Chapitre Trente-et-Un: Les Fenêtres dans Enfer
Late one night, five days before the opening of Idomeneo, in the earliest hours of the morning, the Champs Élysées lay in an inky blackness the likes of which its wealthy denizens had not seen for several decades. It was a strange sight, to see such darkness along the most affluent street in the city, but the cause was common knowledge: some of the more foppish young noblemen had taken it upon themselves to upgrade their streetlights from gas to electricity; as the incandescent lamp had only just been invented, however, and the gentlemen were ignorant of all the scientific details, the endeavor had been a spectacular failure and the street lay dark.
It was almost three in the morning, and all lights in the innumerable windows along the Champs Élysées had long since been extinguished, save for a blazing fire in the hearth of Raoul de Chagny's suite of rooms, which, in that obdurate darkness, lit up the bay windows of the Chagny mansion so bright and fiery that they appeared to be windows into Hell.
Philippe hesitated before knocking on Raoul's door. He rarely felt nervous about speaking to his brother, but he still wasn't sure if it was his place to speak out or not. Raoul's affairs were his own, and Mademoiselle Daaé seemed happy enough at the moment as a captive, but he couldn't allow this insanity to continue.
The vicomte threw open the door, and Philippe had to shield his eyes from the brightness of the room, the brilliant red of the fire almost blinding compared to the darkness of the hallway. "What is it?" Raoul demanded.
"I need to speak to you."
Raoul ran and hand through his hair in agitation and stepped back to allow Philippe ingress.
The comte stiffened as soon as he had crossed the threshold. "It's broiling in here!"
"Nevermind what the temperature is—what do you want?" asked Raoul, shutting the door with a thud.
"I have to speak to you about Mademoiselle Daaé, but Raoul, why don't you open a window? And why have you built the fire up so high? It's liable to spill out of the hearth!"
"Will you just tell me what you want?" he demanded again, showing signs of irritation.
"Very well, then." Philippe took a breath and tried to compose his words before speaking. "I'm worried about you."
"I'm just fine."
"But you're not—you've kidnapped a maiden and practically imprisoned her!"
Raoul's eyes flashed angrily. "I did not kidnap her—she came willingly!"
"Be that as it may, you're keeping her locked up here like a prisoner."
"It's only for a little while until the soldiers capture the damned Phantom."
Philippe's breath caught in his throat. "You called in the army?"
"But how did you—"
"I called in a few favors."
"Of course! The police were too stupid to catch him—what else am I supposed to do?"
"I thought you were worried about the Marquis D'Aubigne!"
Raoul's expression became matter-of-fact. "I was. But he's not a problem anymore."
Philippe's blood threatened to freeze in his veins as Raoul's tone sunk in. He had heard that the marquis had been missing for the past two days, but Raoul didn't even know about that—he had barely left the house in that time. "What does that mean?" he asked, afraid of the answer.
Raoul waved a hand dismissively. "Nevermind. It's the Phantom that's the threat now."
"I thought you didn't believe in him!"
"I've seen him," said Raoul loudly, his eyes bright and dangerous. "At the Perros cemetery—he's a monster, Philippe. A devil. And he's out to get Christine."
The comte blinked in surprise, puzzled and disturbed by the maniacal rage that flared in his brother's eyes. Raoul took his brother's expression for incredulousness and snapped, "I know it sounds insane, but it's true!"
"I know the Phantom exists," said Philippe slowly, noting with unease that Raoul was clutching a bottle of wine with such brute force that his entire hand was a strained white. "Monsieur Debienne is a good friend of mine; he told me of their dealings, and he wouldn't make up such things."
"Then you know what this fiend is capable of!"
"The mysterious nature of their interaction made Debienne quite nervous, but once he had gotten over his initial anxiety, he found the Phantom a fair and just gentleman and an excellent asset concerning the operas due to his incomparable knowledge—"
"Ha!" spat Raoul, before downing the last of the liquor in his bottle; he hadn't even bothered to pour it into a glass. "Trust a craven weasel like Debienne to come up with a story like that—a gentleman, ha! As if an animal—a demon—could ever merit such an appellation! Debienne's words have absolutely no standing in my book—scurrying off to England because the stress was too much for him! He wouldn't stand up to the monster like a man!"
Philippe started to defend his friend's honor, but Raoul cut him off: "I don't care what you think. This is my battle, and I intend to win it at all costs!"
He began to pace madly in front of the brilliant fire, pausing every few moments to run a hand through his hair. After several rounds in front of the fireplace, he stopped and said, with a defensive kind of apology in his voice, "I don't mean to be so sharp with you, Philippe. You've always been very good to me. I couldn't ask for a better brother." He resumed his pacing, and the comte noticed that the track where he was walking was worn, and the rug's colors starting to fade; obviously he had spent many nights in this restless fashion. "But I can't lose her now."
Philippe watched him concernedly for several minutes, observing his face as it turned from regret to anger to desperation in a hellish cycle. He saw more of his brother in those few, infinite moments than he had seen of him in a lifetime.
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After a tense length of pacing, Raoul stopped once more and stared into the fire in confusion and wonderment. "God," he said, with a bitter smile of amazement. "At what point did Christine become more than just a week's conquest?" Philippe said nothing, and he continued, to no one in particular, "I was just going to renew her acquaintance, enjoy her for a while, then send her on her way when the wedding drew near…."
"It's only three weeks away."
"I know," he snapped. After a moment, he resumed pacing. "But it's much more than that now. I can't let her go." It was as if a fiend had taken residence inside his chest, scratching and clawing at his heart, demanding to touch her, to caress her, to possess her…. Every moment in her glorious presence was like a taste of Heaven, just as every moment without her was like burning in Hell.
He was clenching a fistful of jacket that rested over his heart, squeezing it so tightly that the edge of a metal button drew blood from his palm.
He closed his eyes and savored the pain, though it gave only a little relief from the burning need that raged in his breast. Blood soaked the front of his shirt, but he didn't stop until he had crushed the delicate button into pieces.
He smiled mirthlessly and dropped the pieces into the fire, watching as the blood crackled and spat in the flames. "And I would die before I married Veronique de la Musardiere."
"I think she's quite charming," Philippe ventured.
"Of course you would." Raoul picked up a book at random and began leafing through it to distract himself.
"I've only spent a few hours in her presence, but she strikes me as a kind, noble, and intelligent woman."
Raoul slammed the book shut. "Then why don't you marry her?"
"Because you have promised to do so."
"I can't go through with it!"
"You gave your word."
"I'll have to break it!"
Philippe shook his head in disbelief. "I thought that honor meant everything to you—you're a gentleman, a son of the Chagny house."
"No gentleman could be expected to endure this!"
Raoul stewed in silence for several minutes, until finally turned to face Philippe and grabbed his shoulders. "What do you think I should do?" he demanded.
After a moment of thought, Philippe said tentatively, knowing that his opinion was not what Raoul wanted to hear, "I think that the Comtess de la Musardiere is an absolutely wonderful woman. Were I in your place, I would never even toy with the idea of refusing her hand, honor or no honor. And as you well know, it would be a terrible crime to go back on your word."
"I know, I know!" Raoul snapped.
"But it would also be a crime to enter into a marriage—to vow to love and care for a woman until death—if you can't stand even to be near her."
"Then what can I do?!"
"I think if you spoke to Mademoiselle de la Musardiere privately and told her in a kind way—sparing her feelings as much as possible—"
"Feelings, ha!" Raoul muttered bitterly.
"—that you wish to marry Mademoiselle Daaé, she would agree to break the engagement."
"But—marry her? Don't be absurd!"
"You aren't planning on marrying Mademoiselle Daaé?"
"No! Well, maybe—no, I—I don't know!"
"Then you just want to keep her locked up here as a mistress?" Philippe demanded.
"Yes! No! I don't know! I never meant for it to get this serious!"
"Can't you at least let her return to her own apartment? And what about Idomeneo?"
"Damn Idomeneo!" he shouted, throwing the book to the floor in rage. "I can't let her go! No other man can have her!"
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Christine gazed out at the city, drinking in the beauty of the Seine, appearing in the dim light like a vast silver ribbon, glittering as it wound through the heart of Paris. It was just after three in the morning, according to the massive grandfather clock in a corner, but she couldn't bring herself to sleep. The city seemed to defy the lateness of the hour, its bright lights turning even the distant sky from black to a dim ultramarine. Her balcony faced east, giving her a majestic view of the Seine to the south, Les Ambassadeurs straight ahead, and Notre Dame towering in the distance. She had always dismissed the ancient cathedral as a relic of a foreign religion. But now, rubbing her cross pendant between pensive fingers, admiring the monumental stone towers so far away, silhouetted against the near-darkness, it was enough to bring a mist to her eyes. As soon as Raoul allowed her to leave the mansion, she would visit it; she would kneel at the stone steps in front of its colossal doors and pray for God to help her become a better Christian.
Slowly, she allowed her gaze to wander across the city, basking in the beauty of the Champs Élysées, the Pavillon Ledoyen, up northwards toward the Madeleine…. Beyond the trees she could make out the Opera Garnier; it was too far away for her to see clearly, but she imagined the gold angels gracing the roof would look especially magical in the light of the city. The opening performance was only five days away. She thought about the hallways and the curtains, the seats and the staircases, the music and the costumes, and everything else that she had somehow come to miss. She had been so thrilled to get out of all the work and hassle of opera life, but standing there on her cold marble balcony, shivering as the December air sapped the warmth from her body, her life felt rather dull and pointless.
She tried to shake the ridiculous feeling, telling herself that lounging in luxury was not dull or pointless, and it was certainly better than slaving for a living. But despite how much she loved her new life, with its opulence and fine food and glamour, she missed it all—she missed the rehearsals, the performances, the shouting and chaos of backstage, the music, the lessons…and most of all, she missed Erik. She had expected to miss him when she married Raoul, of course, but she had figured that she would get over it quickly enough. But now all she could think of was his kindness, his beautiful voice, his boundless knowledge…. Just thinking about how his eyes, usually cold and distant as emeralds, would grow soft and warm when he looked at her, made her feel so…
Suddenly she realized what she was doing and abruptly turned and went back inside. How utterly ridiculous, she told herself, shutting the balcony doors with a firm clack. I have everything I've ever dreamed of, and I'm busy thinking about somebody else.
She marched herself to the closet and pulled out one of the brand new gowns Raoul had purchased for her. She ran her fingers over the frills and the lace, forcing herself to admire its beauty. It was an absolutely breathtaking gown, the most expensive she had ever even seen, with tiny pearls sewn into the embroidery and gold dust lining the lace of the sleeves and collar. When she didn't feel the effervescent ecstasy that had so overwhelmed her upon her arrival, she turned to the Marie Antoinette vase in the center of the room; though it was quite dim, the flickering gaslight made the gold filigree upon the porcelain shimmer and sparkle. After a few moments of staring, transfixed, at its beauty, she felt the giddy happiness bubble in her heart again and felt reassured. This vase, and all the lovely gowns in her closet, and all the jewelry strewn around the room, were scratching the surface of all the beautiful things she would have. No, she didn't love Erik. That was absurd. Just a fleeting moment of sentimentality for her old life; it was to be expected. But she would get over it. After all, that distant past, where she slaved to memorize Italian and scrounged for every franc, was nothing compared to the glorious future that awaited her.
She hung the dress back in the closet, extinguished the lamps, and crawled into her luxurious bed, hoping she would feel a little more convinced in the morning.
Falling asleep in such an absurdly soft bed was impossible; she sank into it so deep she was afraid of being smothered. She had been trying to fall asleep for what felt like an eternity, when the rattling of the doorknob roused her from semi-consciousness.
Oh God, she thought, thieves!
The burglar started banging on the door. "Christine, let me in!"
Oh, it was only Raoul. "Just a minute," she said, less than charitably, rubbing her eyes and stumbling towards the door. What could he possibly want at this ungodly hour?
When she opened the door—light streaming so brightly from the hallway that she had to shield her eyes—he entered before she could even invite him in. "Why do you have to keep the door locked? What if I needed to get to you?"
"Then you could knock like a normal person," she said sourly.
"Leave it unlocked, please."
She frowned, first at his request, which he had phrased irritatingly like a command, and then at his appearance, rather insulted that he would enter her presence looking so unkempt. Wasn't he supposed to be wooing her, slaving for her affections, taking care that every hair was in place, every inch of cloth unwrinkled, every word coated with honey? Instead of all these things she had come to expect, Raoul was still in his morning clothes—he hadn't even bothered to change into a dinner jacket!—which by this time had quite lost their fresh, pressed look, and his hair, oily and uncombed, had been swept in an unfashionably wild ponytail. What was worse, he wasn't even bothering to put on an agreeable air for her benefit—he just left the stressed, preoccupied look on his face as if she wasn't important enough to act agreeable for.
"I don't want any servants coming in here without my knowledge." As if it was any of his business at this hour whether or not she locked her door.
"Please, Christine, stop whining about the servants. I have enough to deal with as it is."
"Hmpf! What could you possibly have to deal with? You have everything you could possibly want! Money! Titles! Glamour! Me!"
Raoul sighed. "And with it, my share of problems."
"Did you want something?" she asked, folding her arms. "I'm tired."
"Oh, I'm sorry, my sweet, were you asleep?"
"Yes!"
"I humbly apologize, my precious. But I've been up all night thinking—in fact, I've been thinking for months—and I have just come to a very important decision." Suddenly he moved in to kiss her. Normally she would have enjoyed it—even though his decision to awaken her to blather about something or other was quite annoying—but his eyes were so steely and the kiss so rough and demanding that she was almost frightened.
"Yes," he breathed, grasping her hands and drinking in her body with his eyes, which made her very uncomfortable. "I've decided."
"What are you talking about?"
"I've decided that no matter how low your station, how terribly I'll be looked down upon for breaking my engagement, I have decided to go against all custom, convention, honor, and societal opinion and marry you!"
Christine blinked, completely dumbstruck, and an eternity of confused and racing thoughts seemed to occupy that single moment. "W-what did you say?"she stuttered, unable to raise her voice above a whisper.
"I said that I was going to sever my engagement to the Comtess de la Musardiere at the cost of my honor so that I might marry you!"
She yanked her hands away, absolutely aghast. "Y-you—you—you said that she was Philippe's fiancée!"
His face lost a bit of its madness, replaced by an unsure regret concerning his rash words. "I—I couldn't risk losing you, my angel, my precious—"
"Then you didn't intend—" She cut off, so terrified of his answer that she couldn't get the question out. She clutched the bedpost, trying frantically to fight off the trembling in her hands and the giddy, multi-colored stars that threatened her with a dizzy spell. "Y-you never intended…to…marry…me?"
"I intend to marry you now, Christine! I must have you, I can't let any other man even see you, I can't live without you—" He moved in to kiss her again, but she jumped backward, almost tripping over the bed.
"You lied to me!" she shrieked, furious tears scalding her face.
"Yes, my darling, darling Christine, I did, but only because I love you so much! It wasn't my fault that I was engaged—my parents signed the contract when I was eight years old! I had no say in the matter! But when I met you, I knew I could never marry anyone but you!"
"But you were going to—you just said—until just now!"
"I never could have gone through with it, my sweet, my precious," he said adamantly, clutching her hand with such force that she yelped in pain. "It just took me a while to realize it!"
She sank down on the bed, so absolutely stunned that she was unable to consciously process a thought. She couldn't speak, and her mouth hung uselessly open as she tried futilely to gain control of her thoughts.
"Oh, my darling, I'm so sorry," said Raoul desperately, "I had no idea you'd take it so hard." He released her hand and turned for the door. "I'll just leave you alone—after a good night's sleep you'll feel much better, I'm sure."
He closed the door behind him, and Christine was left sitting on the bed in the dark. She was so numb that she couldn't feel the mattress under her. For a long time she couldn't bring herself to move, to blink, or even breathe, hoping, praying, that it was all just a nightmare. The shock had rendered her unable to register any of her senses, and, combined with the darkness, it was like being one of the souls languishing in the lightless abyss of Niflheim, unable to think or to feel. It didn't matter that Niflheim didn't exist. Nothing mattered.
After a while, when her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, she regained a little of her senses. She slowly laid down, closed her eyes tightly, and tried to sleep, though she knew the effort was futile, hoping she would have a better grip on things in the morning.