Chapitre Vingt-Quatre: John 11:44
Raoul stood outside the main doors of the Opera Garnier, arms full of flowers and boxes of Belgian chocolates, growing rather annoyed. He had intended to show his devotion to Christine by showering her with gifts and asking her out to dinner again, but he had been confronted with a terrible situation that prevented him from doing so—an obstacle utterly insurmountable, even for a dashing vicomte such as himself.
The fact that there hadn't been a doorman outside the opera house during the daytime (due to budgetary constraints) since Firmin and André took over had never unduly concerned him before, because all the patrons came at night; however, it was proving a difficult situation at this precise moment in time. His arms were so full of flowers that he couldn't open the door in front of him—and he couldn't put them down without risking ruining the expensive arrangements. The largest bouquet, which contained roses and purple orchids, had been arranged by the most famous florist in Paris, and had cost more, he suspected, than the managers of the Garnier made in a month. It would be inexcusable to set such a bouquet on the dirty ground just to open a door!
On the other hand, if he couldn't get in, he couldn't present the flowers to Christine and his efforts would be wasted anyway. He had to complete his seduction soon (but not too soon, of course; after all, it was his grand finale) or he wouldn't have time to enjoy his seductive little diva before his marriage. When he had realized his predicament, he had glanced back at the carriage to ask his coachman to open the door, but the man had already driven around to the back of the opera house. Well, that was one coachman who would be looking for a new job.
If worst came to worst, he supposed, he could just discard the flowers and give Christine the other present he had brought, which was safely tucked away in his coat pocket: a heart-shaped gold necklace fitted with diamonds that spelled "Ange." The half-carat ring hadn't been enough to coerce her into his arms; perhaps a reference to her ridiculous Angel of Music would.
But just the same, the flowers had been highly inconvenient to procure. He sighed heavily, coming to the one logical decision he could think of: he would have to stop someone on the street and ask him to open the door.
He spotted a well-dressed gentleman strolling along the sidewalk and walked down the steps to intercept him. Oh God, he hoped the man wouldn't recognize him; what a terrible thing it would be to be caught in such an ignominious predicament!
"Excuse me, monsieur!" he called to the man.
The man turned, surprised, and studied him for a brief moment. "Bon jour, monsieur." Raoul could tell that the man was wracking his memory for the identity of this stranger, made fully aware of Raoul's noble status by the crest embroidered on his coat. "Do I know you?"
"No," Raoul informed him, hoping that it was true. "Could you perhaps open this door for me?"
He gestured awkwardly towards the opera house, and the flowers threatened to fall out of his grasp. He scrambled to keep them from falling and nearly slipped on the icy pavement.
"Why—why certainly," the startled man replied, seeming rather amused by how absurd Raoul looked and the ridiculousness of his predicament. He started up the steps, and Raoul followed, forcibly beating down the embarrassment he felt with the knowledge that the man had no idea who he was.
It was not to be so for long. After the man had opened the door and Raoul had entered the main foyer, the blasted gentleman exclaimed, "Why, you're the Vicomte de Chagny, aren't you?"
Inwardly cursing, Raoul summoned up all the dignity he could and said, "Yes—yes, I am."
The man went away chuckling, and the very embarrassed vicomte slowly turned, his face deep scarlet and furiously set, and made his way up the grand staircase to find Christine.
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"What do you mean, she isn't here?!" demanded Raoul, furiously slamming the flowers down on the desk in front of him. He had been carrying them for almost a half-hour, and not only were his arms beginning to ache, but the moist stems of the flowers had started to transfer hints of green to his formerly-immaculate sleeves. Normally he would have considered this ridiculous search far too much effort and a waste of time he could be spending wooing more easily-found maidens, but Christine wasn't just another conquest anymore—with each passing hour she grew more and more beautiful, and other women, though still worthy of some small pursuit, grew dull and monochromatic. The insatiable passion in his chest to possess that ethereal beauty was raging hotter with every moment she was out of his sight—and after twenty-six minutes of being told "No, I haven't seen her" from half of the Garnier's employees, he had gone from annoyed to absolutely livid.
"Where could she possibly be," he snarled, "except at rehearsal as she is supposed to be?!"
André stepped back involuntarily, though his surprise quickly turned to outrage. "Don't shout at us," he snapped, squaring his shoulders affrontedly. "She requested permission to visit her father's grave—surely we could not deny her that!"
Raoul faltered, suddenly remembering that it was the anniversary of Gustave Daaé's death. Blast it, how could I have forgotten such a thing?! What would Christine have thought of me if I had brought her flowers and chocolates, utterly oblivious to her grief?
He realized then that perhaps he shouldn't have been so rude to the managers, as it was not their fault in the least; but he certainly couldn't admit that to them. Affixing a dignified scowl to his face, he demanded, "And why did you let her take the day off, with such an important rehearsal going on?"
"There is no rehearsal today, vicomte," Monsieur Firmin informed him shortly.
"Why not?"
Firmin and André glanced at each other, seeming very loathe to give their reason. During this long moment of silence Raoul realized rather belatedly that if Christine was at Perros, she was out there alone. Why had she not asked him to come with, so he could protect her and offer her comfort? It was a personal matter, certainly, but she was madly in love with him—how could she insult him so?
Finally Firmin spoke. "We received a rather…portentous letter from the Opera Ghost implying that if we did not give Mademoiselle Daaé the day off, he would—" He faltered, making Raoul wonder what exactly it was that the Phantom had threatened them with.
"Well, it's not important," the frustrated manager finished. "In any event, we decided it would be better if we cancelled rehearsal altogether."
"A good deal of the choreography in the third act needs to be rewritten anyway," added André.
Raoul sat down, aghast and unsure of what to do. Ignoring the managers' continued conversation, he tried to work out the best course of action. If Christine had not asked him along, obviously she did not want him along and would become very angry if he appeared at Perros. But what reason could the girl possibly have for denying herself his charming company?
Ah, he knew what it was—she must think that, as a vicomte and the patron of the opera house, he would be far too busy to accompany her to Perros. She was correct, of course, but surely everything could wait if it meant furthering himself in the eyes of his temptress.
She could have at least told him of her plans—even if he couldn't have gone personally, he could've sent a trustworthy guard to keep her safe. With her out in the middle of the country, it would be easy for someone to—
Egad! Why hadn't he realized it sooner? She had been attacked by scum before, and in the middle of a bustling city—damn that Buquet! There was no scum greater than the stagehand, he was convinced, and they all most certainly knew where she was going. Imagine what a scoundrel could get away with no one around to hear her scream!
Oblivious to the managers' startled exclamations, Raoul leapt to his feet and raced out of the office. As he hurriedly located his coach and steered the horses towards the street, his mind filled with terrible thoughts of what a savage stagehand could do to the poor girl out there in the middle of a deserted cemetery. After yelling at his coachman that he was fired, Raoul whipped the horses to a gallop, and as they raced down the cobblestone street, he prayed that he wouldn't be too late.
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Erik and Christine spoke very little on the way to Perros. Christine stared aimlessly out at the passing scenery, doubtlessly thinking of her father. Erik, wanting to respect her wishes, did not break the silence. It was just as well; driving was easy along the deserted roadway, and there was nothing to distract him from the pressing problem of the vicomte. He wasn't certain what would happen if the dimwitted aristocrat decided to tail them to the cemetery; he had no problem fighting the vicomte, of course, but what about Christine? Today was supposed to be about her—giving her time to grieve, away from the troubles of the opera house. He supposed if the vicomte were to show up, he would just have to try to handle the situation without Christine learning of it.
However, it was not just the present situation concerning the vicomte that he thought about. He could handle today's problem, but what about the future? Christine had always lived in poverty, and an ostentatious life in a mansion as a vicomtess would certainly seem attractive to her. But surely Christine could see that the vicomte only wanted her because of her beauty. Just something to enjoy for a short while, like a cut lily meant to grace a vase for a week, then thrown out to make room for the next pretty flower.
He worried a great deal about how much the vicomte could hurt her, and as much as it dominated his thoughts concerning the blasted aristocrat, it couldn't completely obscure the sharp, throbbing pain he felt when he compared the vicomte's handsome countenance and wealth to his own hideousness and modest means. But what could he do? He had tried several times to warn her about the man, but she refused to listen; the most he could hope for was that his words would sink in eventually. Anything more than that—threats, intimidation, kidnapping, murder—the violence, lust and hatred that had raged in his heart throughout his life—Christine had cleansed it all from his soul with those beautiful, beautiful words in the darkness of his caverns, as tears had coursed down her face: "I can accept you." He couldn't be that cold, hateful man anymore; but this conviction put him at a terrible disadvantage against the vicomte.
Still, she had not asked the vicomte to come, she had asked him. Surely that was indicative of her feeling towards them both?
So caught up in these thoughts was he that he didn't even notice the town of Perros until it was right upon them. "Oh, look," Christine exclaimed, tugging on the sleeve of his shirt like a child and pointing towards a shabby, leaning house they were passing. "That's where Father and I used to live." Her sad, contemplative demeanor was still oppressively present, but Erik was glad just the same that she could smile, if even for a moment.
"He would sit and play the violin for hours," she said slowly, glancing around at all the passing buildings as if they held many distant memories for her. "People would come from miles away to hear him play. He would never accept any money, though; he felt that, because he had never been visited by the Angel, he did not deserve their appreciation."
Erik felt a stab of anger twist in his gut, and he gripped the reins more tightly, willing himself to keep silent. How dare Gustave Daaé deprive his daughter of a decent life, just because of a blasted superstition? How dare he claim that he loved her, when he wouldn't even accept money to feed his child? It had affected Christine terribly, he knew—he had seen the way her eyes shone when she was wearing one of the sumptuous costumes of the Opera, the way her beautiful face slackened in hopeless longing as she watched a noblewoman pass by. Wealth meant more to her than anything in the world. And as if it were not a terrible thing by itself, it was playing her right into the vicomte's hands—the detestable fop could win her heart just with his riches alone.
You don't give her enough credit, the voice inside his head told him reproachfully. She does like ostentation, that is true, but if she desired it beyond all else, then why is she with you instead of with him?
Before he could decide whether or not to believe the voice, Christine tugged on his sleeve again, more insistently this time. "Aren't you listening to me?" she demanded. "I said, 'Isn't it beautiful?'"
Realizing guiltily that he had missed the last few sentences of her causerie, he hurriedly regained his composure and replied, "Yes, it most certainly is," though he had not the slightest clue what he was agreeing to.
"It belongs to Raoul's great-aunt," she continued, staring past him at the object of her conversation.
In confusion he turned to see what she was staring at. When he realized what it was, he shook his head disgustedly. To the east of the town was a large hill, at the crest of which rested a large semi-derelict castle from the days of the Dark Ages. It annoyed him somewhat that, though the vicomte was not tangibly with them, he was still present in their conversation.
Oblivious to these unpleasant thoughts, Christine kept on talking. "His ancestors defended that castle from waves of English invaders over the centuries, he told me, so the family has never remodeled it—historical preservation is very important to them."
It seemed to Erik that living in a drafty castle, impossible to heat in the winter, was a foolish idea, no matter how proud one was of one's ancestors. But if talking got Christine's mind off of her grief, he supposed he could endure hearing about the vicomte. "Is that so," he said stolidly, unable to think of anything more pleasant to say.
"It was part of the Battle of Agin-bort, I think it was. Raoul told me."
"How…interesting."
They travelled in silence again, this time for only a few minutes, and Erik could see Christine grow more and more depressed as her thoughts returned to her father.
Erik debated over whether or not to bring up a more cheerful subject, uncertain if she would appreciate the distraction, but before he could decide, she blurted out, "If it weren't for the Chagnys' valiant defense from the endless waves of British attackers, France would've been overrun!"
The vicomte certainly must not think much of her, Erik thought furiously, if he expects her to believe that disgusting perversion of history. Of course, if he told Christine the truth—that the French had lost the Battle of Agincourt, and that it had not even been in a fifty mile radius of the Chagnys' castle—she wouldn't believe him. "That's Agincourt," he said.
"Yes, that was it." She was again silent for a time, until she again spoke to distract herself from her sorrow: "I met him not far from here, in Trouville-sur-Mer," she said, watching the town's citizens go about their daily business. Fortunately not many of the people were staring at them. Erik had purposely taken a back road to avoid being noticed, but they couldn't avoid it altogether. He adjusted his mask, wondering distractedly if any of them recognized her.
"I was walking along the beach and my scarf got lost in the sea—and he rescued it for me."
Erik silently drove on, not trusting himself to speak. She was trying so hard to be cheerful…. He didn't want to make it any harder for her. Thankfully the cemetery was not far from town, located on a precarious cliff overlooking the ocean. Tumultuous waves crashed against the rocks far below, and the salty air had escalated into a chilling wind around them. The sun was not far from setting, but it was so veiled by dark, impenetrable clouds that it could hardly be discerned from the endless mass of grey. It was snowing moderately now. The cemetery itself stood out from its dreary surroundings like a ghostly beacon, its white marble seeming to shine amidst the darkness from behind the groves of pine trees and jagged iron bars that enclosed it.
Christine watched in surprise as he drove past the main gate and proceeded to steer the cabriolet around to the back. "What are you doing?"
"I—I don't want the coach to be stolen while we're away," Erik lied. In actuality, he was more concerned that the blasted vicomte would see it and know that Christine had not come alone. It would do his cause no good to alert the enemy to his presence. But there was no need to worry Christine about such things.
"That's a good idea," she agreed. "You think of everything."
He stopped the coach by the rear entrance of the cemetery, where it was obscured from sight by a small grove of stunted elm trees. Casting a quick glance around to make sure the vicomte was nowhere in sight, Erik helped Christine out of the cabriolet and proceeded to inspect the wheels, one of which he feared had been damaged by a particularly large rock when they had turned off the main road. By the time he had secured the horses and started towards the gate, Christine had already entered and was walking slowly through the headstones, as if in a trance.
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Christine slowly approached the small, broken headstone, having completely forgotten about Erik, lost in thoughts of the past. The ethereal white edges of the stone slab were blurred in her tear-filled vision, and time seemed to slow to a crawl as she walked past dozens of neglected headstones. Marking the graves of the more distinguished personages were statues that seemed to stare at her, their blank, stone eyes mournful and yet coldly removed from humanly grief. She could vaguely feel the weeds poking up among the broken cobblestones through her worn slippers, but the sharp pricks barely penetrated her trance. She could not even feel the chilling wind, though her patched shawl was no match for its icy gusts.
The grave was located near the back, a ways behind the tiny chapel that marked the center of the ancient churchyard. Because his grave was a more recent addition to the somber place, it had but a few graves nearby. As she drew near, she saw nothing but the cold, chiseled letters in the cheap stone: Gustave Daaé. She had come to Perros trying to keep gladness in her heart, wanting only to tell her father of her happiness—but now that she was here, standing above his grave, all joy was forgotten as her clouded vision flashed with a thousand memories, each poignant with the loss and grief of the knowledge that her father was gone forever. Her legs shook, unable to bear her weight any longer; she fell in front of the tombstone, trembling with exhaustion brought about by the well of emotion locked within her.
As she wept in the rift of snow that had built up at the foot of the grave, she heard the sweet strains of a violin over the howling wind; she cried harder as she recognized the familiar melody of "The Resurrection of Lazarus." Despair pierced her heart with the cold, and for an eternity she could not move, nor speak, nor even summon a conscious thought. As the melody crescendoed to its height, she found words etched on the tombstone pouring unbidden from her lips:
"Jesus saith unto her, Thy brother shall rise again…I—I am the resurrection, a-and the life: he th-that believeth in me, though h-he were dead; yet shall he live… A-and when he thus h-had spoken, he cried with a loud voice, Lazarus—" Her voice broke as she crumpled in a torrent of sobs. "Lazarus, c-come forth! A-and he that…was…dead…" She trailed off, her heart sinking as realized that the last part of the verse, preserved in cheap stone, had crumbled away. "H-he that was dead…"
Filled with the heartbreaking memory of her father relating this story to her, Christine could not recall the ending. It was all she could do to keep from collapsing completely into the freezing snow that sapped her strength as surely as her terrible grief. She could not find the faint rays of hope that Christ had promised, that the dead would live again. She could see nothing but a cold, despondent tunnel, bereft of all hope and light.
Images of the underworld of Niflheim flashed before her eyes, cold and filled with veils of icy mist that obscured the dark realm. She saw Hel, the goddess of the damned, seated on her throne of bleached bones. The corpse-woman opened her arms wide, and Christine clapped hands over her ears to block out the terrible, terrible sound of wailing spirits, pleading, suffering—
Suddenly she felt Erik's presence behind her, and a comforting hand squeeze her shoulder. Then, as warmth flooded her, she saw the darkness melt away, replaced by a gentle light, and she remembered the final words:
"And he that was dead came forth, bound hand and foot with graveclothes…Lazarus…raised…from the dead."