Chapter 12: The Masque of the Red Death
Despite his lingering resentment, Erik had to admit that the managers had done a good job preparing for the New Year's Eve masquerade.
The Opera Garnier shone brightly that evening. The whole central space was brimming with stunning golden decorations, colourful costumes, excited voices and soft music. And even if it was just a way to cover all their previous shortcomings, he felt that he had to give Messieurs Andre and Firmin some credit for their efforts. The events they had planned were carried out almost faultlessly – starting from the danced and sung official greeting performed by the masked cast, continuing with the formal meetings and announcements, and ending with the splendorous ball.
Hidden in the empty space in one of the columns, Erik glanced down at the guests and the opera employees who had started to gather at the base of the Grand Staircase for another short, scheduled interlude. His gaze skipped to his pocket watch; the numerals were barely visible in the gloom, but he was able to see that he had two, maybe three minutes left.
A small lump formed in his throat.
Part of him once again asked if he was making the right choice. It was not like he would get another chance to convey what he needed to say, though, was it? And he couldn't just watch helplessly as everything he had worked for shattered into pieces again.
His jaw muscles tightened.
The watch's hands reached their destination, and at that same moment the large grandfather clock, which had been placed on the landing as part of the night's decorations, began to strike the hour. The gas flames around and above it wavered slightly, as if touched by a ghostly gust. A hushed murmur went through the crowd.
A heartbeat later, the lights sputtered again, then dimmed fully, thanks to the mechanism he had placed in the gas valve cabinet. The hall, full of chuckles and merry conversations just a moment before, filled with confused whispers, the music breaking off abruptly. The clock's last strike sounded eerily in stillness.
It was time for his own performance.
Curling his hands into fists, the Phantom slipped out of his hideout and stepped onto the darkened top level of the empty stairs. After a second or two, the gas lamps beside him burst into full bloom, eliciting a few gasps as his silhouette was revealed to the audience.
All eyes turned to him and, though he knew that it would happen, the familiar invisible band closed around his chest.
His face – save his mouth and chin, which were just painted in a skeleton-like characterisation – was almost completely covered by a skull-shaped mask, but suddenly that no longer seemed enough. Anxiety crept closer to him, surrounding him like cold, writhing tendrils of mist. Scraps of unwanted memories, dissonant and choking, stirred at the back of his mind.
With a flash of anger, Erik stifled the echoes before they could grow.
He had a task to fulfil and he could not let anything stop him. Especially such a pitiful display of weakness.
Gritting his teeth, the Opera Ghost straightened up and slowly started down, forcing himself to focus on the role he had to play. His shadow spilled across the light marble in a crawling patch of darkness. The scarlet cape of his Red Death costume billowed behind him with every step, each move followed by dozens of gazes.
One. Two. Three. Four. Five. And–
"Fondest greetings, good mesdames et messieurs!" His arms spread wide, and his booming voice rolled over the room. "I know it's been a while since you last heard from me, but I wouldn't be the proper Phantom of this place if I abandoned the Palais Garnier, would I?" His line of sight moved to Gilles Andre and Richard Firmin, accompanied by the first tenor and the first soprano. The four stood rooted to the ground with their mouths slightly parted.
Erik swallowed hard, and his tone tinged with a trace of guilt.
"Our cooperation did not start off well, but I still believe that we are not beyond finding agreement. I myself overstepped the boundaries of a polite dispute too with my last intervention during the premiere of Il Muto, and for that I would like to deeply apologise." He inclined his head in a short bow. "As the Opera Ghost, my sole purpose is to serve music and the theatre. And I only hope that, after recent mistakes, our managing directors might finally realise that my letters are only meant to help…" A few darker notes slipped into his words. The managers twitched.
Well, they should be happy that he hadn't mentioned aloud last week's ill-conceived idea of "improving" the scenography mechanism. That could have ended in utter catastrophe if some of the stagehands hadn't had enough brains to stop it.
Erik straightened again, resuming his descent. The main actors and workers of the opera, standing at the base of stairs, drew back a little, astonishment on their faces mixing with slight unease. The people gathered in the further parts of the current ballroom seemed more intrigued than worried, though. A few of them shifted, exchanging confused looks, but no one tried to do anything more, their gazes locked on him in silent anticipation.
Good.
It was all going according to his plan – to make the majority suspect it was all just another attraction of the night's ball and shock the few others enough to prevent them from taking any action. The only one he had to watch out for now was the young viscount.
The Phantom's eyes flitted over the assembled, finding Raoul de Chagny just in time to see him leaning down towards Christine. The aristocrat whispered something into her ear, furrowing his forehead, then spun on his heel, disappearing among the other masquerade participants in the direction of the cloakrooms.
That meant the Opera Ghost didn't have much time left. Probably even less than he had originally expected.
Erik cursed inwardly and forced himself to concentrate.
"I've come to made amends," he resumed loudly, stepping onto the landing and keeping his posture strong and straight, "and thus, as a sign of my good will, I bring a finished score of my new opera." His right hand, holding a leather bound folder, rose with a flourish and placed it on the thick railing post. "In return, I only ask that my future advice at least be discussed briefly – not disregarded without a single thought…" The Phantom sent the managers a heavier glare, and then turned back to his audience.
In the sea of astonished people, his eyes caught a glimpse of Madame Giry and her daughter. Concern visible on their faces merged with something strangely close to disappointment and sadness.
A pang of guilt pierced his chest, and Erik quickly averted his gaze, pushing the feeling away.
"As I've said," he began again, "I've come to apologise and reconcile. And there is still one more person who deserves my deepest apology. The person whom I had the honour to teach. And whom I unintentionally failed and scared, even though it was the last thing I wanted…" His intonation wavered, imbuing with regret.
Swallowing hard and trying to keep his vocal cords under control, Erik gazed down at the base of the stairs.
Christine stood there, even though most of the other cast members had moved away. Her wide, dark brown eyes looked up at him uncertainly, and something in his throat tightened even more.
"Now, my only hope is that one day Mademoiselle Daaé will be able to forgive me…" Shards of emotions slipped into his quietened tone, in spite of his efforts.
A few surprised gasps escaped from the crowd at the declaration, quickly turning into a hushed murmur, but he almost didn't hear them. His attention was focused on just one person – the dark-haired soprano whose voice had once broken through the darkness surrounding him.
In her expression, he could still see a shadow of fear, but Christine didn't back away from him as he hesitantly took another two steps in her direction. His heartbeat quickened in a nervous accelerando.
Erik stopped in the middle of the lower flight of the stairs. If he moved just a bit farther, he could reach for Christine's hand, but he didn't dare. Instead, his fingers clenched nervously at his sides, grasping only empty air.
"Christine…" His words were barely louder than a whisper. "I–"
"STAY AWAY FROM HER!"
A loud shout made them both snap their heads towards the centre of the hall, where they saw Raoul de Chagny storming towards them in long strides. The whispers around them rose in crescendo as the gathered moved out of the viscount's way, their gazes skipping from one man to the other.
It certainly wasn't the show Erik had wanted to give.
Cursing, the Opera Ghost glanced back at Christine, but she had already moved away from him, turning towards her childhood friend. A moment later, the aristocrat placed himself protectively before her. His perfect features creased with undisguised dislike and contempt.
"I don't understand what your goal is, monsieur," he said coldly, "but I'm sure that pretending to be the Opera Ghost and threatening others isn't the way a gentleman should behave." Raoul de Chagny raised his chin, and his usually jaunty gaze turned hard. "Therefore, I would like to kindly ask you to quit this masquerade at once and explain yourself in a civil manner. Otherwise, I'm afraid I will have to treat you as a threat…" The insolent boy's hand rested defiantly on the hilt of the straight sabre that was now strapped to his belt.
Erik barely suppressed the urge to reach for his own blade and give the fop just what he wanted. Anger flared up inside him, but he forced himself to summon an indulgent half-grin. His jaw clenched.
"I would gladly accept your invitation, Monsieur le Vicomte," he drawled in response, "but I'm afraid that your idea of civil doesn't exactly align with keeping the Opera Ghost's secrets." His left hand rose in a half nonchalant, half apologetic gesture, and he backed away a few steps, placing his right palm on the landing's balustrade. His fingers curved around its edge, discreetly finding a switch hidden just beneath it.
"I regret that I have to leave your company already, mesdames et messieurs," he stated loudly, "but it seems I'm no longer welcome here. So for tonight, please, allow me to bid you my humble farewell and wish you all a marvellous night." He bowed politely, but his eyes grew dark again as soon as he turned back towards Raoul de Chagny and gritted his teeth.
"If I were you, monsieur," he ground out icily, "I would consider twice the idea of confronting the Red Death. However, if you wish to play the role of a hero, then you are more than welcome to try to follow after me." His cape swirled as he spread his arms, stepping onto the large seal on the floor. The ground shifted slightly under his feet as the unlocked mechanism activated. His mouth twisted in a satisfied scowl. "Of course, only if you find enough courage to do so…" A second later, a ring of flames burst high into the air around him, bringing a cacophony of shouts.
As the Phantom plummeted down, engulfed by the released trapdoor, the viscount's enraged face was the last thing he saw.
Author's notes:
1) I think that most people know it, but Erik's costume in the musical and here is inspired by the short story "The Masque of the Red Death" written by Edgar Allan Poe (first published in 1842).
2) Accelerando (Italian) – a gradually increasing tempo of music. Crescendo (Italian – literally "growing") – a gradual increase of loudness in music (according to online music dictionaries I checked to write this fanfiction).