Chapitre Quinze: Les Fraises et le Filigree
Christine did a few pirouettes, watching with joy how her dress flared and sparkled in her full-length mirror. It was absolutely beautiful! The peach-colored silk shone in the morning light, seeming like a pink aurora borealis as the brilliant highlights, like cherry blossoms, and dark cerise shadows leapt and danced across the fabric. From the low, off-the-shoulder neckline hung a black swath of gossamer, embroidered with ebony flowers and long, curling vines; it fell all the way down to her elbows, obscuring the simple bodice underneath. In contrast to all this elaborate design, the skirt of the dress was simple, with only a few ruffles at the base. The front of the bodice was crested with a vast, pink satin rose. She knew there was a similar rose to be pinned in the hair of the wearer, but she hadn't been able to find it when she had borrowed the costume from the costumery.
When she was a child, she had enjoyed sneaking into the rooms where the old costumes were stored, simply to admire the beautiful, expensive gowns. Now that she could fit in some of them—though the most elaborate were, sadly, made for Carlotta, and therefore far too voluptuous for her—it had become a clandestine pastime to slip one off its rack and sneak it back to her dressing room to try it on. It was a sweet dream, to admire herself, looking so beautiful and regal, and pretend that she was a wealthy noble lady, and not a penniless ballet rat. But soon—when she married Raoul—she would be wealthy, and noble, and everything she had ever dreamed.
Suddenly she heard an audible click, and her reflection slid away out of the mirror's frame, replaced by a man in a plain black suit. "Good morning," he said. She tried not to look at him. He might be an angel, but by the Gods, he was hideous. And even if he weren't so hideous, she still wouldn't have wanted to see him—it had only been two days since she had stupidly accused that trollish stagehand of kidnapping her, and besides, she didn't want to see either Raoul or Erik until she had worked out a strategy for keeping Erik's guidance while allowing Raoul to court her. And besides that, what could she say to Raoul, after she had so rudely run away from his affections?
Though he did not comment on the gown and the childish reason for its appropriation from the costume rooms, she felt an uncomfortable blush rise into her cheeks and hurriedly invented, "Oh, hello, um, I just wanted to try on my new costume—for Idomeneo. Anyway, it fits nice so I'll just return it now." She turned to flee, but his voice stopped her, so deep, so soothing, despite his visage:
"I thought you'd be happy to know that, in light of your promotion to diva, the managers have decided to disregard the complaints they've been receiving and give you exclusive right to the chapel downstairs."
"Oh—good!" As she turned to look at him, her gaze locked on his face, but she forcefully reminded herself that he was the Angel (at least, she hoped he was an angel—she hardly dared to hope, but she still couldn't bring herself to believe that she had been duped by a monster), and the sick feeling receded.
"Uh—yes, that's marvelous!" she continued hurriedly. "Can you believe those ballet rats—and the chorus rats too—would make such a fuss just because I want Father's memorial to be a permanent fixture of the chapel?" Lost in the sweetness of victory, she forgot about her horror. "This will teach them," she said, smiling viciously.
"Don't call them 'rats,' please, Christine," beseeched Erik, his voice pained. He appeared not to notice that this dress, obviously northern European, could not possibly be in Idomeneo, which was set in—where was it Erik had said?—Crete, right after some war in Troy. (She wasn't sure just when that was, but it must have been at least a few centuries ago—Madame Giry had explained to her that the soldiers were carrying spears because firearms hadn't been invented yet. It seemed awfully stupid to Christine for anyone to start a war before inventing decent weapons.)
In any event, the Angel didn't notice, which was a very good thing; she didn't think something as heavenly, as divine as an angel would be able to understand the reason behind her temporary pilfering of a costume.
"Why can't I call them rats?" she wanted to know, glancing at her reflection and adjusting a loose bauble in her hair. "That's what they are."
"You were one yourself until quite recently."
"Well, I'm different. They've never liked me—I can't figure out why; I mean, I've said a few less-than-nice things about one or two of them, but that was only after they didn't like me first."
"Could it have anything to do with your announcement during a rehearsal that they were all blind fools to deny the existence of 'the gods?'"
"That was years ago—they couldn't possibly still remember that."
Apparently the Angel realized he couldn't win the argument, because he changed the subject: "You really should thank the managers for their generosity."
Busy with her hair, she didn't bother to turn to face him. "What for? They did it because you told them to."
"No, as a matter of fact, I had nothing to do with it."
She looked at him now, mildly surprised. "Then why did they give it to me?"
"Apparently they were quite moved by your devotion."
"Devotion?"
"Madame Giry told them about your visits to the chapel—every night without exception—to light a candle for him."
"Oh." She turned back to the mirror and resumed arranging her hair. "Yes, every day for the last—"
She stopped suddenly. "No, that's not right," she said slowly. "It was that way for years, yes, but lately… I haven't been down there since…since… Oh, gods!" she exclaimed, dropping the brush she was holding. "I haven't entered the chapel for over a week! I've neglected him!" Frantically she grabbed a book of matches and raced for the door.
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She spent over an hour kneeling at the foot of her father's altar beseeching his forgiveness before she felt better. Surely he understood; so many things had happened—divahood, Raoul's appearance in her life again, Erik—she had just forgotten to visit him. It didn't mean he was any less important to her, she had told him repeatedly. From now on, she would burn several candles instead of just one—it would be more expensive, and much as she didn't want to burden Mamma, the added expense would show her father the extent of her devotion.
After she had returned the pilfered costume to its proper location, she headed back to her dressing room. Now that she felt better (surely her father was happy with her again), she wanted to spend a few hours lounging around before the rehearsal.
When she had reached her room, however, she encountered Erik. "Hello," she greeted, thinking, Curse it, he'll want me to practice reading that horrid sheet music during my few hours of leisure! She had to think up some excuse before he could bring it up.
"I just stopped back to get a shawl before I went home for a few hours before rehearsal," she said hurriedly. She snatched a crocheted swath of wool from a clothing pile near the door and turned to run.
"No lesson today, Christine?"
"Lesson?" she queried innocently, as if it hadn't been her intent to escape practice. "Oh, yes, well, I think we could skip one day, given that tomorrow is All Hallows' Eve and all—"
"Christine, you know that if you let yourself skip today, you'll skip tomorrow, and the day after that, and when the curtains open in December you'll be completely unprepared."
"But I have it all figured out: I don't have to perform Faust and learn Idomeneo on top of it like everyone else does, right?" She couldn't help but smile, mostly at her good fortune but also a little bit of vindictive amusement when she thought about all those rats working so hard while she was lounging.
"Yes, but—"
"I'm not refusing to do two on a permanent basis, just for a little while—this being my first real diva position, I think it's unfair to make me work on more than one opera at a time. So they'll just have to deal with inferior singers for a while longer."
"Just the same, you shouldn't have refused to finish an opera you agreed to start—it's deleterious to your career."
"So," she continued, ignoring him—she had no idea what he'd just said anyway—"if everybody else is worrying about two operas, and I'm not, it will take everyone a lot longer to learn Idomeneo than it will me. So I can just relax."
"How will you become a diva if you do not practice?"
"I have the Angel of Music to teach me," she said, smiling flirtatiously. It was hard, looking into that gruesome face. "I shouldn't have to memorize anything."
She had expected him to relent, to say, yes, certainly, you don't have to memorize anything, and then wave a sublime hand and fill her mind with the notes and lines of the opera. But instead, she found herself drawing back as his face darkened, and a frustrated, almost angered light sparked in his eyes. "You still believe that, Christine?" His voice was rigid, cold.
"But it makes perfect sense—" she began.
"It makes no sense at all. Why would I deny it if I were?"
"Because—because you're embarrassed that you're cursed with such a terrible face while you're here on earth, because you are truly so beautiful!"
"That's not true."
"Of course it is! Mamma Valerius was telling me about Sodom and whatever the other one is—"
"Can angels bleed?" he asked suddenly.
"Of course they can't," she snapped, folding her arms. What a stupid question.
"I can."
"Prove it!" Any moment now he would confess.
He walked towards a beaten-up desk she had rescued from being thrown out, on top of which she had piled the plates and silverware from her last few meals, intending to take them down to the kitchens later and save herself a few trips. The opera house food wasn't that bad, she supposed, but it was meant for chorus girls who couldn't afford to eat out, so it was bland and cheap. Nevertheless, it wasn't convenient to have to run home twice a day. She wondered if he was going to eat the overdone chicken she had left on one of the plates. She started to warn him, but he raised a hand for silence.
He picked up a knife and handed it to her, then offered his hand. "Cut my palm, then, if you think I'm so invulnerable." Confidently she stepped forward and drew the pewter blade across his palm, thinking that she had won.
An uneven line of scarlet appeared the instant the knife had passed. He held his hand up to the sunlight, which dispassionately illuminated the blood the small cut had summoned.
"But—but—angels can't bleed," she said dully, staring at his hand. That's what her father had said—and he couldn't be wrong.
"Correct," he said tersely, fishing a handkerchief from his coat pocket and dabbing away the blood before it could stain his sleeve. "Do you believe me now?"
"I—you—you lied to me!" she accused furiously. How could she be stupid enough to believe that the Angel had come, not once, but twice?
"I told you that already."
She screamed in rage and reached up to slap him, but he caught her wrist, holding it gently. Unable to handle her own gullibility, she burst into tears.
His features softened, and he released her arm. "I'm sorry, Christine—I know it doesn't mean much, but I never meant to hurt you. I just wanted to help you learn to sing, and I knew you wouldn't have anything to do with something like—" He stopped abruptly. "Nevermind. The point is that I never meant for it to go this far."
She continued to cry. Fortunately he did not touch her again. She wouldn't have been able to stand it if he had.
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"You're doing very well, Mademoiselle Daaé," said Monsieur Reyer wearily the following day, setting down his conductor's baton. "Once you stop daydreaming and missing your cues, you'll have the entire first paragraph down perfectly."
"Thank you, monsieur," said Christine, forcing a smile to show that she wasn't embarrassed by all her screw-ups. After all, they had only been rehearsing for two days, and it wasn't her fault she couldn't keep her mind on all this Italian gibberish or control the wandering of her thoughts, dwelling on Raoul's handsome visage, his golden hair, his mansion…. She imagined being introduced as Christine, Vicomtess de Chagny, and practically swooned over the beauty of the name. As a child, Raoul had been very proud of being one of the only noble families to still hold their ancestral lands, making his surname and title both "Chagny." And to think that she, born penniless and common, would be able to flaunt that name! It was almost too much to contemplate! She imagined fabulous dinners, clandestine rendezvous, even his proposal. Sometimes she made it past their wedding without being interrupted, and she never could restrain a small, giddy giggle as she pictured herself on a balcony in the Chagny mansion, clad in only the most expensive silks and laces, lounging atop a mountain of jewels and golden doubloons.
But, unlike her usual blissful daydreams, today's had been distant and half-hearted, overshadowed by all her terrible ordeals with Erik. The constant sick feeling in her stomach redoubled as she thought of his hideousness, and his cruel lies. But she couldn't figure out what to do—she had tried looking into other vocal instructors, but though several of Paris' finest had jumped at the chance to teach the new diva of the Garnier, she hadn't found one with even a fraction of Erik's talent. She hadn't been looking very long, but she was beginning to doubt that she would be able to find anybody as good.
Everything was made worse by her uncertainty about Raoul—what she would say to him when she saw him again. What could she say? She had run away from him the other night, just when he was declaring his love! But she was blameless—he had been moving a bit too fast, and she was wrung out from all the recent horrors.
"And you, Mademoiselle Giry," continued Reyer, "will start doing much better once you realize that you cannot dance and chat with that stagehand at the same time!"
"I'm sorry, monsieur," said Meg, hanging her head and moving away from the troll-like Tannenbaum.
Normally Christine would have defended her—especially now that her diva status gave her some clout—but Meg still wasn't speaking to her. So Christine just ignored her in return and flounced past her former friend and the hulking stagehand without even glancing at them to prove she didn't feel she had anything to be sorry about. She was so sick of the whole affair that she could just scream—everyone thought she was a stupid, flaky liar now, and it was all Meg's and Erik's fault. If Meg hadn't thrown such a fit and if Erik hadn't have sent her that note, she could have just sent Tannenbaum to prison and everyone would have been happy.
She glanced around backstage, hoping she wouldn't run into the vicomte; she was fairly certain he was in the opera house, and she didn't want to see him just yet. She was still so embarrassed about running away from his affections, and then lying on top of it….
She made it off the stage, and she was about to breathe a sigh of relief when a voice made her jump.
"Christine, where have you been all day?" asked Raoul cheerily, stepping into her path. "The only way I could find you was to attend the rehearsal. And I have a lot to do, as a gentleman of Paris and co-patron of the Opera Garnier—it was very difficult to find time to search for you."
She just stood there, unable to say anything. A faint blush had risen to her cheeks, and she suddenly found it impossible to look at anything other than the floor. Oh gods, she was a mess—her dress was old and worn and she was wearing very little jewelry. What a time for him to see her! "Um, Raoul," she stumbled, "I—"
"I understand perfectly," he interrupted, placing a finger to her lips. "No need to be embarrassed, my sumptuous songbird. You don't hate me for kissing you, surely?" His devilish grin was in complete contrast to his demure words, as if he had no doubts whatsoever that Christine had enjoyed herself.
"No, it's not that," she started, trying to figure out how to warn him about Erik. "It's just—"
"You're worried about your career," he concluded. "Yes, that must be it. Well, don't worry, you'll make an absolutely radiant star, despite the managers' reservations."
"But learning Italian is so hard."
"You just have to apply yourself. You wouldn't want to disappoint me, would you?" he asked, with a dashing grin.
"No!" she said, feeling a frantic need to study her lines.
He chuckled. He was so handsome that she couldn't look at him without feeling her legs melt out from underneath her. His hair, so beautiful, held the same newly-cut look that it always did, making him look very handsome and wealthy. He'd had blond hair as a child, Christine recalled—a shimmering, angelic blond. But time had transformed it into a deeper, caramel color. It suited his noble, stately air, and it seemed to Christine to reflect his transformation from the innocence of childhood to the commanding majesty of the French aristocracy. His black, immaculate tailcoat—the height of gentleman's formal attire—contrasted sharply with the pure white of his dress shirt and bow tie. His shoes were so polished that she could see her face in them. And in one gloved hand he held an ebony cane, capped in gold.
For a long moment she stared, drinking in all the splendor, but after a time, her wonderment began to melt into a sort of sad inferiority as she considered her own clothes. She was a pathetic Swedish peasant, and he was a vicomte of France. There was no way she could hope to marry anyone so far above her. But Raoul was so wonderful, so gallant, so caring—surely he wouldn't tell her he loved her unless he planned to marry her. Please, Frigg, Freya, goddesses of love, she prayed, please let us be married!
Christine looked up into Raoul's eyes, and the commotion of the stage crew faded into the background. His face, so flawless, looked as if it had been carved from marble. His eyes were glittering and pale, lighter than ice and just as clear. She found she was having a hard time keeping her thoughts straight, and she fought to regain her mind as it filled itself with thoughts of Raoul, everything else being forced into the darkness. She tried to speak, but her voice was a squeak. "Raoul—"
"What's the matter?" asked the vicomte, frowning. "Do you feel all right?"
"Um—yes—"
"Good—I'd hate for you to miss having dinner with me because of an inconvenient illness."
"Dinner…?" Had he mentioned taking her to dinner? It was so hard to think….
"But of course, my captivating chrysanthemum—I'm taking you to Les Ambassadeurs. I'm giving up quite a few Halloween parties, but you are worth it."
"Oh, I can't go," she said, without really listening, gazing into his perfect face. "I have ceremonies to perform and—"
Suddenly she was jarred out of her cloudy delirium. "Les—Ambassadeurs?" she managed, eyes widening in amazement. Only the wealthiest and most affluent of noblemen could afford to dine at Les Ambassadeurs! It was four blocks from the opera house, and Christine had walked past the elaborate facade many times, each time wishing that she could enter and knowing she never would.
"Don't look so shocked, my alluring ingénue," he chided her with a roguish wink. "Did you honestly think I would be so ungallant as to take you somewhere cheaper?"
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"Christine, are you sure you want to skip practice tonight?"
Christine froze, halfway out her dressing room door. She hadn't thought Erik knew she was there—she had been so quiet! All she'd wanted was a fashionable dress and a necklace for her dinner with Raoul tonight, but her clothes were all too plain for such an elegant occasion. Only moments before, as she was searching through her own measly assortment of garments, had it come to her that she could go down to the costumery and borrow a gown and some jewelry. There was nothing wrong with that—she'd have them back before anyone missed them. How embarrassing would it be to arrive at the Les Ambassadeurs in one of her worn muslin dresses?
But meeting Erik along the way had not been a part of the plan. She turned, seeing that he was standing in the empty frame of her mirror. She hurriedly closed the door, hoping no one walking by had seen Erik. In her haste she knocked over the foot-high pile of clothing draped over the back of a chair, which she set to picking up, glad that it gave her an excuse not to meet his eyes. It was easier to lie to someone that way. Besides, she didn't want to see that mask and think about his ugliness, or her own stupidity. She hated him for tricking her, but she knew it was partially her own fault—he had told her the truth, and she had refused to believe it. Her hate was further tapered by the knowledge that this man was necessary to her ascension to greatness—at least, until she could find an alternative. But tonight she had more important things to worry about than music. "Can we practice tomorrow night?" she asked sweetly. "I'm much too tired tonight, and I have a very important ritual to the gods to perform." Hopefully the gods wouldn't be too angry that she was putting off the ceremony until after she had returned home from the restaurant.
"As you wish," was his reply. "Should I accompany you? I know your flat is just two blocks away, but if any of those brazen aristocrats—"
"No, that's all right," she cut in, beads of sweat forming unbidden on her brow, fearing that he meant Raoul. "It's not even dark yet; plenty of people will be around. No one would dare try anything with so many onlookers."
"As you wish," he said again, though it seemed a trifle sadder this time.
"Yes, well, good night." Christine felt a twinge of regret at lying to him, but she brushed it away. He was a monster. She shouldn't have any compunction about lying to him. And it was none of his business anyway.
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Raoul beamed at Christine, who had just exited the Garnier. "My melodious marigold, you look simply ravishing!"
She smiled and thanked him demurely, trying very hard not to stare at how expensive his suit was. It consisted of a dark, glossy brown tailcoat and trousers with a matching waistcoat, the most formal and pricey gentlemen's attire in Europe. She had to refrain from touching the lapel of his jacket in awe, and could not tear her eyes away from his bow tie and the winged collar of his shirt, both so unbelievably white and immaculate that they seemed to give off a glow.
She couldn't believe that her perfect faerie tale was all coming true. A faerie tale in which she, a beautiful peasant, undeserving of all the hardships she had suffered, fell in love with a handsome prince, who would sweep her off her feet and carry her away to his castle. She felt so giddy (in part from how tightly she had laced her corset) that she feared she wouldn't be able to walk down the few steps to the sidewalk without fainting.
Raoul approached and kissed her gloved hand. "You have wonderful taste in clothing, my resplendent beauty."
She blushed; the gown she'd chosen was one from Cosí Fan Tutte. It was the color of bluebells, with crisp, white lace lining the sleeves and bodice. Vast sapphire bows lined the bodice as well, drawing attention to the low cut neckline. The fashions of mid-eighteenth century Italy, when the opera was placed, required her hair to be piled atop her head and secured with bows and flowers—but she hadn't had time, so instead it fell in free-flowing cascades. The gown wasn't as fancy as one of Carlotta's, but she wouldn't have fit into any of those.
As Raoul helped her into the carriage, she couldn't restrain an exclamation of surprise at the splendor of the carriage's interior. But as she was about to step into the magnificent coach, a gust of wind made her shiver, and she glanced over her shoulder. Erik wasn't there, of course, but she felt the same twinge of fear nevertheless.
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Christine gasped in awe as Raoul helped her out of the carriage, unable to take her eyes away from the towering marble pillars and magnificent façade of the building before her. Its white stone seemed to glow in the golden light of the setting sun. Fountains lined the cobblestoned walkway, shooting endless jets of sparkling water into the air. "It's beautiful," she breathed.
Raoul chuckled. "Yes, I suppose it is." He seemed unmoved by the grandeur of Les Ambassadeurs. But then, he probably dined here on a weekly basis.
Try as she might, Christine could not contain her awe as they walked through the behemoth double-doors into a lobby that put the opera house to shame. The floors were marble, perfect and lustrous and streaming with veins of white and silver. The candelabras on the walls shone beyond any silver Christine had ever seen. The waiters and clerks were all dressed in immaculate uniforms of costly black fabric. Oh, how wonderful it would be to be so wealthy! To live in a manor, to be able to wear a dress only once and then throw it away, to socialize with the nobility and celebrities and even royalty!
Raoul handed their reservations to the desk clerk, who glanced at Christine briefly before summoning a waiter for them. "Back so soon, Monsieur le Vicomte? But not with Mademoiselle Lafontaine tonight?" he inquired conversationally, filing away the reservation slip.
Raoul's face momentarily clouded with something akin to annoyance, and he said, his voice clipped and cold, "I don't know what you're talking about."
"As you wish, sir. Then who is your mademoiselle tonight?"
"Her name is none of your business." The coldness of Raoul's voice, its sharpness not unlike a shard of ice, sent a shiver down Christine's spine. "Just show us to the table," he ordered the waiter.
Christine pouted. "You should be shouting my name from the rooftops," she said, folding her arms.
Raoul smiled and patted her hand. "Of course, mon ange."
"Right this way, monsieur," their designated waiter instructed obediently. As he led them through a massive curtained archway, Christine wondered what the clerk had meant—he seemed to have implied that Raoul came here with other women. But that was absurd. He only had eyes for her.
She clung to his arm, unsure of what to think. "Who is Mademoiselle Lafontaine?" she asked, trying not to jump to any conclusions. It was only fair to let him explain why he had come here with some other woman.
"My…cousin. Jacqueline. I don't like her in the least, but family obligations necessitate it, you understand."
Christine nodded uncertainly, wishing that it hadn't taken him that suspicious extra second to answer. "Is she pretty?"
"No, not in the least," he answered quickly. "In fact, she's downright unsightly—turned up nose, pockmarked face, about thirty pounds overweight."
"Oh." That was good. There was no reason to doubt Raoul—he was too gentlemanly to lie. But just the same, she wasn't certain what to think.
As they entered the main dining room, her amazement swept away her thoughts of mistrust. Though the lobby had been impressive, it was absolutely nothing compared to the dining hall. The floors were marble laid in a checkerboard pattern than ran the length of the hall, but the walls were marble as well—not silver, like the lobby, but gold, glittering like an infinity of stars in the rich candlelight. The ceiling seemed no less than fifty feet high, from which hung numerous golden chandeliers; their halos of luminescence lit up the ceiling, which was painted in bright colors depicting cherubs and angels. It was more fabulous than dining in Valhalla, the Hall of the Slain, with its roof of golden shields. The waiter led them to a table by the far wall, in an alcove near a vast window that peaked gracefully near the distant ceiling. The curtains were amethystine, beyond which was a heavenly view of the Seine, sparkling like a million diamonds in the rays of the setting sun. It was all too much for Christine, who felt like crying and laughing at the same time. Everything was so beautiful!
"Oh, Raoul," she breathed, clinging to his arm, "it's like Breidablik itself! But no, not even Breidablik could be so beautiful!"
"Bray-da-what?" Raoul said, sounding slightly less than patient. But that must have been her imagination. He was a gentleman, and he was madly in love with her. He was undoubtedly hanging on her every word.
"Breidablik!" she said again. "Baldr's mansion in Asgard! The most beautiful place in all the Nine Worlds! I wonder if Breidablik has so many golden chandeliers—"
"There is no such thing," Raoul cut in, his voice tight and almost angry. "And please don't speak so loudly, my precious; you're making a spectacle of us."
Her brow creased in bewilderment. "No such thing? But I can see them hanging from the ceiling."
"No—Breidablik! There is no such thing as Breidablik, or Baldr, or Asgard, or the nine worlds, or your ridiculous Angel of Music!"
She ripped her hand away from his arm. "How dare you say something like that!" People turned to stare at them, but she didn't care. It served Raoul right if people were staring. "Of course there are!"
He stepped forward and grasped her shoulders, forcing her towards their table. "This is not the place to discuss it," he muttered between clenched teeth.
As they sat down, the waiter handed them their menus and informed them that he would return when they were ready to order. Christine's fury dissipated immediately as she saw the menu (after all, she couldn't blame Raoul for having been brought up without knowledge of the gods. And the menu was so exquisite!). Though she was wearing gloves, she still hesitated before touching it. It was made of delicate ivory-colored paper and gilded with gold leaf and borders of filigree. She gaped as she saw the list of entrées, each one sounding more delicious and expensive than the last. But there were no prices next to the meals, so she could only guess at how terribly costly they must be.
After a few moments had passed, Raoul summoned the waiter. "I would like the nage corsée langoustines for the first course," he said cordially, "the casse croute de noix for the second, and the pigeonneau désossé for the third, all with the wines suggested in the menu, except for the third course, for which I would like the Dom Hauvette."
"Very good, Monsieur le Vicomte. And for dessert?"
"Fraises des bois con glase, with the Charbot sauce." Raoul turned to Christine. "What would you like, my pearl?"
Christine, who had not yet decided on anything she wanted, stammered, "I—I hadn't really decided—it all sounds so good—"
"Does mademoiselle need a few more minutes?" inquired the waiter.
Raoul shook his head. "No, that's not necessary. She shall have all the same as I ordered."
"Oh, yes," she said to the waiter, happy that she hadn't been forced to choose.
The waiter bowed. "Very good, monsieur, mademoiselle. The first course will arrive shortly."
Christine amused herself during the wait by studying the elegance around her. The dark, genteel suits and sumptuous, flowing gowns….
It took her a few minutes to realize that the glances she was receiving were not kind or admiring—rather, they raked over her centuries-outdated dress, laughed at her stage makeup, and smiled knowingly, having pegged her occupation as a foreign ballet rat. She flushed and shifted her weight on the chair, noting with embarrassment that every woman in the room save herself was wearing the very latest of Parisian fashion, light-colored gowns without sleeves, and hair pulled back at the sides and worn in a elegant knot or cluster of ringlets. She glanced down at her own dress, with its full-length sleeves graced with large blue bows and her loose, unadorned hair, and she hung her head miserably. The worst realization was that her ridiculously-outdated Spanish farthingale that gave her skirts a full bell shape couldn't be farther from the slim silhouettes of the women around her. She didn't need this cruel reminder of her own inferiority.
Christine stared down at the table, wringing her hands, and tried to listen to Raoul's polite conversation, until the first course arrived. It distracted her from her misery, and before long, she was chattering again, though not quite as happily.
The first course was so wonderful that she wolfed down every last morsel and drank a great deal of wine, and she was quite full by the arrival of the second course despite how tiny the portions of each delicacy were. She hadn't taken notice that Raoul was eating rather little, no doubt saving his appetite for later courses. If only she'd noticed before she'd started eating she wouldn't have made such a mistake.
At one point she brought up Mamma's occupation as a seamstress, hoping that Raoul could pull a few strings and have her hired at the Garnier; she didn't expect to be poor for very much longer (not with a vicomte so obviously interested), but the extra money right now would certainly help, and it would be nice to secure Mamma a better position for when Christine was married.
"She's simply marvelous," she told him, taking a sip of the fabulous wine the waiter had just set down for the second course. "She's much more talented than any of the Garnier's costume staff."
Raoul took a sip of wine. "How interesting," he offered.
"It would be very wonderful of you if you could get her hired there; her skills would benefit the operas a lot."
"Of course, my exquisite éclair," he said, sampling the scallops. "I'll speak to the managers first thing tomorrow."
After that, their talk was of little things, such as the opera house or how beautiful the dining hall was. Christine did most of the talking on the latter subject, unable to contain her awe of the grandiose building. After each burst of amazement from the girl, Raoul would nod politely and remark that it could not possibly surpass her beauty, never failing to make her blush.
By this time, Christine had completely forgotten about the problems hanging over her. Everything was so dazzling that there was no room in her head for anything else. But between the first and second courses, Raoul said, "I don't know why you're so amazed, my shapely sylph—I dine like this every night. And so shall you, when you come live in my mansion. My family's head-chef may not be quite as good as the one here—believe me, I've tried on numerous occasions to get him to join my staff, with very generous pay—but I suppose you'll have to settle for the second-best chef in France."
Christine halted in the middle of a bite of black Italian truffles. She wasn't really surprised, of course, that Raoul would extend such an invitation, but it was still so wonderful to hear. Marriage to a vicomte—how marvelous! How perfect, how wonderful, like a faerie tale! She would escape wretched poverty and spend the rest of her life in the most opulent mansion in Paris!
Raoul was still talking, and she tried to subdue her excitement and concentrate on him. "…my mansion overlooks the Seine, Christine—it's the most envied piece of property in Paris. That's why my great-great-grandfather built it there, you know. And even back then it was terribly costly, but he had to have the best…."
Try as she might, Christine couldn't focus on him; Erik kept creeping back into her mind. She wouldn't be able to hide the fact that she was a vicomtess from him. A sick feeling wormed its way into her stomach, making her set down her fork. What would she do without his guidance?
"Christine, my darling little rose?" queried Raoul, breaking off his speech. "You look ill."
"I'm fine," she said quickly. Erik was ruining her evening, and he wasn't even here!
There isn't any reason not to enjoy myself! she declared inwardly. I'll marry and escape his clutches soon enough, and there is nothing this monster or any other can do about it.
And with that, she pushed all thought of Erik from her mind and renewed her concentration on her scallops and truffles. Though at first she had some difficulty, she managed to sink back into the state of awe and almost religious reverence of the splendor around her.
The wine was excellent and Christine was delighted that every course was served with a different vintage. Christine was amazed by this extravagance, even after Raoul explained that each wine complemented the individual courses. Even though her appetite had long since vanished, she couldn't keep herself from eating every bit of food on her plate, as well as finishing off many of the various bottles of wine. By the time they reached dessert, the room was spinning and Raoul had been reduced to a mere blur. The lights were so bright, and everything seemed to sway and dance before her eyes. She had to squint to see the strawberries mixed into her rose ice cream, but she made sure to eat every last one of the beautiful scarlet blurs.
She couldn't remember much after that. Brief flashes of the carriage crossed her vision, but she knew nothing more until she found herself in bed the next morning.