Chapitre Dix-Huit: La Attaque de Buquet
Seven days after Christine's return to the Garnier found her skipping down a hallway towards the opera's tiny chapel in the best of moods. Nothing could ruin her day. She had just passed La Carlotta in a side foyer, and the ex-diva, snarling in jealousy, had screeched something foul in Spanish at her. Christine, having no idea what any of it meant, just smiled her best saccharine smile and flounced past. The role reversal gave her a giddy feeling of absolute power. Being able to play the haughty, unimpressed diva, ignoring the insignificant screaming ballet rat—she felt like a god. Ah, Hel, she sighed, is this what it felt like to listen to the almighty Aesirs' cries, pleading with you to release their beloved Baldr—to listen to those who cast you down to the Underworld beg for mercy—and laugh in their faces?
Once inside the chapel, she pirouetted across the small room towards the altar she had constructed out of loose stones. "Oh, Father," she cried, addressing the photograph upon the stone surface, "it is a magnificent day! Everything is absolutely wonderful! I couldn't be happier if I were a guest in Asgard itself!" She struck a match and lit the wax stump atop the stone slab, then began to kneel in front of the altar, but she was so excited thinking of her success that she had to stand. "I'm a diva and now even the great Carlotta Torres has to bow down to me! The managers let me do whatever I want—well, not as much as Carlotta could get away with, but still, chocolates and dresses and pearls and everything else I want! Except rehearsal postponements. I somehow can't convince them to let me push the show back a few months. It would give me time to relax and appreciate my finery, you know, instead of just practicing all the time. And they won't let me give Meg the part of Elettra; I know the cast has already been set, and that Elettra is the evil lady and sweet little Meg doesn't fit the part, but I really wanted to make up for the mean things I've done and I figure since I've become such a huge success that it was the least I could do to help her a little, you know? But the managers wouldn't go along with it. I finally convinced them—with Erik's help—to let her have this one small part, so at least she's more elevated than a pathetic, line-less member of the chorus."
She twirled over to the tiny window and pulled back the dingy curtain to let in some light. But it was already quite dark outside. Where had the day gone? It was mid-November, yes, but it shouldn't have been dark so soon! "Erik may be frightening to look at," she continued, "but I'm fairly used to it by now and he's a marvelous instructor—better than any I can find, actually—and everyone is absolutely breath-taken with the progress I've made as a singer!"
Actually, now that she thought about it, the Norse translation her father had used when speaking of the Angel was Skrípi av Songr—which, as closely as it could be translated, meant "Phantom of Song." She smiled at the irony. Then she remembered what she had been about to say and continued, "And don't worry, Father—with all the money I'm going to be receiving I'll build you a proper altar, right in the middle of the main lobby, with a statue of you playing your violin and a gold plaque that says, 'Gustave Daaé, Master Violinist and Father of Christine Daaé, Diva Extraordinaire'! And then everyone that comes to the opera will see it and think, 'Goodness, this Monsieur Daaé must have been a great man to be the father of the marvelous diva, Mademoiselle Daaé!
"Oh!" she exclaimed. "I forgot to tell you! It's not going to be 'Mademoiselle Daaé' for much longer, Father—I'm going to be Madame le Vicomtess de Chagny! Can you believe it? I mean, I always knew he loved me—who wouldn't—but just think, me, a vicomtess! Of course, he hasn't exactly proposed yet, but he's showered me with all kinds of expensive gifts and taken me out to dinner three times, and he constantly teases me with talk of 'when I live in his mansion.' Look!" She offered her hand for her father to see. "Just look at this ring! It's a half-carat diamond! I'm not sure what a carat is, but Raoul said a half-carat is worth lots of money. And that's what counts! He didn't say it was an engagement ring, but what else could it possibly be? And when Raoul's brother—goodness, I can't even remember his name—when Raoul's brother dies, I'll be a comtess! You never imagined that your poor peasant daughter would become a French comtess, did you!
"But don't worry, I'll still become a world-famous diva before I marry. Raoul says it wouldn't be proper for a comtess—I mean, a vicomtess—to be a singer, you know? I'll still sing at parties, certainly, but the world will just have to learn to live without its Diva Extraordinaire."
She had been chattering on without really listening to herself, but suddenly she realized what she was saying. "I'm not giving up your dream, Father," she told the photograph hastily. "I'm going to see it through. But after a few months, I'm going to retire to my mansion by the Seine." His eyes stared up at her, looking disappointed and accusing. Suddenly the giddiness of her wonderful day—like sparkling, ephemeral bubbles floating inside her chest—froze and crashed at the bottom of her stomach.
"It's not as if I'm failing you," she protested. "I'll make our name famous. But after that, I'm going to fulfill my own dreams. That's all right, isn't it, Father?" It wasn't as if she didn't want to be a diva—she had wanted it so badly since she was hired at the Garnier that it had dominated her thoughts during every practice, every performance, like a burning ache in her stomach that attacked with pangs of shame and desperation whenever she dwelled upon her own wretched poverty and sub-standard talent. And even now, so close to fame and divahood, she felt as if she were being suffocated under the weight of her father's expectations.
She looked away, unable to bear his gaze any longer. "It's not as if I'm marrying some penniless oaf—he's a vicomte! He lives in the Champs Élysées, for Odin's sake! His family name goes back to the time of Charlemagne! Don't you want your daughter to live in comfort?"
Her father didn't reply. Strangely, even after all these years, she still half-expected to hear his voice. When she was a child, she would have given anything to hear it again—but now…
She sat for a while, thinking about her life and how many years she had wasted concentrating on music—her father's love more than hers—when she could have been married, wearing fancy dresses, attending balls….
Finally she realized that, for the first time in her life, she was facing the truth about her father's dream—and the dark, tiny chapel, which had seemed like a safe haven for so many years, suddenly felt like a prison to her. Sitting there, trying to explain to her father that she didn't want to follow his dream anymore, made her feel like Loki, chained under Jörmungand, the world snake—a member of his own family—who would steadily drip poison on his face until the end of time.
The religious reference brought forth another problem to mind, one that she was unwilling to face. "They can't both be true," she murmured, more to herself than to her father. Meeting the Angel, listening to his purely Christian descriptions of Heaven, had shaken her religious convictions more than she had originally realized. Even though he wasn't really the Angel, she couldn't smooth over the chasm that had so irreconcilably divided the two religions: the pantheon or monotheism; eternal darkness or Heavenly bliss; daughterly loyalty or treachery.
The picture stared blankly, and suddenly she couldn't take any more of the prison or religious thought. She stood abruptly, and blew out the candle.
Christine tried to speak, but couldn't form the words, and turned and ran out of the chapel.
She walked through the hall in a much more somber mood than when she had entered. She hadn't felt any anger from her father, but she also hadn't felt any forgiveness. She couldn't feel anything.
She headed out to the back alley. She didn't want to see anyone on her way back to her dressing room. She needed to think.
Now that she had Raoul, and Erik, and her position as a diva of the largest opera house in the world, she had been thinking about her father less and less. He had been the center of her life for so many years, around which her every thought, every action revolved, but now—she found that, for better or for worse, she couldn't bring herself to cling to the past anymore. But she couldn't bring herself to feel either joy or sorrow from her liberation. She wasn't sure what to think.
She was so engrossed in her thoughts that she didn't notice the man approaching from the other end of the deserted alleyway. It wasn't until she was less than five feet away from him that she finally looked up.
Joseph Buquet grinned at her. "Top a' th' evenin' t' yeh, missie diva ex'trordinaire." He took a swig from the foul-smelling bottle he was holding, uncaring of the beer dripping down his chin. His words were slow and slurred, indicating the extent of his inebriation.
"Hello," she said shortly. She didn't like Buquet. Not that she knew him well—she didn't know any of the stagehands—but he seemed like a very offending, uncouth sort of man, and he was always drunk. One of the teachings handed down by Odin, chief of the gods, was that intoxication was among the greatest humiliations a man could bring upon himself.
"Hear yer gettin' awful chummy wi' tha' vicomte fella."
"Yes—we're going to be married," said Christine, rather annoyed. "Not that it's any of your business."
Buquet's laugh was cut off by a loud belch. "It mos' certunly is, girlie." His S's dragged until they became almost snakelike, and he kept pausing between words to allow his affected thoughts to catch up with his mouth. "I s'pose you won' want nothin' t' do with yer fellow…employees…when y' got someone like th' famous Vicomte de Ssssh-agny."
"That's absolutely right." Christine stuck her nose in the air and started to stride past him.
Suddenly he leapt forward and pinned Christine to the grimy wall with strength that defied his drunken state. His voice became vicious and loud. "See, when little rats like you gets too big for their skirts," he said, his foul breath making Christine choke, "an' start thinkin' they're too good for us poor stagehands, tha's when we gotta step in an' set 'em straight."
"What are you going to do?" Christine gasped, realizing that her fingernails would do no good against Buquet's thick jacket. She tried to wrench his arm away, but she couldn't even budge it.
He laughed at her pathetic attempts to free herself and downed the rest of the bottle.
Suddenly he smashed it against the brick wall, sending shards of glass flying like shrapnel. He held the bottle's neck up to her face, letting the jagged edges rest against her trembling skin. "I'm goin' t' carve a few lines in t' that pretty little face a' yers, missie diva ex'trordinaire…. Tha' vicomte sure's Hell won' be int'rested in yeh then."
"No, no, you wouldn't! You couldn't! Help! Help! Somebody!" Christine screamed, trying to kick Buquet in the shins.
"Tha' won' work, girlie. Th' kinds a' people that're roamin' th' streets a' this time a' night"—his laugh sprayed beer and spittle all over Christine's face—"ain't likely t' be helping yeh. An' if'n anyone is, they'll be too late."
"Odin! Thor! Forseti!" she whimpered, whipping through the names of all the gods, praying for a miracle. Surely the Aesir would not refuse to aid one of the few loyal followers left in the world! But despite her desperate faith, no mounted valkyrie flew down from the clouds to save her; no dwarven forged hammer swung down at Thor's command to her rescue. Raoul, she cried silently, where are you?
She screamed with all her might as she felt the glass start to press into her skin.
Suddenly a rope materialized around Buquet's neck, violently jerking the man backwards. In the dim light, she could see a black-shrouded figure tightening the rope, and Buquet's disgusting, pockmarked face turn a dead white as he gasped for air. She could feel rage emanating from the mysterious figure, and she saw his eyes blaze in the light of a distant streetlamp. She recognized those emerald eyes with a shout of joy.
Suddenly, just as she was certain Buquet's neck would snap, the man released his grip, and the stagehand fell unconscious to the muddy ground with a thump.
"Why didn't you kill him?" she demanded as Erik unwound the lasso from around Buquet's neck.
Erik straightened up. "Why on earth would I do that?" he asked, obviously surprised.
"He was going to disfigure me! Cut up my beautiful face! He deserves to die!"
"Believe me, Christine," he said seriously, a pained expression reinforcing his words, "I wanted nothing more than to kill him just now. But what would that lead to? He didn't cut you, did he?"
Christine felt her cheek with a shaking hand. Strangely, she felt nothing but sweaty, unbroken skin. "N-no. But he was going to!"
He was silent for a moment, apparently searching for a reason that she would accept. "If I kill him, he will be immortalized in the Parisian newspapers as a martyr, a victim of the Opera Ghost. If he stands trial for attempted assault, it is he whom the world will despise for his crimes."
"Who cares what the world thinks?" she snapped. "You're letting him get away with a crime worse than murder!"
"I'm not letting him get away with anything, Christine—he'll go to prison for this."
"That isn't good enough!"
"Then I'll invent a few crimes to add to the severity of his sentence."
"That's still not good enough!"
"Do you really want to soil the pure white of your hands with his blood?" Erik asked. His disappointment pierced Christine like an icy dagger.
"Well…" She rubbed her arms. "No," she said finally.
"Good. Then I will inform the police of the incident and have them send someone to arrest Buquet, and let Herr Blaise know this case holds my particular attention."
"You know the Prevote de Police?"
"He is an acquaintance."
She thought about it for a moment and recalled that it had been the Prevote who had handed her Erik's note concerning Tannenbaum. She blushed as she remembered the incident and brushed it aside, returning her attention to Erik's proposition. "Oh…well…okay," she conceded at last, somewhat begrudgingly.
As Christine watched her masked rescuer secure Buquet's hands and feet with the lasso and roll him into the obscurity of the shadows, she thoughtfully chafed her hands in an effort to warm them. She couldn't be surprised that the gods had not saved her—they had foreseen that their intervention would be unnecessary, of course. What bothered her was that Raoul had not been her savior—a handsome knight who would prove his love in a show of valiant courage against a wicked foe, as she had heard in Mamma's bedtime tales. What was worse was that she couldn't tell herself that Raoul had been blocks away at his mansion, completely unable to rescue her, because she knew for a fact that he was here at this very moment: yesterday he had announced his intention to inspect the entire building from the lowest cellar floor to the statues gracing the roof terraces. He should have rescued her. And anyway, he told her he'd requested a list of all employees for inspection last week; why hadn't he fired a man as worthless, drunken, and evil as Buquet?
Erik stepped closer. "Will you be all right now?"
Her breathing was still faster and shallower than usual, but she could feel the adrenaline starting to fade. "Yes."
"Good. I'll see you safely home before going to the station."
"What if Buquet escapes?"
Erik glanced at the bound lump in the shadows. If the seriousness of his expression didn't countermand it, she could have sworn she saw something akin to faint amusement glint in his eyes. "Even if he regains consciousness before the police arrive, I doubt very much that he'll be able to free himself."
"Oh—alright."
The roaring fire of strength and fury in Erik's eyes ebbed to a soft, almost wistful candlelight as he looked at her. Christine was surprised as the icy fear she associated with Erik's hideousness could only offer a lukewarm revulsion, warmed by the light in his beautiful eyes. Slowly he reached up with one black gloved hand to touch her cheek; at the last moment he hesitated and withdrew it.
For a long moment she just stared up into those eyes, wondering what she thought of him. As she basked in the obvious love and concern he held for her, she decided that he wasn't a troll or a goblin—he was a fellow human being. A gruesome, hideous one, certainly, but a human being nonetheless. She realized, with a mixture of emotions, that she didn't fear him anymore—she could depend upon him to come to her aid no matter what.
Of course, that didn't make him a match for Raoul by any means. And thinking about the face under that white mask still made her feel ill. But she felt that they could be friends for a while—she was a big enough person to put aside her disgust and be kind to him. Yes, they could be friends. Until she married Raoul.
# # # # # # # # # # # # # # #
"Bon jour, Monsieur le Vicomte!" greeted Firmin the following day, shaking Raoul's hand amiably. "Absolutely wonderful timing—André and I were just engaged in a debate over box seating prices."
"I'm afraid I know very little about economics, gentlemen," replied the vicomte, with a genteel smile. "That would be one of my brother's many fields of expertise."
"Well then, we'll simply have to call upon the comte."
"Won't you sit down, monsieur?" interposed André, looking up from a mountain of interspersed letters and bills.
"I don't believe I've met him but once," Firmin continued.
"He's a bit of a recluse," said Raoul apologetically, seating himself in the expensive rosewood chair in the forefront of the managers' office. The whole office smelled of paper and ink, and piles of bills and letters towered precariously atop every piece of furniture and even the floor. In a quick glance he saw several complaint letters, one piece of paper with the letterhead of the Préfecture de Police (probably an excuse as to why they had not discovered the identity of the Phantom), an itemized list of the Garnier's inventory, and numerous bills for cloth, lumber, furniture, arrangements of flowers, ballet shoes, and everything else imaginable.
"Is he still interested in patronage of the Garnier?"
"If you seem to recall, gentlemen, it is much more his patronage than mine."
The two managers exchanged a rather surprised glance. It was André who spoke first: "He seemed quite enthused about it when we met with him in September, but he has only attended one performance—just once during Faust, isn't that right, Firmin?—"
"I believe so."
"—since our acquisition of the opera house."
Raoul tapped the gold cap on the bottom of his cane against the floor, somewhat agitated, as always when making excuses for his misanthropic brother. He liked his brother well enough, certainly, but it was positively humiliating to have such a hermit in the family. Philippe was a fount of knowledge concerning mathematics, philosophy, science, finances, history, and even societal conventions, but everything he knew was purely theoretical—he never got a chance to practice even his strict adherence to traditional etiquette except with the servants, because he rarely suffered to go out. The man was so afraid of women that he could never marry, but he would never be able to enjoy the freedom and pleasures of bachelor status, either. It was pitiful.
"That is correct," he said, placing a sharp, almost angry accent on the last T that conveyed much more of his impatience than he had intended.
Apparently André thought a change in subject was in order, for he said, "You rushed out in quite a hurry yesterday during the inspection of the costumery."
"I apologize heartily, messieurs—I suddenly remembered a pressing appointment." An appointment named Margot, he thought with a small, satisfied smile. So beautiful, so brainless, so absolutely—
"You wired three days ago to tell us you had finished reviewing the list of employees, Monsieur le Vicomte."
"Yes—I'm sorry I didn't keep my appointment on Tuesday to discuss the list, but I had important matters to attend to."
"You have no need to apologize to us," Firmin assured him. "There would be no Opera Garnier without your family's generous support."
"Yes. What was I saying?" Thought of the sumptuous Margot had erased all thought of business matters from his mind.
"You had reviewed the employee list."
"Ah yes—or, rather, my brother has. He finds immense dissatisfaction with the stagehands, and frankly, so do I. I've talked to a few of the chorus girls, and they assert that the hands are, for the most part, sloven drunkards."
"Yes, we've heard," André said, pressing his lips together unhappily. "But we looked into hiring more able men—"
"And found," Firmin finished, "that we can't hire anyone more respectable without increasing their weekly wage by at least one-third again as many francs."
"The ballet girls complain these men pursue them with objectionable vulgarity, especially that Buquet fellow," Raoul objected, feeling that his Chagny heritage required him to bring up this point.
"And the girls pursue the men with equal vigor," said Firmin dryly.
"You can at least dismiss Buquet."
"No, monsieur, we really can't—Buquet might be a heavy drinker, as we've heard, but he knows the sets and rigging better than any man living."
Raoul shrugged. "Very well then, gentlemen—it doesn't matter to me." He stood and shook hands with both men. "Good day, messieurs."
# # # # # # # # # # # # # # #
Christine was walking to practice when she ran into Raoul coming out of the managers' office. "Bon jour, Christine!" He kissed her hand. "How is my ravishing rose today?"
"Terrible," she snapped, removing her fingers from his grasp. "Where were you yesterday while I was being attacked?"
He gripped her shoulders, perfect azure eyes suddenly wide and frantic. "You were attacked? Mon Dieu, my darling, my precious, what happened? Are you all right?"
"No! Look at me!" She pointed at her face angrily. "I was so terrified that I've broken out! Look at these horrid pimples! How could you do this to me?!" Suddenly her eyes widened and she clapped her hands over her face to hide the disfiguring blemishes, as if they were visible through the vast amount of makeup she was wearing. "No wait, don't look at me! Don't look!"
"Who was it?!" Raoul demanded, not seeming to have heard her. "I'll kill him, Christine, I swear I will!" He clapped a hand to his belt, grasping for a weapon that wasn't there. "Damnation!—oh, sorry, my love, I didn't mean to curse in your presence!—I'll just have to fight him without my rapier!"
Without waiting for her to reply, he threw open the office door and shouted to the managers, "A scoundrel has attempted to attack Christine Daaé! Inform the police! Summon the army! I'm going on ahead to challenge him!" He turned back to Christine. "Where is he, mon precieuse? I'll slaughter him for what he's done to you!"
"No!" Christine wailed, tears of frustration coming to her eyes. "Why can't you just listen to me?! It's already been dealt with! While you were sitting in that office"—she jabbed an accusing finger towards the managers, who were staring at the scene from the other side of the doorway—"doing absolutely nothing!"
"I'm sorry, Christine, I didn't know you were in danger, how could I?"
"Why didn't you fire Buquet?" she whined, feeling the terror as Buquet held the broken bottle up to her face, the frustration as she realized that no one was coming to save her, the disappointment that Raoul had not been the one to rescue her—the emotions raged in her chest, mixing and fighting and augmenting into a rage so large that she felt her stomach threaten to revolt. "You knew that this would happen!"
"How the devil should I have known?" Raoul demanded, starting to get angry.
"Why didn't you fire him like we asked you to?!"
"You didn't say a word to me!"
"But the chorus girls did! I didn't think you needed me to spell it out too!"
"I told the managers to fire him!"
"Now wait just a minute," Firmin interjected hotly. "You said—"
"Shut up!" roared Raoul.
"If you fired him, then why did he attack me yesterday?!" demanded Christine.
"Buquet attacked you?" the managers exclaimed in unison.
"Yes! And he would have cut up my face if Erik hadn't saved me!"
"Erik?" said André.
"Yes, Erik—" She cut off as she realized her mistake. She couldn't admit that she was on first-name terms with the Phantom, bane of the managers' existence. And what would Raoul do if he found out how much time she was spending with another man, even if it was just business? "Just one of the stagehands, messieurs, that's all," she said quickly.
"Where is Buquet now?" Raoul slammed his gold cane into the floor. "I'll see that he is executed for this outrage!"
"He's already been taken to the police," she snapped.
"Oh." Raoul was silent for a long moment, his anger draining. When he spoke again, he had regained his composure. "Thank God you're all right, my darling. I'll have to thank this—what was it? Erik—personally." He turned to the managers. "Good day, messieurs."
He closed the door and escorted Christine down the hall, holding her close, and murmured in her ear, "I'll have this man Buquet's head on a platter for you, if that is your desire."
"Oh, yes, Raoul, that would be—" Suddenly her mind recalled Erik's words: "Do you really want to soil the pure white of your hands?"
"Yes, my enticing enchantress?"
"That is—I did want—I don't know," she moaned, confused and uncertain of what she wanted. "He doesn't deserve to live, not after what he tried to do, but…"
"But what, my blossom?"
"I—I don't want to have his blood…on my hands." The words sounded foreign to her, as if they had been spoken by someone else. "I don't know what I want."
"You won't have any blood on your hands, my precious one—he deserves to die. You said it yourself. You would be in the right to demand his death."
"But, after all, he didn't even cut me—"
Raoul grabbed her shoulders, shaking his head emphatically. "It doesn't matter! He fully intended to destroy your ethereal beauty, the most precious thing you or anyone can ever possess."
"Yes, but—"
"Don't worry, I'll arrange everything. He'll never bother you again!"
In a daze, Christine walked with Raoul to the west doors where his cabriolet was waiting, unsure of what she wanted. She felt giddy from the power Raoul offered her—she held a human life in her hands, and only she could decide if he lived or died…. She wanted to lash out in revenge against Buquet, a feeling heightened by Raoul's insistence on the matter, but she could still feel Erik's steadfast presence, calming the vengeful fire pounding in her chest.
"No," she said finally. "It's fine."
He shrugged. "Well, if you're certain." He climbed into the coach.
"Can we go to dinner tonight?"
"No, my luminous lily, I have a prior engagement. But I am free tomorrow, and I shall pick you up here for lunch."
He kissed her hand and rode off before she could ask him what exact time he had meant. "Yes, Raoul," she called after him, but he was too far away to hear.