"
"Fine, fine," the vicomte sighed. Philippe knew best—he was theComte de Chagny, and ten years Raoul's senior. He supposed he would just have to suffer.
Oh well; if Philippe had agreed to allow him to accompany a lady, he would have only had one choice: Veronique de la Musardiere, his insufferable fiancée. It seemed like a dreadful waste of time and charm wooing Veronique, since their marriage had been arranged since they were children. Much more attractive to him was the idea of enjoying the company of as many pretty, buxom Parisian girls as possible before he was married in January—a mere three months from now—and had to accept the responsibility as the ruler of a household.
He supposed Veronique wasn't the most undesirable bride in Paris; she was blonde and absolutely beautiful, with all the daintiness and fashionable taste of a true lady. As long as he didn't have to talk to her, she was just fine. But she had a very sharp tongue, and her intellect was too great for any ideal woman. If only he could have brought Julienne, or Brigitte, or even Anceline l'Roux….
Raoul scowled and folded his arms, trying to push away the thoughts of all those beauties ripe for the picking. "I'll pretend to enjoy the opera," he said to his brother, "if you pretend not to be a misanthropic hermit who's terrified of all these people."
Philippe stood and pushed his chair up to the balcony railing, saying with dignity, "I am not terrified. I just don't like their eyes going over us with a fine-tooth comb, trying to find any faults in our taste that they can gossip about."
"You sound like my fiancée," Raoul muttered.
"Really?"
"Don't sound so pleased about it," he snapped. "Why did you have to offer up our wealth to the Garnier anyway?"
"Monsieur Debienne has always been a very good friend of mine; when Baron de Bellamont could no longer afford to keep up his patronage—"
"Stupid man, to allow his gambling to get away from him."
"—the Garnier was in dire need of funding," continued Philippe, with a frown. "It was the least we could do."
"Then you could have at least taken the burden of 'Patron of the Garnier' upon yourself and left me out of it."
"I know, Raoul, and I'm sorry; I know you're not interested in opera, but I just couldn't—"
"It's fine," sighed Raoul, not wanting to delve into the depths of his brother's crippling introversion. "Forget about it."
The curtains opened, and he steeled himself for the most boring evening of his life. Hopefully Firmin and André had taken his advice and cut out the half-hour of ballet in the second act.
The opera proceeded the same way it always had. Faust, about to commit suicide, called on Satan. Satan, known as Méphistophélès, promised him the world in exchange for his soul. Faust hesitated, and Méphistophélès conjured an image of Marguerite, Faust's only love. Mon Dieu, this was so boring—
Raoul almost fell off his chair.
It was Christine Daaé.
The beautiful, ghostly image of Marguerite sang a few dazzling notes, and Faust fell to his knees before her. Raoul had to grip the railing to keep from doing the same.
He hadn't thought about Christine Daaé for years, but now he could clearly see her demure smile in his memories, feel the grip of her cherubic hand in his, hear her darling, angelic voice, though she was only seven years old when they last saw each other…. How could it possibly be her?
But it was. Her looks had changed; she had been rather awkward as a child, very pretty, but always talking and unaware of all social customs and feminine graces. She was much taller now, thin and perfect, and her form was flawless and graceful. The white dress she was wearing was almost blinding in the lights of the stage, but he refused to shield his eyes. It complimented her beauty much more than her worn childhood dresses, though he didn't particularly care for its unadorned nature. A girl as beautiful as she should be wearing pearls, at least, if not diamonds!
"It's her," Raoul whispered to his brother, jabbing him in the arm.
"Who?"
"Christine!"
"Who?"
"Christine Daaé!"
Philippe studied her with mild interest. "She's the Swedish girl you met in Trouville-sur-Mer all those years ago, is that right?" Raoul nodded, unable to rip his eyes away from her. "It couldn't be," said Philippe. "What are the odds?"
And then she began to sing, and Raoul silenced his brother so he could listen. As she sang, thought of all else faded away. It was only a few tantalizing notes, and she disappeared. Faust cried aloud, and Raoul barely managed to keep himself silent.
By the time Christine had reappeared in the Third Act, Raoul—thoroughly bored by the scenes without Christine in them—had planned out his gallant and dashing reintroduction to her, recalled distant, foggy memories of their interaction as children (as well as making up a few) in case he was called upon to recount them, and worked out a rough timeline for the seduction of this unbelievably-beautiful diva.
When she walked out onto the stage, he noticed that she was wearing the same dress, an unheard-of cheapness for such a famous opera house. He would have to reprimand Firmin and André for such stupidity and make sure Christine was present when he demanded that she be given the wardrobe she deserved; if she didn't know about it, then it would just be a waste of his time.
She looked out at the audience, and she faltered as she saw the hundreds of expectant eyes staring back at her. Her distress made her appear even more beautiful, like a shy, exquisite forest nymph from a faerie tale, but she paused so long that she missed her cue for the aria concerning the jewels.
"Mademoiselle!" hissed the conductor, his voice clearly audible to the audience. She jumped, and a few crude, obviously-lower-class spectators laughed. Raoul considered leaping up from his seat to defend her, but decided against it; he didn't want to risk his image just to impress her, no matter how beautiful she was. Blasted plebeians shouldn't even be allowed in the building, he thought angrily before returning his attention to his perfect diva.
Christine faltered twice more during the song, causing the orchestra to halt and restart the current verse. After that, she seemed to lose all confidence, and every aria she sang came out imperfect. Because of all the starts and stops and incorrect words, the story was difficult to follow, but all Raoul was interested in was that beautiful, beautiful voice, and the impossibly-perfect, angelic body that went with it.
As the curtain slowly escalated for the final act, revealing a silent and staring audience, he could see Christine sway slightly, seeming about to faint, as if a sudden stage-fright had gripped her. A long, expectant silence filled the opera house as everyone waited for her to begin.
At the exact moment when Raoul thought he could stand the suspense no longer, she began. The note caught in her throat at first. She raised her eyes to the sky, as if in prayer. Then, astonishingly, she seemed to hear something from the rafters—as if an angel were speaking to her from above— and, suddenly filled with courage, she began to sing.
The aria was so beautiful that Raoul's heart twisted with agony in his chest, pleading, demanding, that he jump from the balcony and sweep the diva into his arms.
But as the last note died and the entire house erupted into thunderous applause, Christine's knees buckled and she fell to the stage floor. Raoul picked up his hat and cane and strode from the balcony, ignoring Philippe, who wanted to know where he was going, and congratulated himself for his good fortune: appearing, stricken with concern, at the diva's side, would be a perfect way to reintroduce himself and begin his seduction.