Chapitre Trente-Quatre: Idomeneo
Philippe buttoned his overcoat, grimacing into the mirror by the front doors and wishing he were a little more calm. It wasn't as if he were actually taking the Comtess de la Musardiere to Idomeneo; they were just sharing the same box, that was all. It wasn't anything to get flustered about. Still, he'd never escorted a lady to an opera before—what would he say? What topics of conversation were proper? It wasn't as black and white as interaction between a gentleman and his soon-to-be sister-in-law; Raoul, though he had yet to break the engagement, seemed adamantly against going through with the wedding. What was worse, Philippe couldn't decide which choice was more awful—Raoul breaking his word and hurting the comtess, or keeping it and marrying her. It was a terrible thought, this hope that Raoul wouldn't go through with his marriage, but he had become so strange, so violent, so obsessed with Mademoiselle Daaé, that Philippe feared his brother would explode; and he didn't want the comtess or the sweet mademoiselle hurt.
The change in Raoul had been slow in coming, but it was so salient now that it was undeniable. As if it hadn't been bad enough at the beginning—what with his horrible plans to use the innocent girl and then discard her—it was much, much worse now. He was obsessed, consumed by the thought of owning her completely, keeping her locked away—a madman with a captive love.
Philippe rested his hands on the foyer table and sighed, wishing there were a way he could help his brother, and Mademoiselle Daaé, who needed his help even more. Raoul was keeping her completely sequestered now, refusing to let anyone see her, even his own brother, who surely harbored no intentions towards her—so great was his jealousy. Every time he had tried to broach the subject, Raoul had become furious and refused to speak to him.
As if summoned by the comte's thoughts, Raoul appeared in the foyer. "Have a good time," he offered, though his voice was neither pleasant nor genial. He looked rather unkempt, and Philippe wondered if the stress was getting to him. However, he did seem slightly more placid than usual, for which Philippe was glad.
"I'll try. I hope the comtess understands my nervousness."
Raoul, who had been on his way out, halted. "You're taking Veronique?"
"Not taking her—the managers accidentally sold her box to a Madame la Trémoille, who was so excited to get to attend the performance that the comtess couldn't demand her seats back. So I—I offered her the extra seat in our box, since you weren't going." He wrung his hands and checked his appearance in the mirror, wondering if his hair was damp from all the sweat he imagined it had sustained. "I don't know what I'll say to her."
To Philippe's surprise, Raoul actually laughed—it was merely a shadow of the warm, duendous man he used to be, but it filled the comte with hope. "Relax, Philippe—she talks incessantly. All you have to do is sit back and pretend to listen. Knowing you, you'll actually listen and understand whatever she's blathering on about."
Philippe was so distraught that he let his brother's unfair words pass without comment. "Mon Dieu, I can't do this—I haven't escorted a lady anywhere in ten years, my palms are sweating, my mind's a farrago—"
"See, there you go—talk to her about whatever that word means."
"I-it means a confused mixture—it's Latin for a blend of different grains—it originated around sixteen-thirty—"
"There you go," Raoul said again, quite drily. "She'll be impressed."
Philippe smiled fondly and laid a hand on Raoul's shoulder, every good memory between them coming to his mind at once. They had been good friends over the years, despite the difference in their ages and personalities. He prayed that this obsession would pass, and his brother would be restored to his old self.
"Thank you for your encouragement," he said. "But why don't you come? What will you do here all night?"
Raoul faltered, and for an instant Philippe saw the calm congeniality slip, replaced by a burning light the likes of which the comte had never expected to see in his brother's eyes.
"Oh, just sit around, I expect," he said finally, reviving his serene smile.
"Perhaps I should stay—"
"No," said Raoul, with firmness bordering on a command. Then he added, in a more agreeable tone, "I mean, you should enjoy yourself once in a while. It's a great opera, I'm sure. And the centennial performance, and everything."
"Yes, you're right," said Philippe, rather reluctantly. It probably wasn't anything. And he couldn't be policing his brother's every move—Raoul probably needed some time by himself to think things out.
Raoul followed Philippe to the door. "Goodnight."
Philippe accepted the hat his brother was offering and stepped out the door. "Goodnight," he said hurriedly, before Raoul shut the door behind him. He checked his pocket watch and hurried out to the cabriolet; he didn't want to be late to pick up the comtess. But as he reached to open the carriage door, he glanced back at the house, and wondered if he was making a terrible mistake.
# # # # # # # # # # # # # # #
Raoul stood at the door for a long moment after his brother had left. He'd feared that Philippe would never leave. Another few moments and he might have—well, it didn't matter. Philippe was out of the house, and the servants had been well-paid to take the night off; the time had finally come to satiate the hellish, burning drive that had consumed him for so long.
At first it had just been a pleasant sensation, like the warm air from a fireplace, but now it was as if his body were encased in a torturer's device of white-hot metal, burning ever hotter, with never a moment's relief, screaming for him to give in—and tonight was that night.
Ever since he had seen Christine on that stage, singing the part of Marguerite, an apparition of the devil trying to ensnare Faust's soul—Raoul couldn't help but smile at the irony—he knew he would never be satisfied until he had possessed that beautiful, beautiful body. The desire was so powerful now—like its own entity, sentient, a starving beast howling for meat—that he hadn't been able to do a single thing for the past two days, waiting, endlessly waiting, for the house to be empty…so he could finally quench the pain of that burning fire.
He glanced up the stairs towards her room, and he felt a feverish shiver race across his flesh as he contemplated what the night would hold.
# # # # # # # # # # # # # # #
Christine sat on her bed, aimlessly turning the pages of the Bible in her lap, trying to keep herself from glancing at the balcony doors. She should be at the Garnier right now, running over last-minute lines, putting on her costume, sneaking a look at the audience through the curtains, thanking Erik for slaving to make her a diva. But she had something better; she had to remember that.
She picked up a massive gold brooch from the jewelry box on her nightstand and rubbed it between her fingers; though its circumference was easily the size of an orange, and its weight hinted at an unspeakable price, she couldn't conjure up any of the happiness she had always associated with such exquisite wealth.
Unable to console herself, she kept hold of the brooch and chose a page at random, holding the Bible up to her eyes to block the Garnier from sight and trying to focus all her attention on the words:
"Being filled with all unrighteousness, fornication, wickedness, covetousness, maliciousness; full of envy, murder, debate, deceit, malignity…"
She blinked, surprised at the length of the list. Usually such a long sentence, especially in the Bible with its confusing language, would bore her, but strangely, she had turned to a passage that made sense.
"…whisperers, backbiters, haters of God…
"…despiteful, proud, boasters…
"…inventors of evil things, disobedient to parents…"
She stopped, unable to go on. Every word seemed to leap out at her, cold and biting, accusing her of every single transgression. She had disobeyed her father, she had coveted luxury, she had participated in envy, deceit, pride, boastfulness, and everything else. Even the ones she had not committed seemed to twist into some shameful action she was guilty of: she had never hated God, but she had blamed him for her own stupid choices; she had never committed murder, but she might as well have driven a dagger through Erik's heart for every cruel thing she had done to him.
She did not want to read the rest, but she seemed to hear the remaining words in her mind, in a deep, cold voice so loud she clapped hands to her ears to keep her eardrums from bursting.
"WITHOUT UNDERSTANDING," the Bible accused her, each word seeming to swell on the page larger than the one before it.
"COVENANT-BREAKERS," the voice proclaimed, and she screamed in agony. "WITHOUT NATURAL AFFECTION."
She felt shame and guilt twist in her gut, and as tears sprang to her eyes, she turned her head so she wouldn't see any more. But she couldn't block out the voice:
"IMPLACABLE,
"UNMERCIFUL!"
Suddenly she couldn't hold the tears back, and they soaked the condemning words and blurred the ink until it was unreadable; but she could still see the letters staring up at her, knowing, accusing, reviling.
"I know, I know," she sobbed, covering the page with her hand. "I'm worthless and stupid and don't understand anything—I lie and steal, I've been the most unmerciful person on earth, and I've thrown away Erik's love for—for—this!" she screamed, flinging the brooch at the beautiful vase she had admired so much.
As it shattered, she leapt out from under the suffocating covers and ripped the jewelry from her ears and fingers. Her choker exploded as it hit the floor, sending luminous pearls flying in every direction.
She grabbed a coat from the foot of the bed and strode towards the door, gripping the Bible to her heart. She couldn't stay here a moment longer!
She raced through the hallways and down stairs until she reached the grand staircase. Without glancing around, without even recognizing the magnificence of that beautiful foyer, she flew down the steps, eyes locked on the front doors.
Her fingers were mere inches from the knob when an arm appeared out of nowhere to block her path.
"Where are you going, my sweetling?"
There was something odd in Raoul's voice, but she didn't stop to think about it. She tried to pry his arm away from the door, tears blurring her vision. "I can't stay here any longer!" she cried.
"Why not, my pet? Haven't I given you everything you've always wanted?"
"Yes, but I don't love you anymore, I love Erik!"
The declaration reverberated off the walls with unexpected force and hung on the air between them. The power of the statement surprised Christine, but she refused to back down.
She started to thank Raoul for everything he'd done and apologize for the engagement she was about to break when she caught sight of his eyes—cold and sharp like ice, glittering with a maniacal hardness bordering on insanity that froze her insides. She couldn't force her mouth to form any words, or even coerce her lungs to exhale the stale air.
After a moment of silence, Raoul smiled—a hard, icy smile that did nothing to warm those terrifying eyes. "You can't go." He reached out and touched a lock of her hair. "I've worked too hard to let you get away—especially without claiming my prize."
"Prize?" she repeated, confused and frightened, taking a step back. Though her attention was elsewhere, she noticed that his hair was wild and his clothing obviously days old, which, combined with the stubble on his face and the circles under his eyes, dark enough to be bruises, made him look quite unlike the dashing vicomte that had stopped her heart with his handsomeness and gentility.
He stepped forward. "I've never gone to so much trouble for any girl—months of wooing and planning, aching and burning for the night when I could finally enjoy the fruits of my labors."
"Fruits?" she said stupidly, as a horrible realization began to dawn on her.
"The desire has grown so monstrous, so burning, that I can't enjoy the affections of any other woman, no matter how beautiful—"
"Other women!" gasped Christine, shrinking farther back. There were other women, even besides the fiancée?! No, it couldn't be true—
He ignored her. "But tonight is finally the night."
She stared at the man she had loved mere weeks, days, before, aghast with horror. The beautiful details of the foyer faded into grey, and the world felt cold and unreal, like a nightmare. "You mean—" She choked on the words. "You mean you seduced me—lied to me—so you could—"
"Come on now," said Raoul, rather more softly, though with a ravenous impatience. "Don't fight me—think of all I'm willing to give you! Diamonds, silks, rubies, whatever you want—I was even going to degrade my Chagny heritage by marrying you!"
She wanted to collapse, but her mind had completely shut down, and she couldn't gather enough consciousness even for that. Her body felt numb, but she could feel scalding tears on her cheeks. She wanted to say so many things—curse him for lying, pray that it wasn't true, beg him to say that it was just a joke—but her lips would only form two words, over and over: "Oh God…oh God…"
Raoul advanced forward, eyes blazing, face set in a mixture of lust and greed and insanity so terrifying that it was like looking into the face of Satan—and for the briefest instant, she could almost feel the flames of Hell envelop her as he drew nearer.
"No!" she cried. She forced her body out of its coma and raced up the stairs, tripping more than once as she tried to regain control of her limbs.
Raoul snarled, swiping at her like an animal, and started up after her.
She flew through the endless labyrinth of gilded hallways, running as fast as her muscles would allow, screaming for someone to help her—but there was no one.
Before long she tripped and the seam of her nightgown tore up past her knees. Raoul almost caught her, but she managed to jump to her feet and run faster than before, now uninhibited by the narrowness of the skirt. He yelled terrible things at her as she ran, curses and desperate supplications. She tried to find the staircase back down to the entrance, but she was hopelessly lost.
After what felt like a hellish eternity of running, the week's lethargy was beginning to tell; she couldn't get any air, and a pain erupted in her side that renewed the flood of tears. Near-blinded by the tears in her eyes, she threw a glance behind her and saw to her horror that Raoul was catching up. She was on the brink of collapse, and there was no escape. God, oh God, what was she going to do?
Suddenly she saw her room up ahead and remembered the torches on the balcony. As Erik's promise echoed in her mind, a brilliant hope, like a beacon, she threw her last vestiges of strength into her burning legs.
She threw open her door and leapt inside just as Raoul made it to the doorway. He reached to grab her, and she slammed the door shut on his hand. Raoul bellowed in rage and jerked his hand out of the way, and she managed to lock the door the instant before he threw his weight against it.
"CHRISTINE!" he roared, pounding against the wood. "CHRISTINE, DAMN YOU, UNLOCK THE DOOR!"
Christine started to run towards the balcony and tripped on a large oriental rug. As she fell, she felt something in her leg tear.
She grasped the bed frame to haul herself up, spurred on by the sound of Raoul trying to wrench the doorknob out of its socket.
"CHRISTINE, YOU STUPID, STUPID LITTLE RAT, YOU BELONG TO ME! OPEN THIS DOOR OR I SWEAR, YOU'LL REGRET YOU WERE EVER BORN!"
It was a solid oak door secured with over-sized, antique iron hinges, meant as needless extravagance; it would keep him out, but not for very long.
Christine cast around for something to light the torches, and her eyes landed on the book of matches she kept on her nightstand for lighting the gas lamps. As she reached she fumbled them and they fell to the floor. She scrambled to retrieve them and then raced for the balcony.
She unlocked the bolt and threw open the doors, eyes stinging from the harsh wind that slammed into her face. She gasped in between the sobs that wracked her body, trying desperately to force her lungs to take in the freezing air, so cold that it set them on fire.
Her eyes, already full of tears, were clouded even further by the thick snow, falling so hard and fast that it felt like stones on her skin. She hunched over and tried to strike a match, crying out in horror as her quaking hands broke stick after stick.
A deafening thud came from the other side of the door, and the hinges screamed in pain. He was only moments away from breaking the door down.
Christine finally got a match to light, and, struggling to keep her numb fingers from dropping it, she thrust it into the heart of the torch.
She stared into the rusty grime of the torch's cage, desperately searching for a glimmer of light, but there wasn't even a spark. The pitiful remnant of ancient oil wasn't enough to combat the driving snow.
She heard Raoul throw himself against the door again, and as the wood cracked, she cried out for God to help her.
For a moment there was nothing but darkness, and bitter tears froze on her face as she realized there was no escape from the horrors she was about to face with the crash of that door. Then suddenly, inexplicably, the oil caught the match's dwindling flame, and the torch erupted into a brilliant pillar of orange fire.
She shrieked and stared at the torch, motionless with amazement, filled with a sudden bright and wonderful hope, until another horrible thud brought her back to reality. She tried hastily to light the other torch, but to no avail.
Raoul yelled something beastlike and unintelligible, like a devil snarling for blood. Christine cast frantic eyes across the balcony for a way down, but she was two stories up, and there wasn't a trellis or anything to climb.
Another crash brought a sound of splintering that chilled her to the bone. With a prayer that one flame was enough, she hurried back into the room and wedged a chair under the doorknob. It wouldn't stop him for long. Though her body was on fire, she tried to drag a heavy armoire over to serve as a barricade.
She screamed as a muscle tore, but, cradling her arm, she hobbled to a table and dragged it along the floor instead, desperation winning out over pain.
The ensuing minutes, filled with shouting, the endless crashes against the door, were the longest of her life. She tried to pile as much furniture against the door as she could, but by this time the pain had practically rendered her a cripple, and all the furniture in the world wouldn't stop the hinges from breaking eventually.
She searched the room for something to defend herself, but she couldn't find so much as a letter opener. The lamps were too heavy and cumbersome to wield, and the largest sharp instrument she could find was a fountain pen.
Christine collapsed against the foot of the bed, chest heaving as she tried to get enough air, and prayed for a miracle. Her face was cold and wet with tears, but now the adrenaline and shock coursing through her kept her from crying. She felt cold, numb, and unable to think of anything besides the crashes coming faster and louder against the door.
As the minutes ticked by, each feeling longer than a day, her hope slowly dwindled into despair. Erik wouldn't reach her in time. She closed her eyes, thinking of him, and began to cry again. She would never be able to tell him that she loved him.
Suddenly the door came crashing down against the meager barricade. In desperation she kicked over a small table and jumped on one of the legs, hoping to use it as a club. As it cracked and broke loose, one of her feet crumpled as it hit the floor and her ankle flared with a burst of pain.
She was afraid she wouldn't be able to stand, but as Raoul shoved a desk out of the way and threw open the door, she managed to use her good leg to stagger to her feet.
Raoul had been shouting ceaselessly, screaming terrible profanities and death threats, but as he stood in the doorway, a cold, insane smile lighting his face, his voice became quiet:
"You don't know how long I've waited, Christine." His words had an incoherent quality, like the rambling murmurs of a man unconscious from fever. "How every look, every action of yours, so innocent, so damned innocent, forbade me from seducing you…. You have no idea just how much you've tortured me, Christine. Even looking at you now, so close to being conquered, I can still feel my heart twisting, tearing, inside my chest, unable to bear that I couldn't have you…. But the tortured days—the sleepless nights—are over now."
As he stepped closer, she raised the oak club. "Don't come near me!"
His laughter froze every muscle in her body, and suddenly she didn't have enough feeling in her hands to grip the wood. As he started forward she stumbled away, unable to keep her feet.
The terror had so gripped her that she couldn't form a conscious thought. She backed out onto the balcony, her heartbeat so deafening that it drowned out Raoul's words as he slowly—triumphantly—walked towards her.
She felt the rail against her back and realized that she could go no farther. As Raoul laughed and stepped through the balcony doors, she opened her mouth in a silent scream.
Suddenly an arm wrapped around her waist and she felt herself hoisted up into the air. She had lost such control over her thinking that she thought she had died, and the angels were carrying her soul away. But as the angel scaled the rope up to the roof, she looked up into its face.
"Erik!" she cried, feeling such an overwhelming rush of emotions that she almost fainted.
Raoul's shout of anger was like the roar of a fearsome beast. For a moment he stood there, gripping the railing and snarling, until they disappeared onto the roof. Christine thought she heard him race back inside as she, safe and warm in Erik's arms, fainted dead away.