Chapitre Vingt-Neuf: Le Décision de Christine
Leonhard Blaise set down the burglary report he was supposed to be reading, discarding it on top of a monstrous stack of paper that constituted the last two days of crime in Paris. He rubbed his temples resignedly, wishing it would all just disappear. He had joined the police force to combat iniquity and to help the common people—shackled behind a desk, the Prevote de Police did not track down any criminals, did not save any people from cruelty and misfortune. He wished he could have refused the promotion, but duty called him to serve the people as best he could. Still, it wasn't very enjoyable to be the man that everyone came complaining to with their endless problems and criticisms of the police force.
With a sigh, he picked up the next report and tried to force his eyes to do more than just slip aimlessly down the page. In capital letters across the top, this page was entitled "Arrest Report: Case #74 of December 1881." Almost six hundred cases in the past two months. What was happening to this city?
December 10, 1881
Buiron Severin, age 36, arrested and escorted to La Santé Prison. Selling drugs claiming to cure pneumonia. Deadly effect. Arresting officer Sgt. Bettencourt.
The signature on the scrawled missive was illegible, but Leonhard recognized the sharp, jagged handwriting of Gilbert Bettencourt. A noticeable tear where his fountain pen had marred the date, combined with the unacceptable brevity of the report, gave the whole paper an unprofessional quality that irked the Prevote greatly. He kept everything in his domain spotless and perfectly organized, and any report written this poorly would usually be sent back for modification before it was filed. But over the past few weeks, as the quantity of crimes had doubled, then tripled, the quality of paperwork had decreased tremendously. So, though it annoyed him personally, he would have to deal with the irritation and focus on the more important matter of saving the city from total corruption.
The entire room shook as the office door slammed. The Prevote de Police looked up wearily. He had quite enough on his plate at the moment, but he could handle one more complaint today—it was part of his job. He attempted to put on a welcome smile for the man entering his office—but that was before he saw who it was.
"Well, Monsieur Blaise?" The Vicomte de Chagny demanded. "Why haven't you caught him yet?"
Leonhard Blaise withheld a sigh of aggravation with some difficulty. "He escapes all our traps."
The vicomte loosed a short, derisive laugh. "He's only a man, for goodness' sake!"
"He is no ordinary man." The Prevote lowered his gaze back to the dry report about the arrest of a poor woman who had stolen two bottles of medicine for her pneumonia-stricken son.
"Well? Did you search Mademoiselle Daaé's dressing room? Lie in wait for him?"
Leonhard looked up into the vicomte's fuming eyes. "Sir, I joined the police force so that I could help people. To try to make the world a better place, if I can. Not to sit here and listen to your unreasonable complaints. I am perfectly aware of your high status and…personal interest in the Phantom. But we are doing all that we can. And you are certainly not aiding us any."
The vicomte looked somewhat taken aback at this lack of respect. He was obviously not taking into account the hours upon end that the police had wasted listening to his inane disparagement and derision. But he regained his footing within a few moments. "But Mademoiselle Daaé's life is in danger!"
"So are the lives of thousands upon thousands of Parisians, and even her beautiful voice does not entitle her to special treatment in the face of this epidemic. Besides, the last I heard, she was safe and sound sitting on a silk pillow in the splendor of your estate."
The vicomte bristled angrily. "Leave it to a German to be so utterly contemptible!"
"If you have nothing further to say, you may leave my office, monsieur."
"I could have your position, you know!"
Leonhard laughed wearily. "You're welcome to it."
"I demand to see the Préfet!"
"As I imagine you are already aware, the Préfet is far too occupied with the current disasters facing Paris to take complaints, even from aristocrats." Rising from his chair, he ushered the protesting vicomte out of his office. "When we capture him, you shall be the first to know."
Once the vicomte was safely out the door, the Prevote locked the door and set himself back down at his desk. "Well," he muttered to himself, "that takes care of him, for the moment." Though even dealing with the insufferable Vicomte de Chagny might have been preferable to pouring over these reports of such terrible human misery.
Scrawling his signature on the thievery report, he placed it atop a neat pile and proceeded to the next paper.
Report Made to the Prevote de Police of the City of Paris
Monsieur Leonhard Blaise:
On the 6th of this month, a Monsieur Pierre de l'Monte was apprehended attempting to rob a medicinal warehouse at the intersection of the Rue Saint-Lazare and the Rue Fléchier….
Yes, the epidemic was holding a firm grip on the citizens of Paris…. Spreading through the city as it was, it was soon to reach the area near the opera house.
The Opera Garnier. The Phantom. Leonhard shook his head in dismay. As if it wasn't bad enough to have to deal with such an epidemic under normal conditions, he also had the Opera Ghost to worry about. He rubbed his temples despairingly; despite common sentiment, he was certain the Phantom was a man; yes, a normal man…. Well, except that he seemed to be much more cunning and driven than the likes of his would-be captors.
Over the past several years, Leonhard had received a few notes from the self-styled "Opera Ghost," notes of a reasonable nature, communicating facts, requests, and usually tips concerning crimes, unlike the vicomte's absurd demands. After he had gotten his hands on the note the voice in the prop room had asked him to deliver to Mademoiselle Daaé—the note that had spared a Hulbert Tannenbaum a prison sentence—he had compared it to the elegant, though only partially-legible, handwriting of the Phantom's notes and discovered that they were identical. It surprised and chilled him a little to think that he had actually spoken to the mysterious specter that the Garnier's employees seemed to fear so much, but the man did more to fight crime than a battalion of patrolmen. The note he had received a month ago had concerned a certain stagehand at the Garnier—a Monsieur Buquet, if he recalled correctly—explaining a crime of assault and accompanied by a signed statement from Mademoiselle Daaé herself testifying to the incident. If one in every hundred men in Paris were so helpful to the police, there wouldn't be an unsolved case in the city.
With some difficulty he banished these thought from his mind. He supposed he shouldn't be supporting the actions of a wanted man, and he couldn't cut the Phantom any slack as far as the law was concerned; but fortunately for the Phantom at present, the police deemed him a "sufferable" condition compared to the horrors plaguing the city. His eyes once again focused on the report in front of him, and he resignedly resumed skimming its contents.
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Christine twirled in front of one of the many mirrors in her new room, absolutely breathless with awe as she studied the gown she was trying on. It was so much more beautiful than the cheap costumes she wore for the operas, and worlds away from the horrid dresses Mamma made for her. The pearls were real; the dyes were even and unfading; the embroidery was intricate and absolutely perfect. She ran a hand across the lace edging the front of the gown and turned so she could view the back, marveling at how much tinier her waist looked in an expensive whalebone corset instead of her own cheap, broken one.
She had never in her life worn a dress that was anywhere close to current Parisian fashion. It made her almost giddy to look at herself, dressed in an embroidered powder-blue gown edged with intricate lace, the skirt rising up in the back to form an elegant bustle that added to the seductive curve of her hips. Mamma had always insisted on clothing her in plain, ugly dresses with wide skirts—dresses that made her look like a peasant girl. It was so wonderful to finally be wearing a real dress, the skirt of which was as narrow as the tailor could manage, and see a modern Parisian noblewoman staring back at her with a figure that men would die for. She wasn't a ballet rat, or a servant, or any of the things that the marquis, and so many others over the years, had so cruelly called her—she was a goddess!
She sashayed over to the closet to choose another gown from her new wardrobe, admiring how the frill at the bottom of the narrow dress swished and swayed with the tiniest movement. Raoul was so wonderful! It must have cost him a fortune to have so many gowns—practically a trousseau—made on such short notice, and by Charles Worth, the most famed designer in France! Of course, the gowns were pre-made and mass produced—some absurd new idea that wouldn't last long, according to Raoul—and post-tailored to fit her, but as much as Raoul apologized and promised to have real gowns designed specifically for her as soon as possible, the House of Worth's spring fashion collection wouldn't be available for months, and it was so marvelous to have something to wear now, so soon after her arrival. She couldn't wait to debut in Parisian society as Vicomtess Christine de Chagny!
She stopped to admire a particularly beautiful vase set atop a graceful marble pedestal; according to Raoul it was a relic of the reign of Louis XVI, whoever that was, and that it was one of the only possessions of Marie Antoinette that had escaped the mobs of revolutionaries unharmed. She wasn't sure who Marie Antoinette was either, or what revolution he had been talking about, but the vase was absolutely breathtaking. Every time she looked at it she couldn't help but giggle feverishly as the happiness, the joy of all this exquisite and expensive beauty, bubbled over in her chest.
As she stepped back towards the mirror with a pink evening dress in hand, she couldn't refrain from skipping and twirling across the floor. Everything was so beautiful, so wonderful, so expensive! The lush carpets, the velvet curtains, the marble statues, the myriads of exquisite paintings, the chandeliers! Everywhere she turned there was something new and beautiful to admire. Even her dinner with Raoul the previous evening—impromptu and hidden in a lesser dining room to allow Philippe time with his fiancée—had been like a dream, with rare delicacies and shining flatware of real gold. Just being in her suite of rooms, so large, so exquisite, so filled with every possible decoration and lavish comfort, made her want to cry, the beauty was so overwhelming! She had never even dreamed such finery could exist! How could she ever have even considered refusing Raoul's hand?
It took her several minutes to put on the evening gown, during which time her mind whirled back to all the beautiful things she had seen in the last eighteen hours. It was all so much that she had to sit down for a moment, overcome with ecstasy.
She lounged for several more minutes on the luxurious bed until thoughts of her marvelous breakfast that morning reminded her that there were still many delicacies that she had not yet tried. She leaned over and pulled the elaborately-braided cord next to her bed. Within a matter of seconds, a maid appeared in the doorway.
"Yes, mademoiselle?"
Christine detected an accent in her speech—something Eastern European—and spoke loudly so that the woman would understand her: "I—WANT—ÉCLAIRS. DO YOU UNDERSTAND? AND BON BONS. AND CREAM PUFFS. AND—JUST HAVE THE CHEF BRING UP WHATEVER CHOCOLATE DESSERTS HE CAN THINK OF, OKAY? DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?"
"Yes, mademoiselle. My French is quite good."
"Then why are you still standing there?" She waved her hand in imperious dismissal. "Go! I want chocolate!"
The stupid woman blinked at her, surprised for some reason, then curtsied belatedly and left the room.
Christine shook her head, searching through one of her many jewelry boxes for a necklace that would match the pink gown. The maid must be new. If she didn't shape up, Christine would have to take it upon herself as mistress of the household to dismiss her.
She located a diamond choker and held it up to the light, admiring the rainbow of shimmers that ran along the facets of the innumerable gems. She fastened it around her neck and returned her gaze to the mirror. It was incredibly pretty, but she needed something gold to go with this gown. She was about to remove the necklace when her eyes focused on the reflection of a dark figure standing behind her.
She jumped in fright and dropped the necklace. It was Loki! No, Loki didn't exist anymore—it must be Satan, come to steal her soul!
She opened her mouth to scream for Raoul, but the figure's words stopped her:
"Christine, it's just me."
She took a moment to study the figure and was relieved to discover that it was not a demon. She exhaled slowly and willed her limbs, which were painfully tense, to relax. "Erik, you scared me!"
"I'm sorry."
"What are you doing here?"
"Making sure you're all right."
"Of course I'm all right," she said, bending to retrieve the necklace.
"Christine, why are you here? The opera opens in eight days."
She returned the necklace to its place in the jewelry box and chose another. "I'll be back in time for the opening performance."
"There are dress rehearsals for all of those eight days! The managers are on the brink of apoplexy!"
"It serves them right. They're probably not even paying me half of what Carlotta got." She held up a gold pendant and turned to face him. "What do you think of this one?"
"Carlotta is already moving to recapture her station."
"The managers wouldn't agree to that while I'm around."
"Christine, you're not around! I wouldn't blame them a bit if they cancelled your contract over this disappearance!"
"That's mean!"
"No, it's the truth."
"Then you'll just have to intervene and prevent the managers from firing me."
"That's why I came."
"I mean go talk to them—I'm going to stay here for a while."
"Christine, you can't. You'll never get this chance again."
She shrugged, busy fitting rings on all ten fingers. "I don't really want it now."
Erik froze, not even breathing for a horribly long moment. "What?"
She didn't bother to look at him, admiring how beautiful the rings looked with her new ballroom gloves. "Okay, I do want it, but not as much as I want the fame and money, and it's just too much work and I've found a much easier route that will get me much more fame and money than divahood ever would."
"You—you're thinking of marrying the Vicomte de Chagny?"
She frowned at a ring jammed too tightly on her thumb. "That's right."
Erik seemed absolutely stunned. He tried several times to begin a sentence, unable to get the first syllable out.
Finally she looked up, and she was shocked by the look on his face. It was as if she had shoved him off a boat into the icy water. Hurriedly she offered him a lifeline: "You can still teach me. It's not as if I want to quit singing entirely." He still continued to stare at her, emerald eyes so filled with pain that she had to look away. "What's wrong?" she pleaded.
"I—I never expected you to love me," he said slowly, as if he was having difficulty forming the words. "But I really did think we had something."
"We still do—a very nice relationship."
"But the vicomte—"
"What about him?"
"I thought you knew what he was!"
"I do know what he is—he's a wonderful, handsome, rich aristocrat who worships the ground I walk on! He's going to marry me!"
"Christine, he won't!"
"What do you know about it?" she snapped.
"He's just using you, Christine! After he's tasted your beauty he'll get bored and move on to his next mistress!"
"How—how dare you?!" she stammered. "He's going to marry me!"
"How can you refuse to see it? You caught him at it, for heaven's sake!"
"That was a misunderstanding!"
"You can you lie to yourself like that?!"
"I'm not!"
"Christine, you have to know that he's engaged! All of Paris knows that!"
"You—you're lying to get me to change my mind! But I won't! I'm going to marry Raoul, and no love—not mine or yours or anybody else's—has anything to do with it!"
"Then what does?!"
"Look at what he has to offer me!" She gestured wildly to the statues, the tapestries, the giant satin bed and the gowns and sparkling jewelry strewn about the room. "Wealth! Beauty! Splendor! I'm tired of being poor and having the world look down on me! I know you love me, and I'm sorry about that, but if I stay with you, I'll have to slave for every franc, suffering through boring rehearsals and stupid voice exercises for the rest of my life! And I'll never even come close to the splendor that's being offered me for nothing right now as the Vicomtess de Chagny! You're a wonderful man, but I can't cheat myself out of happiness!"
For an eternity he just stared, and she forced herself to stand her ground even though she felt daggers of wretchedness and guilt twisting in her gut. The pain was so intense that she considered taking back her words—taking back everything—and returning with him to the Garnier. But as she was about to speak, she remembered just how much she would be giving up, and she stayed silent.
Finally the glisten in his eyes faded, and he regained his composure. "Very well," he said, and she could see each word rip a piece out of his heart. "If that is your decision, I can't stand in your way."
Christine stumbled forward as he turned and walked across the room, trying frantically to force her mouth to formulate words. When he reached the edge of the balcony, he turned back. Slowly he ran a gloved hand along the metal skeleton of an ancient torch, dark and rusted from decades of disuse, one of a pair that decorated the archway leading out to the balcony. "If you have need of me," he said, the bland emotionlessness in his voice worse than any amount of anger, "or if you change your mind, just light these." She supposed there was another torch on the opposite side of the arch, but she couldn't wrest her gaze away from those dark, glistening eyes to look. He tried but failed to smile. "I'll be watching just in case."
By the time Christine had regained control of her legs and raced to the balcony, he had long since disappeared. She stared out at the courtyard without really seeing it, unable to think, move, or even breathe. She had done what she had to do. But how could she have known it would hurt so much?
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Several minutes of horrible agony and indecisiveness went by, keeping Christine's hands fastened to the balcony railing. Back when she was a ballet rat, everything had been so simple; her goals—become a rich and famous diva; then marry a wealthy aristocrat; avoid as much work as possible in the process—were clear and non-conflicting. But now every goal she strived for was countered by another, just as important as the first. No matter how she tried to reason them out, weighing the benefits of each objective, she couldn't manage to choose the left side of the scale—wealth, baubles, ostentation, power—so obviously superior to the benefits of the right side—Erik, and…Erik.
She was beating her head with a fist, trying to force it to make a decision, when a knock on the door offered her a distraction. Wondering if it was the maid with her chocolates, she began to wipe her dripping nose on her sleeve—it wouldn't do to have the help find her crying—before remembering that her gown was sleeveless. "Come in," she called, racing to the nightstand to secure a handkerchief.
She had just dabbed the tears off her cheeks when the door opened to reveal Raoul with a tray of éclairs in one hand.
"Oh, my scrumptious skylark," he said cheerily, "you look ravishing in that gown!" He strode across the room, setting the tray down on a nearby table and sweeping her into his arms. "Bridgette said you wanted pastry, is that right? This is all there was on hand, but my chef is racing to—my darling, you're crying!"
"No I'm not," she protested, unable to suppress a sniffle.
"What's the matter? What canst thine white knight do to make everything better?"
"It—it's nothing. I'm just…so…overwhelmed by how beautiful everything is here."
"Ah, my mellifluous marigold, I'm so pleased that you appreciate the splendor of my mansion; Philippe's fiancée doesn't appreciate the finer things—she spends her time reading dusty old tomes by dead philosophers, isn't that terrible?" He paused to kiss her nose. "There isn't a man in the world who wouldn't die to have you as his bride."
She sighed and relaxed in his arms. "You're so wonderful, Raoul."
"Of course I am. My sweet, would you tell me that you're mine? I would so like to hear it."
She looked up, puzzled, and a small shiver tingled her spine when she saw the intense, almost hard glint in his eyes. "I'm yours," she said finally, and she was relieved to see his face relax a little. "Surely you knew that."
"I did," murmured Raoul, holding her tightly. "But I wanted to hear it."
"Raoul, you're squeezing me too hard!"
"Oh—I'm sorry, precious. Now, shall we go downstairs? I have some presents for you."
Her ears perked at the mention of gifts. "Okay!"
By the time she had made it to the door, already having eaten two éclairs, she had almost managed to forget about Erik.