by Colette Gale
Enthralled
by Colette Gale
Published by Avid Press at Smashwords
Copyright 2013 Colette Gale
Previously published by The Penguin Group, North America.
UNMASQUED © 2007, 2014 Colette Gale
All rights reserved.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Title Page
Dedication
Epigraph
Biographer’s Note
Part I
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
SIX
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Part II
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty- five
Biographer’s Afterword
Letter from the Author Regarding Her Next Work
Other Seduced Classics
~
For all the women who thought Christine
should have stayed with the Phantom
~
Parisians are always at a masked ball.
—Gaston Leroux
The Phantom of the Opera
Biographer’s Note
* * *
Many versions of the Paris Opera House and its alleged “Phantom of the Opera” have been told in the last century and a half. Gaston Leroux’s tale has often been considered the most accurate because it was based on official reports filed in Paris at the time of the events in question.
Hollywood, in its turn, has interpreted the book in different ways, taking dramatic license where and when the producers and directors wished. The most famous version, the wildly successful stage musical by Andrew Lloyd Webber, subsequently adapted for film, promoted yet a different version of the story.
It was not until this author received the personal diaries of Miss Christine Daaé (and validated their authenticity) that the true story became known: the story that appears in this volume.
Initially, this author’s intention was to keep the diaries private in deference to Miss Daaé’s family, and that of the Chagny brothers, but upon further consideration, I came to feel that in all fairness to Christine and Erik, the truth could no longer be obscured.
For decades, as the romantic, horrific legend of the Phantom of the Opera has been told, Erik has been portrayed as a murderous villain, Christine as the helpless, manipulated ingenue, and Vicomte Raoul de Chagny as the brave, love-struck swain.
In fact, the actual events of those months at the Opera House are quite different from the official version promoted by Monsieur Leroux and the Parisian officials (most likely, in this author’s opinion, in order to protect the reputation, and influence, of the Chagny family).
Much of what is purported to be fact by these sources apparently came from a mysterious individual identified only as “the Persian,” who claimed to be an intimate of the Opera Ghost. In fact, in all research and in the documents that make up the basis of this author's studies, there is no such person or entity either described or alluded to. It can only be construed, then, that this mysterious personage was merely a figment of the imagination of Leroux and the Parisian officials, created in their attempt to clear all blame from the Chagny brothers.
Thus, the story that appears in this volume is taken directly, and in all explicit detail, from the diaries and journals of Christine Daaé. I have also included details from her personal letters from the ballet mistress Madame Maude Giry, with whom Christine apparently developed a deep friendship after the events described herein.
This, then, is the entire story of Christine, Erik, and the Chagny brothers—the truth, once and for all.
* * *
Colette Gale
August 2007
Part I
The Phantom of the Opera
* * *
ONE
* * *
Paris, 1887
Christine Daaé closed her eyes as the heavy, sumptuous silk billowed down over her laced form. She’d never dreamed she’d wear a costume of such finery, with the glitter of so many gems and the gushing fall of lace from every edge and flounce.
The silk was pale rose pink and the jewels a rainbow of crimsons, fuchsias, and peridot green. Lace of all tones of white—pure snow, blue white, eggshell, aged ivory—dripped from the sleeves and brushed the floor. Tiny rosettes of pink and red silk grew in the holes of the lace pattern.
The costume was heavy and smelled like Carlotta’s cloying rose perfume, and when it surrounded her, it clogged Christine’s nose and caused her eyes to water. The aroma was not the pure scent of roses sent by her Ange de Musique, the scent that she gladly buried her nose within and drew deeply from. The smell from Carlotta’s discarded costume was rank and overpowering, just as Carlotta herself was.
Yet, and yet…Christine would wear it, for tonight she was to take the prima donna's place in more than her gown. She would sing the aria of Juliet, from Gounod’s Roméo et Juliette, in front of the entire Opera House because Carlotta, the Opera House's star, had stormed off in a great snit earlier today.
During rehearsal, one of the backdrops had fallen from its moorings a bit too close to the very costume Christine was now donning, but which at that time had been worn by the diva Carlotta. She had just had the pleasure of meeting the Opera House's two new managers, Messieurs Moncharmin and Richard, when the wooden pole clattered to the stage. It brushed the edges of her gown, landing in a loud thump at her feet.
Carlotta bolted away as quickly as her generous form would allow when the length of heavy canvas tumbled to the ground, her bosoms and jowls bouncing and her outraged screams echoing in the sudden silence. She clapped her hand to her chest, sending off a puff of white powder from her bosom. “How dare it! How dare it!” she shrieked, yanking off her tall, feathery headdress and tossing it at one of the costumiers. “La Carlotta is ill! La Carlotta shall not sing!”
She stalked off the stage and disappeared in a froth of skirts and feathers, the new managers staring after her in shock.
Horrified whispers skittered around the stage and pit in her wake.
“It is the Opera Ghost!”
“He has done it again.”
“She could have been killed!”
“It was he who stole my powder puff,” hissed one of the dancers.
“He moves like a shadow,” added another.
“An evil creature he is,” chortled Joseph Buquet, the chief stagehand, bugging his eyes out to frighten the young dancers. “His eyes are like coals! His teeth blackened and rotted. His face is stretched tight, and yellow, and his black clothes hang from his bones. He will hunt you down and eat you for dinner!”
Madame Giry, the mistress of the corps de ballet, silenced the gossip with a sharp snap of her fingers and the glare of her jet-bead eyes. “Do not speak of what you do not know,” she ordered, looking sharply at Buquet, who had not troubled to keep his voice to a whisper. “Now, to work! You also, Sorelli. You might be our star dancer, but you must still focus on your practice!”
She directed the dancers behind the steel curtain that separated the ballet foyer from the rest of the stage. Mairie, the lead choreographer, bade the performers to continue their practice. If whispers and undertones continued, Madame Giry did not hear them…or, at least, did not acknowledge them.
It was surely a most unfortunate occurrence to happen on the very day the two new managers took over the reins of the famous Paris Oper
a House. The outgoing managers, Debienne and Poligny, had been respected and feared by the performers. But these new managers, Messieurs Richard and Moncharmin, who came from the trash-removal business, looked merely wide-eyed and full of consternation.
“Opera Ghost?” Christine, who had been standing near enough to hear their conversation, overheard Monsieur Moncharmin ask his companion. “Debienne and Poligny mentioned nothing about such a thing when they turned over this Opera House! What can be meant by this?”
Monsieur Richard, the taller and more dapper of the two men, tucked his hands in his waistcoat pockets and tipped onto his toes, murmuring in response to his companion, “Likely it is nothing but some bizarre legend, Armand. We are now in the theater business! They have many superstitions and stories and we shall learn of them as we progress. I’m sure it shall prove to be quite entertaining, in more ways than one.” He chuckled indulgently, then sobered. “More importantly, how shall we replace La Carlotta for tonight’s gala performance? There is no one else who can sing with such grace.”
“We cannot cancel the performance,” Moncharmin muttered. “Chagny shall be attending and everything must be in order.”
Then, before Christine could blink an eye, Madame Giry had whisked over from her management of the dancers and pulled her forward, thrusting her in front of the managers. “Miss Daaé will be a more-than-adequate replacement for La Carlotta this evening. Her singing has improved enormously in the last three months.”
Monsieur Richard looked down at Christine, arching one brow as he scanned her simple chorus costume, patched where it had been burned by a careless hair-curling iron, and frayed at the skirt’s hem. Christine’s palms dampened as she clasped her hands together, uncertain whether to dread or hope. It was the chance she’d never thought she’d have. “One of the dancer girls? I do not see how—”
“Come, Richard, it cannot hurt to give the girl a chance,” Moncharmin prodded. “After all, who else is there?” He made a sweeping gesture for Christine to step forward onto the main part of the stage, then turned to the maestro and snapped an order for him to play.
Her throat so dry she wasn’t sure any note would come forth, Christine walked to center stage, her full, calf-length skirt bouncing with each step. The platform, which pitched at a gentle slant from the back down toward the gaslights along the edge, seemed vast and frightening, despite the fact that the seats in the stalls were completely empty.
A few awkward notes as the violinists found their chairs again, and the cellist readied his bow, for the orchestra had left their seats when the accident with the backdrop occurred and had to get resettled…and then, as if she had waited an eternity, the melody.
She knew the music, and opened her mouth to sing, pushing her breath out as her angel had taught her, keeping her mouth rounded and her notes long and true until the end. As her song poured forth—hesitant at first, then a bit wobbly, then soft, then louder and clearer—Christine basked in the wonder of the most exciting moment of her seventeen years.
She closed her eyes, every detail of the beautiful Opera House printed on her memory, but in her imagination, she added people filling the rows of stalls that curved in an easy arch in front of the pit, and in the gallery beyond. The high, domed ceiling of the auditorium was painted with Lenepveu's colorful rendition of the Muses, dancing gracefully in a circle of clouds. In the center of the painting stretched a long chain from which hung a magnificent crystal chandelier.
Boxes with crimson interiors adorned the walls of the auditorium, the closest ones near enough that Christine would be able to see the detail of any female spectator’s gown. Massive gold columns separated the boxes, and the front of each balcony was decorated with an ornate design of flowers, fleurs-de-lis, and cherubs. Above Christine’s head, over the proscenium, trumpeted more angels with their elegant instruments.
Even if the managers did not let her sing tonight, she was standing on the stage and doing it: doing the thing she had dreamed of, fantasized about, since she was young.
If this was to be her only chance, he had prepared her well for it, and she would enjoy every moment of it. Christine had learned that things changed much too quickly in life, and to seize joy when it was offered…for it was much too rare and precious.
When she finished singing, Christine could not resist making a grand curtsy, though there was no audience to see her. When she straightened up, she glanced first at Madame Giry—whose stern face held the barest sketch of approval—and then at the skeptical Monsieur Richard.
He was smiling.
~*~
Now, as they prepared for the evening performance that was to celebrate the Opera House’s two new managers, as well as its new patrons, Madame stood behind Christine and surveyed her in the floor-to-ceiling mirror.
“You look beautiful, Christine,” she told her, critically examining her from the fall of the gown to the pile of dark hair at the top of her head. Their eyes met above the three busy costumiers that poked and prodded at Christine’s headdress, her shoes, her flounces. “He will be very pleased.”
At the mention of him, Christine felt the air stir in her small dressing room. It became warm, suddenly, yet the tip of her nose cooled; the hair on her arms lifted. Her cheeks burned while the shift in the air felt like a caress over the back of her bare shoulders and neck. If only her angel would show himself to her…come to her in person, instead of just in that hypnotic, pulling, beautiful voice he used when tutoring her in her singing.
“It is my greatest hope that I shall do so.” She was looking at the mirror directly in front of her, the item that dominated the small, narrow dressing room. The room he had insisted she use now that she was no longer in the chorus, according to Madame Giry.
“Come, now, you have done with the fussing!” Madame snapped at the frithering girls, who seemed to have noticed a change in the air and were casting about in fright. “Out!”
She shepherded everyone out and, with her hand on the door, turned to look at Christine. “He wishes a moment with you before you sing.”
Christine was startled. Their lessons, where he taught her to master her untutored voice and to feel the music throughout her entire being, occurred in the chapel, where she prayed for her father and mother, and where he had first spoken to her, or in the conservatoire. But never had he communicated with her at any other time. Would he speak to her now?
Madame was gone, and Christine stood in front of the mirror, looking at herself and the long expanse of empty chamber behind her. The light burned low and warm, yet the shadows loomed tall into the curved ceiling.
She felt him. He was there, her Ange de Musique, her Angel of Music.
The air trembled and the gas lamps blinked out with a soft pop. Her heart fluttered in her chest; her palms grew damp just as they had done this afternoon. Yet she did not move, but watched as what had been her reflection in the grand mirror slid into nothing but glinting shades of silver, gray, and black.
And then…something light and warm, heavy and gentle, brushed over the back of her shoulders, along the curved edge of the back of her dress. She released her breath, and the warmth closed over her skin. Her heart beat rapidly; he was there! He was in the room with her!
Leather—smooth, cool, pliable—fingered over her skin, the dip of her delicate bones, brushing the long bareness of her neck. Heat rushed in the wake of his touch, sending sharp pleasure down into the depths of her belly. She closed her eyes, drew in a shuddering breath, and reached out for the cold glass of the mirror in front of her. Her hand imprinted on its unyielding chill, an anomaly from the warmth that burned against her back.
He breathed, standing behind her, and she felt his height, strength, darkness wrapping around her. “On the stage, you will sing for me this night.”
As always, the timbre of his voice frightened her with its intensity, warmed her with its smooth cadence, teased her with its hint of mockery. It embodied the beauty of the music she loved so, with its rhythm and t
one and its cool, unforgiving command. And tonight, instead of coming to her from some disembodied location, it was there, behind her, next to her. Touching her.
“I will.” She started to turn, to face him, desperately wanting to see him…but his hands on her shoulders stopped her. Firmly.
“No.”
She had never seen her ange, had heard him speak to her only in darkness such as this, or even in the low light of the conservatoire when she visited there alone to practice…in the chapel, when he sang in a low, ghostly murmur whilst she prayed for the soul of her lost father, and that of her mother, who’d died so long ago. Perhaps once she had felt him touch her, as he did tonight, but she had been sleeping and was not certain if it had been a dream.
This—his leather-covered hands smoothing over her shoulders and around to cup her neck, curving around her throat, leaving delicate shivers in their wake—was no dream. She’d often wondered if he was a spirit or a ghost. But the warm solidness behind her answered her question: He was no ghost.
He was a man, perhaps more…but he was no specter to dissolve into thin air. The Opera Ghost was an angel, with a darkly rich voice.
When he sang, a tenor.
When he coaxed, velvet smooth.
When he raged, cold and cutting as a stiletto.
“Christine…” he breathed in her ear, his mouth close and warm. The syllables of her name were a deep, ringing well of elegant, coaxing tones.
The fingers of her right hand, splayed on the glass of the mirror, slipped a fraction from the nervous moisture beneath her palm. Her other hand reached up behind her head, collided with soft, sleek hair that did not belong to her. She dug her fingers into the heavy strands, felt the shift of his scalp under her finger pads as something behind her moved, pressing into the back of her hips. Hard, solid, hot, he was, and she felt it even through the layers of silk and crinolines. It caused a burst of warmth to flood to the place between her legs and Christine removed her hand from the mirror.
