Chapitre Dix-Neuf: La Infidélité du Vicomte
Christine tapped the golden knocker against one of the enormous double doors. They're large enough to be doors of Valhalla, she thought, admiring the intricate patterns carved into the wood. The gods must be very jealous of this mansion!
One of the doors opened to reveal an affluently dressed doorman, who bowed to Christine most gravely. "Good day, mademoiselle."
"I'm here to see Raoul," she said, striving to effect the powerful, condescending tone of a noblewoman.
The doorman blinked slowly, and Christine squirmed uncomfortably, self-conscious of her stage makeup, which she had palpably overdone in an effort to please her future husband. She could tell what he was thinking: Should I let this poorly-dressed girl who asks for my master—and so informally!—into his house?
"I mean, I wish to speak to Monsieur le Vicomte de Chagny," she corrected, biting her lip. She shouldn't have come. Raoul had told her to wait at the opera house. But she'd grown so tired of waiting, and it was only a short drive from the opera…. Oh dear, she should have been more patient; Raoul would have come! How would she explain to Mamma that she had spend the grocery money she had been entrusted with to get here?
The man continued to deliberate, and she considered leaving before Raoul found out that she hadn't been patient enough to wait for him. But she had no money for a coach home, so now that she was here, she would have to stay. "I am Christine Daaé," she added tentatively. "Diva of the Opera Garnier."
After a moment more of intense scrutiny, the man stood aside to allow her ingress. "Very good, mademoiselle," in a voice that said just the opposite.
He led her into a heavily furnished sitting room, bedecked with ancient tapestries depicting the various conquests of the ancestors of the Chagny line. He motioned for her to sit. "If you will give me your card and kindly wait here a moment, I will see if the vicomte is at home."
"My…card?" she repeated stupidly.
"Yes, mademoiselle."
She blushed, unwilling to admit to this judgmental man that she was just a poor peasant girl who didn't have use for expensive calling cards. Now that she was a diva, she would have to have some made. "He doesn't need my card; he knows me quite well. And shouldn't a servant know if his master is at home or not?" she added, a bit condescendingly.
The man bristled at her comment. "I am not just a servant, mademoiselle, I am the butler of the Chagny house. And when I say 'if the vicomte is at home,' I mean that I will see if he is receiving visitors at the present time."
"Oh." Christine looked away, trying to appear haughty and uncaring of her blunder; in truth, it hurt her to realize just how far behind Raoul's social status she was, and not just in terms of money.
With a clap of his gloved hands, the butler summoned another flawlessly-dressed servant and whispered something in the his ear. Both pairs of eyes flickered towards Christine, with an insulting mixture of distrust and disdain. Then the butler departed, his uniform and formal stride reminding Christine of a toy soldier. She walked closer to the doorway to see him ascend the grand staircase and disappear through a doorway on the left. Slowly, she sat down again.
The other man had stayed, hands clasped stiffly in front of him. Christine leaned back into the couch, pondering as to the man's intent. Suddenly it hit her, and she gasped in anger: this man was making sure she didn't steal anything!
"Who do you think I am?" she demanded, standing abruptly, hands clenched and shaking.
"I'm sure I don't know, mademoiselle," the servant replied, in such a formal, mechanical way that he seemed almost an automaton.
"I am Christine Daaé, Diva Extraordinaire of the Opera Garnier!"
"Of course, mademoiselle."
"I am! Raoul even had it inscribed on a gold nameplate for my dressing room door!"
"Yes, mademoiselle." The man was visibly uncomfortable. She couldn't tell if he believed her or not—but she decided to give him the benefit of the doubt; he was only following orders, after all. It was that butler who had insulted her. She would have Raoul fire him.
At that moment, the butler in question returned. "Monsieur le Vicomte sends his apologies, but he cannot be disturbed."
"Can't be disturbed for his own fiancée?" Christine exclaimed, momentarily forgetting that Raoul hadn't actually proposed yet.
The butler's eyes widened considerably. He coughed, seeming quite distressed. But his answer did not change—"I'm sorry, mademoiselle. Perhaps you could leave the vicomte a note?"
Christine fought to control her anger. It would not do for Raoul to hear of her acting in such an unladylike rage. "Y-yes." She followed him out into the main foyer to an ornate table.
"You may write a message on the back of your card and leave it here," he instructed, gesturing to the silver tray resting on the oak surface.
"I—I forgot to bring them," she lied.
Disgust made itself even more evident through the butler's polite mask. "Very well, then. Sébastien, please fetch Mademoiselle Daaé a sheet of paper." The servant bowed and retreated through a doorway.
The longer Christine waited, the more her fury mounted. It was absolutely ridiculous that she was being turned away. She doubted that the man had even bothered to speak to Raoul—there was no way that Raoul de Chagny could have anything more important to do than to attend to her needs. Of course—it made perfect sense! Raoul didn't even know that she was in the house! That butler was trying to ruin her marriage!
She glanced toward the butler, who was partially turned away from her, staring, soldier-like, into the air. Now was her chance.
Without any advance warning, she suddenly turned and bolted up the grand staircase. She heard the man shout angrily for her to desist this moment, but she only ran faster. With a jerk she threw open the door she had seen the man go through earlier.
When she saw Raoul, she felt her heart stop.
There was her fiancé, seated on a velvet loveseat, laughing merrily and kissing the giggling nymph in his arms, the buttons of whose dress were opened all the way down to her chest, giving the vicomte a teasing glimpse of her charms.
"Raoul!" she cried, unable to believe the horror before her eyes.
The vicomte jumped as though she had struck him with lightning. He shoved the protesting girl aside. "Christine!" he exclaimed.
"Master!" The butler grabbed Christine's arm.
"I said I was busy!" Raoul shouted.
"Yes!" Christine shrieked. "And never would I have dreamed that you were busy with—with—that!" She started to point towards the husband-stealing creature pulling the shoulders of her dress back up to their proper locations. The butler roughly secured her other arm.
"Jus' what d'you mean by that?" the woman in question snapped, tossing back her mussed golden hair. She was beautiful enough to be a valkyrie. Her clothes were as worn and poor as Christine's own, and from that and her lower-class accent Christine guessed her to be a flower girl. From her neck hung a shining opal—that, more than anything else, kindled Christine's rage.
"That should be mine!" she shrieked, pointing an accusing finger at the necklace.
"Christine—darling—precious—you don't understand—"
"I understand perfectly!"
"No, you don't! Anceline is my cousin!"
"Oh, is that how it is?" the flower girl demanded, hands on her voluptuous hips.
Raoul scowled and, stepping over to Anceline, whispered something in her ear. Christine thought she caught the word "francs" in the middle. Anceline's eyes lit up greedily. "Whatever you say…cousin Raoul," she said, with an obsequious grin.
"I'm not stupid, Raoul!" Christine suddenly became aware that there were tears pouring down her face, carving chasms in the makeup. She couldn't allow Raoul or that woman to see her so upset! "Let me go!" she snarled, stomping her heel into the man's boot.
At a nod from Raoul, the butler released her. Christine flew down the steps and out of the house, crying madly.
How could he—? How could Raoul even look at another woman? It was impossible! IMPOSSIBLE!
She didn't stop running until she had reached the Rue Notre-Dame-Des-Victoires. As she started into the tenement building up to her small apartment, the tears started flowing afresh as she viewed the cramped, narrow hallways and peeling wallpaper that surrounded her. She was nothing—a simple, stupid, penniless waif. A godlike figure such as Raoul, with his millions of francs and title of nobility, would never demean himself by marrying a thing like her. She was just another flower girl to him. A toy—a plaything!
She collapsed on the stairs. "No, no," she sobbed, beating her forehead into one of the steps. "It can't be true—it just can't. He loves me! He has to love me!"
She stayed on the staircase for a long time, until another tenant chanced by and concernedly helped her up to her apartment. By that time, she had made up her mind—if she couldn't be the Vicomtess de Chagny, life held no further interest. She'd throw herself off the roof of the opera house—that would show Raoul what a mistake he had made!