Chapitre Vingt: Le Suicide Manqué de Christine
Christine shivered as she peered over the edge and drew her shawl closer about her shoulders. It was several stories to the pavement below. The height had never bothered her before, but now, as she imagined the drop and the sickening splat that would follow, she felt intensely ill. But she had to go through with it—she had to punish Raoul for the terrible crime he had committed.
She smiled dizzily as she pictured the faithless Vicomte de Chagny at her funeral, collapsed against her coffin, uncaring as his silk garments were ruined by the cold, muddy ground. "I loved her!" he would cry, tearing at his clothes in a grieved frenzy. "I loved her more than any man has ever loved! How could I have been so stupid as to turn away from her, even for a moment? And now she's gone—gone—gone forever!"
She laughed aloud, savoring the power of the moment as she condemned Raoul to a life of sorrow and regret, wandering Europe, seeking the happiness he had thrown away. Yes, he would be sorry for his mistake!
Filled with renewed conviction, she stepped up to the edge. "Goodbye, cruel world!" she proclaimed, throwing off her shawl.
A freezing wind struck her, and the resulting spasm of shivers robbed her of her balance. Before she could register her situation, she tumbled off the ledge.
No, no, she didn't want to die! Oh, gods—!
Suddenly she felt a rope snap around her waist, jerking her upright. She was still screaming hysterically, too terrified to form a coherent thought. It took her a long moment to realize that she could still feel the roof's sharp edge through her shoes.
A moment later there was a strong, comforting arm around her, guiding her away from the precipice. She turned and clung to her rescuer, sobbing uncontrollably. "O-oh t-thank you, thank y-you," she cried, her words barely comprehensible through the tears.
"What were you doing, Christine?" Erik's voice was soft and gentle, despite the tense urgency she could feel radiating from his body.
His calming presence washed over her, and after a few minutes of frantic weeping, she regained enough composure to raise her head. "I was going t-to kill m-myself."
"But why? What's the matter?"
"I—" But she couldn't tell him about Raoul. Desperate to maintain the small amount of pride she had left, she merely said, "It doesn't matter."
"But it does!" he protested. She could feel his muscles tense beneath the cotton shirt, and she realized that he was fighting the desire to hold her more tightly. "Tell me what's wrong, Christine," he pleaded. "I'll do everything I can to help you."
She sighed and buried her face in his shirt, exhausted by the flurry of emotions that whirled in her dizzy head: desperate relief, confusion, embarrassment, teary gratitude, and cold shock. She just wanted to relax in a strong pair of arms and forget about the horror she had almost experienced. "It's not important now," she sighed, suddenly very tired. "I want to go inside—I'm cold."
As he led her across the rooftop and out of the frigid wind, she thanked the gods that Erik had been there to save her. It was better that she hadn't killed herself; that would be as much a punishment to herself as to Raoul. She'd just have to think of some other way to take her revenge.
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"Mademoiselle Daaé!" Reyer exclaimed. "Where have you been? Practice began an hour ago! Most of the cast has already left!"
"Oh, I'm very sorry," she said as she walked onto the stage, smiling brilliantly in the hopes of avoiding a lecture. "You see, I had a problem with my costume—"
"Mademoiselle, Monsieur le Costumer is not in today and we are not practicing in costume!"
"Oh, fine then," she snapped, throwing her script down onto the stage. "You want to know the truth? I figured it would be a waste to come to practice because I had planned on killing myself at ten-o'clock!"
Reyer pursed his lips and tapped his baton angrily on his music stand. "Stick with the first story, mademoiselle, and take your position. We'll start the second act with a skeleton crew, and you!—yes, you stagehands!—go fetch everyone back here!"
As the employees in question meandered rather drunkenly away, not bothering to hurry in the slightest, Christine felt her hand tremble, and she would have dropped her script if it hadn't already been on the floor. It had been a few hours since her near death experience, and though she had calmed down quite a bit, she still felt numb and she was suffering from spasms of shakes. She had already thrown up twice, but she still felt a little nauseous as she thought of that sickening drop. Thank the gods for Erik.
"Zut, mademoiselle," continued Reyer sourly, "it will take at least another hour to get all the cast assembled again! Where's Idamante?"
"Right here," a young man called, striding up to stand near Christine.
"Good morning," she said, eyeing the handsome singer appreciatively. He was tan and dashing with a thin, wiry figure. His untidy hair fell over his eyes, making him look rather adorably like a sheepdog.
"Bon jour, mademoiselle," he said, with a shy smile. "I don't believe we've met."
"We haven't, no. What happened to Alain?"
"He was fired. The managers hired me this morning."
"How splendid—I'm sure you'll make a dashing Idamante," she said, fluttering her eyelashes. She decided she liked him; something about him struck her as being innocent and subservient, like a farm boy.
"Oh—thank you. My—my name is François Rousseau. Like the philosopher."
"Oh, how fascinating—any relation?" She had no idea what philosopher he was talking about, but she thought it would flatter him to show interest. Unlike Raoul, he did not seem to possess the polish and in-charge nature that made Raoul seem so aristocratic; but this man was genial and polite, and very good-looking.
"Alas, no," he said with a smile.
"Ah, what a shame! Oh, I haven't introduced myself, how silly of me—I am Christine Daaé, Diva Extraordinaire." She heard a muffled chuckle from Reyer's direction and pointedly ignored him.
"It is an honor, mademoiselle," François said, kissing her hand.
She giggled and looked away, feigning shyness. It was perfect—what a marvelous revenge this would be. Raoul would be absolutely furious when he heard about her affair with a penniless singer (he must be penniless—no millionaire would look like a farm boy on purpose). And in a month from now when they performed Idomeneo together, Raoul would be forced to watch her shower this boy with love on stage in front of all of Paris, raging and unable to do anything to stop her! It was brilliant!
"Sing something, François," she begged.
"Oh mademoiselle, I couldn't interrupt rehearsal—"
"Please, just a short something."
François bit his lip and sang a line from one of the arias. He was quite talented, and his voice fit the part well.
"Oh, François, that was absolutely beautiful," she cooed, placing an admiring hand on his arm.
"You really think so, mademoiselle?"
"Of course! You are magnificent!" His voice was good, it was true, but it was so far beneath Erik's that it was like comparing Asgard to the dank hells of Niflheim.
She heard commanding footsteps at the back of the stage, and she turned to see Raoul eyeing François, looking furious already. Her anger flared, disrupting her planning, and she turned sharply away. "Monsieur Reyer, if you please?" she prompted tersely.
"Very well, mademoiselle. We'll start with scene two. You and Monsieur Rousseau are alone on stage. There are a few recited lines before the aria. Mademoiselle says, 'Se mai pomposo apparse sull'Argivo orizzonte il Dio di Delo, eccolo in questo giorno, oh sire, in cui l'augusta—' What is the matter, mademoiselle?'"
She blinked slowly, not wanting to look foolish in front of either handsome man, and yet she was unable to find a way around admitting, "I'm sorry, monsieur, but I lost you after 'say-tie.'"
Reyer sighed. "It's 'se mai.' Pick up your script, if you please, mademoiselle, and study the line while we go on to Idamante's reply."
"Please, mademoiselle," said the farm boy, "let me get it for you."
"Oh, why thank you, François." She accepted her script with a sweet smile.
"Now, Monsieur Rousseau, your line is, 'Principessa gentil, il bel sereno anche alle tue pupille omai ritorni, il lungo duol dilegua.'"
François repeated it perfectly. Perhaps her farm boy theory was incorrect.
At this point, the vicomte interceded. "I see the managers have replaced Idamante again."
"Indeed, monsieur," Reyer said, with an ill-hidden sigh.
Raoul drew near François, seeming oblivious to Christine's presence, and shook the man's hand. "I am the Vicomte de Chagny."
"François Rousseau. Pleased to meet you, sir."
"A pleasure."
Christine, thrilled that her plan had already been thrown into gear, interjected, putting admiration into her voice, "François is a marvelous singer, you know—absolutely godlike."
Raoul cast a glance her way. "How nice. Tell me, François, is she not the most radiant angel you have ever seen?" He gestured grandly towards Christine, a brisk efficiency in his manner.
"Why yes, monsieur, she is—absolutely beautiful."
"Oh, why thank you—"
"You're fired," Raoul informed François coldly.
"I beg your pardon, monsieur?!"
"You heard me," Raoul bellowed, gesturing wildly with his gilded cane. "Out! Out!"
Poor François, face a picture of hurt confusion, rushed to comply.
"What are you doing?!" Christine screamed.
"Firing a country bumpkin who had the effrontery to look at you!"
By this time, the managers had heard the uproar and appeared. As Christine stormed off the stage, both were loudly protesting the vicomte's outrageous pronouncement. In her fury, she ignored them and Raoul, who was still shouting, striding to her dressing room to lock herself in and fume over the failure of her perfect plan.
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Later that day, Christine was still in her dressing room at her vanity when a knock sounded on her door. She squeaked in surprise, startled out of her thoughts. "Yes?" she called, hurrying to stuff the necklace she had filched from the costumery into a drawer.
"It's Raoul."
She slammed her hairbrush onto the vanity. "Go away! I'm very busy!"
"Please, Christine, I need to speak with you!"
"I don't care!"
"But you don't understand!"
"I understand perfectly! You were having an affair with a flower wench!"
There was a long silence, and Christine realized that since Raoul had never actually proposed to her, he technically couldn't be having an affair. But it didn't matter—he was still being unfaithful to her!
"Please, Christine, just open the door! I won't even come inside!"
"Oh, fine!" She shoved the stool back and stomped over to the door. As she flipped the catch on the lock, she set her face in a haughty, uncaring expression, trying to summon up all the diva poise she could muster.
She opened the door a crack. To her irritation, while Raoul looked terribly distressed, it had not affected his appearance at all. He couldn't be too agonized if he had still bothered to arrange his hair. "What do you want?"
"I want to explain yesterday's unfortunate misunderstanding."
"Misunderstanding! Is that what you call it!"
"Yes! Christine, in your haste, you misinterpreted a perfectly innocent meeting between myself and my cousin!"
"Cousin! Bah! You were kissing her!"
"Of course I was—she's family!"
"What about her dress?"'
"What about it?"
"It was down past her shoulders, that's what!"
"It was an accident, Christine—right before you came in, she tripped on the edge of her dress and fell. I caught her."
"Don't be absurd! Even if it had happened that way, you wouldn't have a penniless cousin!"
"Poor Anceline was disinherited," he said desperately. "Because her cruel sisters were jealous of her beauty. She's forced to sell flowers to keep from starving."
"I'm not stupid," Christine snapped. "If that were true, she could just sell that necklace and be set for life!"
"It isn't real; it wouldn't bring much money. Besides, she can't bring herself to sell it—it's the only thing she has that belonged to her late mother."
"Really…?" Her grip on the door slackened as she thought it over, but she suddenly shook her head. "I know what I saw."
"But Christine, darling, splendorous rose, you don't! How could I ever be unfaithful to a beauty such as you? Especially with Anceline—she is nothing compared to your beauty!"
"You—you really mean that?" she demanded, struggling to keep up the anger that had raged in her stomach for the past twenty-four hours.
"Of course!" He kissed her hand and held it fervently, gazing into her eyes with love and desperation. "You are my goddess, my nymph, my skylark!" He kissed her hand again, closing his eyes as if savoring the feel of her skin. "A life without you is like a life without the sun—dark, cold, meaningless!"
"She—she's your cousin?"
"Yes!"
Her staunch, unforgiving posture slumped as she started to give in. But then she remembered about François and resolutely revived her anger. "And what about François? You had no cause to fire him!"
"My sweet, my precious, I was so jealous I couldn't help myself!"
"You were?" she repeated. The sudden thrill made her giddy. Her plan had succeeded! It hadn't been as…well…punishing as she had intended, but it didn't matter. The sense of power almost overwhelmed her.
"Of course! I couldn't sit by and watch my beauteous bijou fall into the clutches of a farmhand!"
"Really?" It was stupid to try to keep herself angry when he was just as much a victim here as she was. He couldn't possibly have been having an affair. He loved her. But she had to make sure. "Then you're still going to marry me?"
He blinked, and for a single, horrible moment she saw her world falling apart in the stare of those ice-blue eyes. Then he smiled. "Of course, precieuse—how could you have ever doubted that?"
She released the door and allowed him to enter, feeling so giddy with relief that she had to sit down. As Raoul, kneeling at her feet, continued to lavish her with praise, she raised her eyes to the sky and thanked the gods for returning her perfect world.