Into the Darkness

by EverspringNative

Set in Paris, 1861. A young Erik has spent 10 months as a captive of the gypsies where he is humiliated and abused for his appearance. Following the death of his uncle Erik's life has been consumed with despair while on display as part of the traveling circus-until he meets a ballerina named Madeline (Mme Giry) and finds his way beneath the opera house. (Part of a series.)

16. Hours before the Opera

Chapter 16

Madeline dropped a thick stack of papers bound with string on the table with a heavy thud and gave an exaggerated sigh.

"I went to great lengths to obtain a copy," she said as she tossed her thick braid over her shoulder. "First violin will be quite displeased when he cannot find his music."

My eyes grew wide as I looked from the opera music to her narrowed, slightly perturbed gaze. I could not contain my excitement as I stood, grinning like a fool, and took up the pages, hugging them to my chest.

"Thank you," I said as I carefully placed the bound pages on the table and pulled on the string. Filled with giddy excitement, I sat on the edge of my seat and began rifling through the opera.

Madeline crossed her arms and watched me in silence as I ran my finger along the pages and followed the melody of the overture. Music swelled in my mind and pulsed through my veins. I felt as though Beethoven had written each note for me to discover, a hidden, masterful message.

"This is wonderful," I murmured. "Graceful and yet powerful."

"How did you become so interested in music?" she asked, unknowingly interrupting my thoughts.

I pulled my gaze away from the music and met her eye briefly. "I had nothing else," I answered with a shrug, my attention turned back to the papers set before me. "My parents did not care for me and no one else knew I existed until my uncle took me from their home."

When she did not reply, I glanced up at her and saw Madeline frown and look away as though embarrassed by my revelation.

"I apologize if my question upset you. That was not my intention."

We remained in silence for a moment with Madeline standing with her arms crossed and eyes averted. I had not meant to make her uncomfortable with my answer and feared what she thought of me.

"Music brings me great joy," I continued. "No matter how alone I felt within my parent's home, the sounds from the tavern in the summer at dusk brought an escape. I could listen for hours and imagine a different life far greater than the one I had been given. For days I could carry the tunes in my mind, sometimes rearranging the melody or changing the tempo. The darkness is not so heavy when there is music in my head."

I forced a smile and turned the page, though I had stopped following the music once I thought back to the seaside village and my parents' home.

Madeline smiled wanly. "Have you ever played an instrument?"

Her question made me genuinely smile, and without saying a word, I unwrapped Daae's violin, stood from the table, and took a deep breath. Eyes closed, I played a portion of the music I had finished reading from memory.

Madeline remained silent, her lips parted and eyes wide in shock when I finally looked at her once more. "You...how did you do that?" she asked at last. She looked from me to the music and back again. "You did not miss a single note."

"I should think not," I replied with a great deal of arrogance behind my words.

"You have heard the overture before then? Memorized it, perhaps?"

I shook my head. "I swear to you I have not."

Madeline ran her hands along her arms. "Gooseflesh," she said. "Do you see it?" Her smile widened. "Your skills are remarkable. You must play more."

At once she perched herself at the edge of the nearest chair and clasped her hands, eyeing me eagerly for more entertainment. My impatient audience of one went from disbelief to demanding more music. Pride swelled within me, a sensation so foreign I barely knew how to react.

"Do you want me to play more from Fidelio or-"

"Play whatever you wish," Madeline insisted. She clasped her hands in her lap and sat perched on the edge of her seat as though she could not wait to hear more. Her enthusiasm truly pleased me, and I relished the opportunity to impress her with music.

I thought a moment and played from memory a tune I had heard frequently as a child staring out from the cellar, filthy hands wrapped around the iron bars of my prison. The music was nothing sophisticated or fancy-and from my recollection was accompanied by quite bawdy lyrics and raucous cheering, but the melody was quite playful. I moved to the music, my actions choppy as I had seen the violinist from afar as he teased the women in the crowd. Madeline grinned at my display, and once I finished playing, she stood and clapped in appreciation.

"Did you make that up just now?" Madeline asked as I placed the bow back into the box. Her light eyes looked brighter than before, her features more relaxed than they had been in weeks. I looked at her and realized I was not the only one who had escaped from my life with the help of music.

I shook my head. "A tune from long ago. They played this song several times a night in the tavern in the summer."

"What is it about?"

"A prostitute, I think."

Madeline's cheeks immediately flushed and her eyes grew wide. She leaned forward and gently swatted my hand. "Shame on you using your God given gifts for something so...lewd."

I chuckled to myself. "Mozart next time, then?"

"I will find you more music," she promised. "As much as I can carry."

"There are crates down here filled with symphonies and past operas. Daae's collection, I assume."

"Your collection," she corrected. "You are more talented than Monsieur Daae. Without a doubt you are more talented than everyone in the orchestra combined."

I appreciated her flattery more than she could have possibly known. In my heart, I wished to excel in music. "One day I will…" Play in the theater, I wanted to say.

My voice trailed away as I realized the absurdity of my unspoken words. No amount of talent would see me to the orchestra pit. One look at my face and the Opera House managers would send me away out of fear and disgust. The thought knifed through me, how cruel it seemed to have such passion and no outlet.

"One day you will certainly write your very own opera," Madeline finished my thought for me with her own fairytale spin. "The greatest work the world has ever known. You could truly write whatever you wished and people would flood the theater to hear it. I mean it sincerely."

Her enthusiasm pulled me out of my dismal thoughts, and before I could sulk, Madeline continued to praise my abilities and ask me to play for each night after supper. I nodded in compliance, her obedient servant willing to please. After all she had done for me, I longed to return the favor in any way I could be of service.

"I cannot believe you did not tell me of your extraordinary talent in playing the violin," Madeline admonished. "What other secrets are you hiding?"

"None, I swear it." Besides, perhaps, a few tricks I had learned from the circus, but tricks and pure talent were hardly the same.

"Did your uncle teach you to play?"

I nodded readily. "He taught me to read music and encouraged me to play the violin. He heard music in his mind, even when there is none playing. We were very similar in that aspect." I shrugged and nervously licked my lips. "I hear music all the time."

Madeline eyed me curiously, which made me increasingly self-conscious. Strange, I expected her to say, perhaps unnatural, even. For fear of being more peculiar I had not told anyone else of the notes fluttering through my mind. I was certain the gypsies would have considered it madness. My parents would not have believed me as my father considered me brainless and my mother was usually too consumed by laudenum to know when I was present.

My uncle, on the other hand, also heard complete songs and simple melodies. We said nothing to one another, but often I saw him tap his fingers along invisible piano keys and knew he played music in his mind. Sometimes, when he would catch me watching him, he would smile, wink at me, and ask me to play for him.

"I used to dream of dancing," Madeline said wistfully. "I imagined what it would be like to be the principal ballerina." She extended her right leg and pointed her toes down. "Nothing more than a fantasy now."

"I will make you principal of my opera," I said.

She grinned back, her cheeks flushed. "Perhaps you should make a decision after you see Fidelio. For all you know I have the grace of a cow."

"Your first performance is tomorrow?"

Madeline nodded. "Whether we are ready or not."

"When may I attend?"

"Thursday evening," Madeline said. "I am honestly more excited for you to attend than I am for our opening."

My heart hammered and I nodded, attempting to harness my overwhelming excitement. There was nothing in the world I wanted more than to attend a performance and spend an evening surrounded by music.

"Box Five and Box Six will be vacant, which means there will be no one near that part of the theater for the duration of the performance, however, your view will remain somewhat obstructed as the curtain must remain mostly closed."

I nodded readily. As long as I could hear the orchestra and performers, I did not care much if I were blindfolded.

"And you should stay within the servant's hall until the theater is darkened and the music starts. I feel this would be safest for you to remain unseen."

"I will," I promised, more than ready to sign away my life if meant attending the performance.

She reached into her dress pocket and slid a small slip of paper across the table. "Here," she said. "To make your first opera official."

I plucked the ticket from the table and carefully examined the printed text stating the time, place, and name of the performance. The moment I had longed for now became tangible and real.

"I will keep this someplace safe always," I vowed.

Madeline smiled back at me. "I am happy for you," she said. "Truly, my friend."

I spent my time impatiently pouring over the music as I awaited the second performance of Fidelio. Madeline explained she would not be down to visit after opening night, which left me somewhat disappointed as I longed to hear every detail of what happened on the stage. She did, however, pay me a visit early in the morning prior to the second day and made certain I knew my way through the maze of halls and to the opera boxes.

Although the halls were fairly straightforward, Madeline fussed terribly and made me promise several times I would be cautious and return to the cellar immediately if I was spotted.

She also brought a canvas laundry bag of mens clothing direct from England, which had belonged to her late brother Thomas.

"Are you certain you wish me to take these?" I asked as I loosened the drawstring and peered inside. The clothing was neatly folded and smelled faintly of tobacco and cologne. The scent was pure sophistication, I thought to myself.

Madeline nodded. "My parents did not wish to see his clothing left in a sealed room. They wished it put to use and I told them I had someone in mind."

"Your parents are quite generous and thoughtful."

"You would like them," she assured me.

If they were anything like Madeline, I was certain I would find them quite amiable.

"How was opening night?" I asked.

Her lips curled into a wide smile. "Perfect," she beamed. "And tonight will be even better."

I admired Madeline's seemingly endless ability to find the good in every situation. With her hand gestures and facial expressions, she made me feel as though every facet of the theater was the best in the world. Indeed I was quite convinced she was correct.

"Find something suitable to wear for tonight," Madeline instructed as she walked toward the exit.

I had no idea what was considered suitable and stood obtusely with the canvas bag in hand. Since no one would see me, I wondered why it would matter, but I nodded nonetheless.

Madeline paused, her fingers grazing the door handle as she looked back at me. "White shirt, brown trousers with matching coat, and blue waistcoat with matching cravat," she said. "It's toward the top. You will look very handsome in those colors."

Heat rose to my cheeks as I felt myself blush. "Thank you."

She smiled back at me, clearly aware her words embarrassed me.. "Do not be late. Promise me."

"I swear it."

Once she exited, I deposited the contents of the canvas bag onto my bed and sorted through the clothing with wide-eyed excitement at my good fortune. My uncle had given me spare clothing before we had left his home, but what he had offered me-though quite generous-did not compare to the tailored suits and clean, barely worn shirts and trousers sent from England. Strange how different I felt now that the months of wearing filthy, tattered rags in the traveling fair were behind me. I was a world away from the grotesque monster languishing in a cage. Perhaps not quite a gentleman, but still far removed from my living hell.

There were still hours before the performance, but I dressed myself as Madeline had suggested and looked myself over in the mirror. I swallowed hard and ran my hands along the damask fabric of the waistcoat, fingers circling the fabric-covered buttons. The cravat was lopsided, but I ignored my imperfections and appreciated the near perfect fit of the long sleeved shirt, vest, and trousers.

I imagined myself in the orchestra pit on the eve of my very first public performance and walked to the table to fetch my violin. With a respectful bow to the imaginary maestro, I took my place-first violin, naturally-and played from memory a piece of music I had discovered in one of the boxes. Once I finished, I envisioned the crowd on their collective feet as a thunderous applause filled the theater.

Anticipation vibrated through me, but the sensation was snuffed out as I looked at my watch. I groaned, unable to comprehend how eight more hours stood between me and my first experience at the opera. I dragged my feet across the floor and removed my opera clothing, which I hung with great care, and donned a much simpler shirt and trouser for the time being. Placing all of my new garments into a chest of drawers took no more than twelve minutes, and as I stared at my watch, I felt highly irritated about the passage of time.

Boredom did not suit me, and yet for most of my life I had felt lack of mental stimulation weigh upon my shoulders. Beneath my parents' home I occupied my lonely days with various items they had discarded within the cellar. While other children had tops to spin and dolls as imaginary companions, I stacked tin cans atop wooden boxes and pretended I lived in my own small village with a stage as the centerpiece. Spools of thread became performers, and with a few tools I found stashed away and a broken clock, I managed to make the pieces turn and dance upon cogs hidden beneath a flat board that served as their stage. Wire fastened around pegs became a crude instrument, and for hours on end I entertained myself.

But I was no longer a small child easily sated with primitive toys. Flat on my back with my feet dangling over the edge of the bed, I stared at the beads of water which clung to the stalactites. In the candlelight the cavern ceiling sparkled like an endless chandelier that spanned the length of the cavern.

With a heavy sigh, I rolled onto my belly and faced toward the lake. Eyes narrowed, I studied the ripples in the water created by falling droplets and imagined each one as a note. I moved my fingers along the blanket as a waltz flowed through my mind.

All at once in the back of my mind I saw Gustave Daae in his boat, the oars skimming the smooth surface of the water as he rowed toward the distant shore. He wore a heavy cloak and a wide-brimmed hat with a peacock feather jutting out from the side. The hat obscured his features, but still I saw his devilish smile. He beckoned me to follow him.

Daae's treasure, I thought to myself. There was so much more to be discovered on the other side of the lake. I could practically hear him calling my name, and although it was not quite the siren on the high seas my uncle had spoke of, I felt drawn to it nevertheless.

My heart was set on adventure, and my mind could not tolerate a single moment longer of boredom. I sat upright and grabbed a lantern, which I set at the very edge of the water, then walked the length of the room and retrieved a wooden crate, which I placed on the table. With the use of a hammer I broke off the lid and left it beside the lantern, then found a leather sack in which to hold my clothing.

Eight hours was more than sufficient time to swim across the lake and back again, especially now that I was familiar with the distance and terrain. I stripped down, folded my clothes and secured them into the leather sack, which I slung over my shoulder. Lantern in hand and board in the other, I waded into the lake and paused when I was waist deep in the water. Once the water lapped against my hips, I placed the lantern and sack onto the board, pleased to discover it acted as a raft for my belongings.

As I inched deeper, I clung to the board with both hands and pushed off the bottom of the lake with both feet and glided forward with ease. The board wobbled a bit, but my miniature raft stayed afloat.

"Daae," I said under my breath, each kick of my feet propelling me forward. "I will find your hidden treasure, I swear it."

Once I made it to the other side, I placed my belongings on the shore and pulled myself out of the water. Naked and shivering, I took up the lantern and gazed around in silence, my shoulders hunched and teeth chattering. I waited until a decent puddle formed at my feet and the water was mostly squeezed from my hair before donning my dry clothing. There was a bit of a draft on this side of the lake, and I regretted the oversight of both a towel and my pocket watch, but I told myself it added to the perils of the adventure.

Lantern held high, I plodded along the narrow shoreline with nothing more than my shadow as company. Several minutes passed and the open lake came to an end at an iron grate blocking a stone archway large enough for the boat I had seen previously to pass through. The sound of falling water hinted at a drop off beyond the barrier, and as I crouched down on all fours, I saw a glint of sunlight and wondered if the lake eventually led to the River Seine.

Before I could climb to my feet again, I heard a thump. The unexpected noise drew my attention to the natural wall on my right. Another thump made me scramble to my feet, but instead of retreating, I crept forward and discovered the source of the noise: a wooden door rocking back and forth on its hinges.

I pressed my fingers against the wood and nudged the door forward just enough to make the same sound as it knocked against the door casing. For a long moment I stood in silence and listened for voices on the other side. At last I reached for the door handle and-to my astonishment-the handle turned and door opened.

A smile touched the corners of my lips as I stood on the threshold and peered into the hall before me. Mice squeaked from the shadows, evading the lantern light and thankfully my own eyes.

Similar to the other side of the lake, the hall was wider than I expected. Instead of stairs, however, there was a long, curving ramp with deep ruts from wheelbarrow and wagon wheels. Scrapes along the walls cut into the stone in spots where carts had hit along the turns, and propped against the landing at the top of the second floor were several pickaxes and smaller hand tools. Cobwebs on the tools revealed whatever work had been done here was either completed or abandoned.

My fingers skimmed along the stone wall until I reached a lever with a heavy chain leading up into the darkness far above my head and out of sight. Eyes narrowed, I gave the heavy iron contraption a tug but to no avail.

Rather than continue my fruitless efforts, I followed the ramp upwards, surprised at how warm and muggy the air felt compared to the cooler temperature closer to the lake. Sweat beaded my brow and I wiped my forehead with the back of my hand as I reached the second turn in the long ramp and continued on. There were empty torch holders and hooks for lanterns every twenty paces or so, which led to me to believe this had been quite the bustling work site at one point.

By the third ramp I reached a storage area with empty wagons, various carts, and piles of tools. Several of the carts had Garnier painted in red lettering along the side, as did the barrels and wooden crates stacked one on top of another.

As I looked around the room I noticed two passages; one wide enough for wagons similar to the barn entrance at the rear of the theater, and a smaller doorway with iron bars like a cell. The doorway was chained and secured with a heavy padlock, and the mere sight of the bars sent my thoughts reeling to the traveling fair.

Fear immobilized me and my mouth went dry. I swore I heard music and laughter in the distance, the familiar sounds of the circus. I balled my free hand into a fist, my fingernails pressed into my sweaty palm.

I thought of the names I had been called night after night for months on end, of the weight of the chains on my ankle and the shackles on my wrists. The days melded together, an endless cycle of humiliation and physical torment that should have been buried in the past. But still, weeks later, a single doorway struck fear through me in ways I had not thought possible. The chains were no longer clamped around my flesh but still the heaviness weighed me down.

"No, no, no!" I heard a woman's shrill voice echo through the hall. "Again!"

The sound startled me and I took a step back, my gaze darting around as though the woman would materialize before me.

Light tapping followed her words, followed by a metallic crash above me.

"My word!" the woman shrieked. "Joseph Bouquet, have you any sense at all?"

Her words went unanswered, though I suppose in a way the drunken imbecile did not need to provide further proof.

"Get out of here at once!" the woman shrieked again. "You nearly dropped that lighting fixture on Anne."

Realization hit me that I stood beneath the stage-and that the Anne nearly squashed by a lighting fixture could have been Madeline called by her first name. The thought of my only friend being injured by that worthless fool enraged me.

"That could have been me!" another woman said in a thick Italian accent. "By the grace of God, it was not."

"Off the stage! Off the stage!" the woman with the shrill voice shouted. Their footsteps moved to the left above me, the sound like soft rain on a field. "The Incomparable La Cathedra is here."

Her words were followed by light, somewhat insincere applause. Amused, I smiled to myself as I pictured the plump, red-haired woman from the posters in front of the theater waltzing to the center of the stage in a ball gown showing off her large breasts, diamonds on her neck, and fur coat draped over her shoulders.

I wandered around the room beneath the stage, hoping I would find a suitable spot to hear what apparently was a midday rehearsal. Much to my dismay, their voices seemed the most clear when I stood before the iron bars.

"Beautiful ballet," Cathedra said. "Absolutely ravishing."

"Please, please Senora, would you do us the great honor and sing for us?"

"Si, si, My pleasure, Mistress," Cathedra replied. "A treat for the chorus girls, si?"

More lackluster applause followed her words, then the theater fell silent for such a long time I thought La Cathedra had reconsidered.

In true dramatic flare, she left her audience awaiting her performance, and as she began to sing at last, I held my breath and listened. Gooseflesh rose along my arms as the first notes left her lips. Without thinking I leaned forward, my face pressed to the cold bars.

Her voice was different than any of the female performers I had heard previously. Even muffled through the floor, she sounded exquisit, her range greater than any man or woman I had heard at the tavern or in the traveling fair. Not only did she have the range of a soprano, but she sang with such emotion that I shivered at the sound of her vibrato. While others could carry a tune, The Incomparable Cathedra Di Carlo lived up to her title. I had never heard anyone quite like her.

Before I could process her voice, she ended on a high note that reverberated through the cellar where I stood. It took all of my strength not to shout out, "Brava!" as she ended her impromptu performance.

"You are welcome, you are welcome," La Cathedra said. "We are all stars on the stage! Estrella, as my mother would say, God rest her soul. Ah, she looks down upon me from Heaven, I know it. A true Spanish queen married to the most handsome Italian king, God rest my father's soul as well. Thank you all!"

The other performers applauded at last, and with that, the Incomparable Cathedra graciously thanked them several times as she evidently exited the stage. In my mind I imagined her blowing kisses from her crimson lips, blue eyes barely holding back a flood of tears.

I wondered if she felt a bit crestfallen when the ballet dancers did not shower her with the praise she deserved. Her voice was that of a more mature singer, perhaps someone in the twilight of her best days, but still she was quite impressive and it was clear why there were banners depicting her image at the opera house entrance. Tucked a floor beneath the stage,I regretted that she could not see me and she would never know how much I appreciated her talent. One of the most satisfying parts of playing the violin was sharing the music with others, and I had no doubt Senora di Carlo were akin in that aspect.

My heart raced in anticipation of the upcoming opera. I listened to the soft tap of the dancers on the stage, which was periodically interrupted by the ballet mistress shrieking instructions.

Madeline had not mentioned a rehearsal, and I wondered how she had reacted to the star of the show gracing the stage. While the ballet practiced, I made my way to the double doors wide enough for the wagons and gave the handles a tug. Chains on the opposite side rattled, though the doors separated enough for me to peer through and catch a glimpse of another, much wider incline with visible sunlight at the top. I heard horseshoes clatter against cobblestone, which most likely meant this was an entrance for deliveries.

In my frantic state outside of the theater weeks earlier, I hadn't paid much attention to the building layout with its many entrances meant for performers and deliveries around the back of the building. My sole focus had been a way back into the theater by any means necessary.

"A new adventure for another time," I said to myself. It was time I returned home and prepared for the opera.