Chapitre Six: Dans Son Vestiaire
Christine awoke to the sound of frantic voices. What was going on? Where was the Angel? She moaned, trying to blink away the tumult of color and pain rushing around and around in her head. At long last she opened her eyes. There were three blurs standing over her. As her vision cleared, she identified the first person as an unknown gentleman; the woman was Madame Giry, and the other man—
It was Raoul! No, not him! Not here! The Angel would leave her forever, just when she needed him the most!
Raoul was bending over her, his face radiating anxiety and concern. "Christine," he murmured gently, squeezing her hand. "How are you?"
Oh, gods, he was so perfect…. Like a god himself…. But she couldn't afford to dwell on that now—what if the Angel was watching?
"Mademoiselle Daaé," said the other gentleman, "how are you feeling?"
She didn't reply, too busy panicking to pay him any attention.
"I am a physician," he continued. "Luckily I was sitting in one of the aisle seats and was able to reach you quickly. You appear just fine, merely shaken."
"Y-yes," she agreed. "I must get up—I must accept the audience's praise!"
"You aren't on the stage any longer, mademoiselle," Madame Giry informed her kindly. "Monsieur le Vicomte was kind enough to carry you to your dressing room."
She blinked, and her eyes focused enough for her to recognize her surroundings. How just like Raoul to do something so dashing! "Thank you very much, monsieur," she said, smiling brilliantly. "I really do—" She cut off suddenly as she realized just how angry the Angel would be if he had seen Raoul carrying her so romantically away—and surely he had been watching the performance! "Um, that is, thank you, monsieur, you may go now."
"Christine," said Raoul softly, "don't you recognize me?"
"I'm sorry, I don't," she whispered faintly, cursing herself for lying. Would Raoul believe that she did not recognize him? She hated to lie to him; he was so radiant, so handsome….
Raoul kissed her hand passionately. She inadvertently flinched, though she was rendered breathless by his handsomeness and gallantry. The fact that the Angel was undoubtedly watching was the only thing that kept her from throwing her arms about his neck and begging him to stay with her. "Mademoiselle," he said with a dashing smile, "I am the boy who went into the sea to rescue your scarf."
Christine felt the last of her resolve melt away. That was how they had first met—her scarf had blown into the ocean, and Raoul had rescued it for her…. Braving the terrors of the powerful, bottomless ocean, where the god Aegir and his daughters made their dark, turbulent home. She had always been so afraid of the ocean's malevolent, unpredictable currents—what a romantically courageous thing for him to have done! But what if the Angel had heard that? She couldn't make it to the top without him! She quickly decided that it was best to continue to feign indifference, as horrible as it was. "I am sorry, monsieur, but I—I don't know what you are talking about."
"But I am the Vicomte de Chagny, mademoiselle," he said, looking quite taken aback by her coldness. "I am Raoul! Surely you recall me!"
She shook her head blandly, pursing her lips as she pretended to wrack her memory. "No, I'm sorry, monsieur. You simply aren't familiar to me at all."
A faint scarlet tinge colored the vicomte's cheeks, and he stood. "I would like to have a private word with you, mademoiselle."
"Aaahh…when I am better, do you mind?" she asked sweetly, her voice shaking. Couldn't he just get out? Raoul turned to leave. The hurt expression on his face pained her greatly; he did not deserve such an ill reception. But the Angel took precedence. …Didn't he?
She dismissed the doctor and Madame Giry with assurances that she would be fine with a little rest. Before the doctor left, Christine begged him to inform the managers that she was not—under any circumstances—to be disturbed. She had kept the Angel waiting long enough already.
And, painfully hobbling over to her worn vanity stool—cursing Loki, the trickster god, and Carlotta for giving her such a horrifically twisted ankle, which had redoubled its burning pangs in the aftermath of her collapse—she seated herself, closed her eyes, and waited for him to arrive.
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Raoul was very surprised, upon exiting Christine's dressing room, to find that the hall was quickly filling up with people. Firmin and André, who were standing next to the door, spoke urgently to the physician, and were apparently relieved to find that their diva was recovering. The throng was now blocking the hallway, but Raoul had no intention of leaving; it was obvious that Christine had forced them all out so that she could talk to him alone. The way she had gone about it was roundabout and quite insulting, but fortunately he had seen through her feigned coldness.
"What are all these people doing back here?" he demanded of the incompetent managers.
"They all wish to congratulate Mademoiselle Daaé," said André, pulling at his moustache with a mix of anxiety and excitement.
"Where is the comte, by the way?" Firmin asked, scanning the crowded hallway. "He should be sharing in our success!"
"Waiting in a secluded corner, no doubt, for all these people to disperse."
Firmin looked puzzled for a moment, then dismissed it in favor of their great success. "We'll be rich, André!" he declared. "We have discovered the greatest voice in all of Europe!"
"Yes, yes," Raoul scowled, not really listening. The chattering and clamor of the crowd was beginning to get on his nerves, and it was keeping him from his rendezvous with Christine. "Get all these people out of here!"
"We—we can't very well do that, monsieur!" exclaimed André.
"Fine, then I'll do it!" snapped the vicomte. Turning to face the mob—a difficult task, as he was almost completely surrounded by it—he declared in an overly-loud voice, "MADEMOISELLE DAAÉ IS RECOVERING, MESDAMES AND MESSIEURS, AND WILL NOT BE ABLE TO SEE ANY OF YOU TONIGHT!"
Protests rippled through the crowd, but Raoul cut them off: "YOU MAY ALL SAVE YOUR CONGRATULATIONS UNTIL SHE HAS RECOVERED! GOOD NIGHT!"
A few of the more determined opera-goers gave the vicomte some trouble, but after a brief battle he was able to convince everyone, including the managers, to retreat. He then positioned himself just outside the door to Christine's dressing room, waiting for her to open it so that they could be reunited.
Oh, Christine! Such a darling little seraph she had been as a child, and such a voice…. But it was nothing—nothing—compared to her divine radiance now. He had enjoyed many fair beauties, but Christine would undoubtedly be the most beautiful, the most radiant mistress he would ever possess. Even her low-born status would be irrelevant, so beautiful was she that—
"Christine, you were absolutely beautiful tonight."
Raoul froze.
Whose voice was that? How had this man even managed to sneak into Christine's room? There was no means of ingress besides the door he was standing in front of, and there was absolutely no way anyone could have possibly slipped by him. It was impossible!
But that wasn't the most pressing issue—the fact was that the man was in Christine's dressing room. It was obvious that the scoundrel had the same idea as himself. Yes, that must be it—the man's voice had been soft and loving, confirming Raoul's fears. He couldn't detect anything insincere about it, but that just meant the man was good at the art of seduction. This was terrible! But he wouldn't succeed if Raoul had anything to say about it—the only man who had the right to deflower this perfect rose was the Vicomte de Chagny!
Then he heard Christine's voice, tired and upset: "No, no, I was terrible! I ruined every single aria! I was horrific! Pathetic! Amateur! And then fainting, on top of it all!"
"Are you quite all right?" he asked softly.
"Yes, yes, I'm fine—though I did bruise my hip a little when I fell—but I'm so terribly embarrassed!"
"You were wonderful, Christine, and a few mistakes do not change the beauty of your voice or the fabulous talent you possess."
"You really think so?"
"I do."
"Well, thank you, but that's just your opinion, and you're supposed to be wonderful to me—what about the audience? The nobility? The critics?!"
"I'm sure they will agree with me, my dear."
'My dear'? Raoul had to fight to keep from laughing at the man's pathetic attempt to win Christine's affections. That anyone could use such a trite term of affection for a perfect beauty like Christine was absolutely absurd!
"So you think I was wonderful anyway?"
"Yes, Christine. There are no words to describe the beauty of your voice in any language.The angels wept tonight."
Raoul rolled his eyes in disgust. What a ridiculous thing to say. This nincompoop was no competition, he was sure of that.
"Tell me more!" she demanded.
"About what, my dear?"
"How amazing I am!" she exclaimed, with an audible pout to those gorgeous lips, still sounding upset over her blunders in the opera. "Praise my intelligence, my poise, my beauty, my grace, everything! Tell me I'm the best pupil you've ever had!"
"You are," said the man, in a voice filled with sincerity and admiration.
What a stupid sot this man is, thought Raoul. He doesn't have the skill—the words—the wherewithal to praise her, even when she requests it. When he, the only true deserver of her affections, spoke to her again, he would shower her with so much praise, devotion, and adoration that she would melt in his hands.
"Christine, why are you putting on more makeup?"
"Because I want to speak to my admirers, that's why—and that blasted doctor and his cold compress washed it all off my forehead!"
"Are you sure you wouldn't rather rest?"
The next thing he would say would be, "Come lie down," and then before Christine knew it, blast it, she would be in the arms of another man!
Raoul drew his dagger, ready to fight to the death to keep Christine, and kicked the door in.
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Christine screamed as her door crashed to the floor. At first she was convinced it was an earthquake and started to call to the Angel to save her. But then she realized who was standing in the doorway. This did not make her any less afraid, however; the Angel could save her from a natural disaster, but not from the brash words of a vicomte.
"Where is he?" demanded Raoul, brandishing his dagger. "Never fear, my dulcet diva—I will save you from this unspeakable dastard!" He grabbed her arm, and, pulling her past him through the doorway, he began to prowl behind the chairs and piles of clutter.
She tugged her wrist out of his grasp. "Who?" she asked innocently, realizing with a furious scowl that he must have been listening. How could he do such a terrible thing? Perhaps he'd changed since those summers by the sea!
Raoul threw back the closet doors with a jerk and checked suspiciously inside. Finding nothing, he turned sharply to Christine. "I heard his voice—don't lie to me."
"Voice? W-what voice?"
Having searched every possible hiding place, Raoul lowered his dagger—though he did not sheathe it—and turned to Christine. "Who was it, Christine? I'll have his head on a platter for so much as speaking to you!"
Christine had no reply. It was wonderfully gallant of Raoul to try to protect her, but the Angel was most assuredly listening. So, much as she wanted to thank Raoul for his bravery, she had to get him out of her dressing room as quickly as possible. "I told you," she said distractedly, casting about for something to force him to leave, "there wasn't anyone." Her eyes fell upon the broken door, and she suddenly got an idea.
"Oh, Raoul," she wailed, falling to her knees before the broken door, "how could you?"
"Aha, you do know who I am—" He cut off as he realized why she was so upset. "Oh, Christine, I'm sorry," he faltered, taken aback, "but you're safety is worth more than any door—"
"No," she cried, twisting her expression into one of abject grief. "No! This door is irreplaceable! Oh, why did you have to break down my door?" As she pretended to cry, she studied the door's painted surface. The single fleur-de-lis carved into the center had been smashed by Raoul's boot. Besides that, it really was a pretty door. She'd never noticed.
Raoul sheepishly sheathed his dagger. "I'm terribly sorry," he said again, less loudly this time. "I'll have it replaced as soon as possible."
"But my door—"
"I promise," he added hurriedly, frantic to placate her, "that I'll buy you a door a hundred times more beautiful than this one. I'll even have your name engraved in gold. How does that sound?"
"Well, I—I suppose," she sniffled, secretly overjoyed that he would spend so much money on her. Even Carlotta's nameplate wasn't made of gold. "Thank you."
He started towards the doorway, but abruptly turned around. "I'm going to get someone to help me move this. You're coming with—I don't want to leave you alone."
He was so thoughtful, so caring! No man had ever shown concern for her wellbeing before, especially not one so handsome. "Thank you," she said, "but I'll be fine. I'm going home now."
"Christine, that dastard might still be out there!"
"But there wasn't—"
"I won't take no for an answer."
"Well, all right," she said, feigning reluctance. If allowing Raoul to accompany her home was the only way to keep him from snooping, surely the Angel couldn't blame her! Grabbing the first shawl she saw, she hurriedly threw it over her shoulders. He was so handsome, so kind, so caring…. He had thought, after all, that he was coming to her aid. As she followed him down the hall, she breathed a sigh of relief. The Angel… She shuddered to think what he had thought.