by Colette Gale
Erik had not known whom she had left with last night after their interlude on the stage until he’d listened in on the foyer de la danse, when Raoul de Chagny had swept in and fairly carried her off. Until that moment, Erik had been merely indulgent, watching from his hidden knot high in the wall, as his protégée shyly accepted the attentions of her admirers.
It was nothing more than he’d expected—of course one as gifted and beautiful, but still with that underlying innocence, would attract the attention of the abonnés. And Christine had given him no cause to feel any differently, for she was polite, and reserved, but seemed to single none of the men out. They were all the same to her.
Until Raoul de Chagny.
Her eyes had lit up and sparkled, and she swooned up to her feet upon his presence. And immediately took his imperious arm.
And then he’d swept her away, out of the theater, away from Erik, away from the Opera Ghost’s stronghold.
Leaving Erik alone, with the darkness of his destiny and the taunts of his imagination.
SIX
* * *
With the encouragement of the two managers, and her many supporters, Carlotta defied the Opera Ghost’s warning, gliding onto the stage that night in full costume and regalia. She had determined that she would sing, and sing she would.
Feathers quivering from her ornate, glittering headdress, the train of her silk gown and yards of ruffles and gathers spilling onto the floorboards, the prima donna took her position in the exact front center of the auditorium as the beaming Moncharmin and Richard looked on from their places in Box Five.
“The ghost is late,” chuckled Firmin Richard to his partner. “The performance has begun and he has not arrived to claim his seat.”
“I am glad we did not let this box out tonight; I am looking forward to hearing La Carlotta's performance. She is not afraid of the ridiculous jokester ghost.”
“I refuse to keep this box unavailable to our patrons any longer. Opera Ghost, indeed.”
“And whoever it is…he shall not find any salary forthcoming from us,” Moncharmin replied, laughing to himself. “We can put those twenty-four thousand francs to much better use.”
The second act passed without incident, and during the intermission, the two managers left their box in order to greet La Carlotta backstage.
“You have never sung better, madame,” Firmin Richard told her, bowing over her hand. “I am so pleased you did not disappoint your many supporters and comply with the threatening letter you received.”
“Ridículo. The Opera Ghost is nothing but a story made up by Christine Daaé's friends, trying to frighten me. Me, La Carlotta!” She humphed and preened, and the managers, well satisfied with the result of their foiling whatever plot had been hatched, returned to their box for the third act.
When they reentered Box Five, however, they noticed almost immediately that a box of candy had been placed on the railing.
“Where in heaven has this come from?” asked Moncharmin, pointing to the box.
“And these?” Richard produced a pair of opera glasses that had not been there when they had left. “Call the ouvreuse and find out who has been here since we left. Someone must have put them here as a joke.”
But when they questioned the ushers, they all indicated that no one had come along the staircase leading to the box. No one at all.
Richard and Moncharmin looked at each other uneasily, but settled into their seats as the curtain rose for the third act of Faust. It was only an instant later that a strange draft, eerie and unhealthy, began to seep through the box. Moncharmin fancied he could hear someone breathing, just behind him. The managers looked at each other, but remained silent, suddenly very attentive to what was happening onstage.
It was time for Carlotta's entrance. Richard realized he was holding his breath, twisting his fingers into the handkerchief he had somehow pulled from his pocket.
When La Carlotta made her third and final entrance of the evening, a great cheer arose from her supporters in the audience. A triumphant gleam in her eyes, La Carlotta raised her arms and began to sing Marguerite’s response to Faust’s entreaty.
No! 'Tis a princess I view!
A princess before me!
Suddenly, a most unnerving rumble sounded from…somewhere. Above, below, in front…later, witnesses were not able to agree on the location of the noise, but it was the sound of an angry growl or grumbling. Moncharmin choked audibly and Richard dropped his handkerchief. It fluttered to the seats below.
After the ominous rumble, Carlotta paused, hitching her breath, casting a wary glance behind her…but she was standing far in front of the backdrops, even in front of the proscenium, nearly upon the gaslights that studded the edge of the stage. She picked up and carried the next few notes, even as the grumbling sounded again and a flicker of a shadow blinked over the stage, sending her fuchsia gown into shades of dirty pink.
Faust approached her, and sang his lines.
Carlotta opened her mouth and began to sing her reply:
And a deep languid charm
I feel without alarm
With its melody enwind—
But—it was horrible!
The audience stood as one, gaping at the people around them. The managers turned to each other, clasping the other's forearm, their mouths wide with horror, eyesgoggling, jowls shaking.
It was inconceivable…but the last syllable had come from Carlotta's mouth, not as a beautiful, clear note…but as the sound of the croak of a frog.
Her face was the picture of a terrified, bewildered woman. Her hands rose to her throat as if to ascertain whether it was still hers. She looked at Piangi, the man playing Faust, who was staring back at her as though she had grown a second nose.
“Impossible,”Richardgasped to his partner. “She has just been singing so perfectly. All night.”
“It was an inhuman sound. It must have been…it had to have been a mistake.”
“She has sung the most intricate and beautiful notes…How could this be? She has never faltered, in all of her performances.”
They turned back to the stage, holding their breaths. Moncharmin noticed to his dismay that the draft seemed to have gotten colder. More sharp and eerie. And the breathing…it was closer. Louder. He swallowed deeply and began to wish quite vehemently that they had not made those jests about refusing to pay the ghost's salary.
The orchestra began to play. The buzzing of the people had risen, and now ebbed back into silence. All waited expectantly.
Carlotta, looking not quite as triumphant as she had appeared earlier, drew in her breath to sing. Richard held his own breath, waiting…
Oh, how strange, like a spell
Does the evening bind me.
“Go on, go on,” Richard hissed, his heart beating so hard his fingers jolted on the box’s railing.
And a deep, languid—CROAK!
I feel without—CROAK! CROAK!
The croaks echoed with hoarse ugliness through the auditorium and Carlotta closed her mouth, clapping her small hands over it as if to push the awful sounds back in. Her eyes bugging, she picked up her skirts and ran offstage as the audience erupted in a mass of whispers and titters.
From behind them, the managers heard a low, rumbling laughter. “The way she sings tonight, ‘tis a wonder she doesn’t bring down the chandelier!” It was the ghost! Behind them, speaking behind them in the very same box!
Moncharmin and Richard dared not turn to look behind them, but Moncharmin glanced quickly up at the chandelier as if expecting it to tumble to the stage. It swayed gently, but did not appear to be in danger of falling.
“What shall we do now? The show is ruined,” he said to Richard.
“He wants Daaé to sing. We shall give him Daaé, then,” the taller man replied, more bravely than he felt, and hoped assiduously that the ghost had heard him and would leave off. He stood at the edge of the box and called out into the auditorium. “Please, ladies and gentlemen…the show
will go on. We shall present to you Miss Daaé, performing the remainder of the role of Marguerite for your pleasure.”
~*~
Thus, moments later, due to some quick work on the part of the stage manager and the director, the newest star of the Opera House, Christine Daaé, stepped into the circle of light left empty by Carlotta.
She looked angelic and fragile. Her long, dark hair was left unbound and curled in a gentle, delicate swath that hung to the middle of her back. Her pale blue gown was not nearly as ornate and fancy as that of La Carlotta, but it suited her innocence…and clearly displayed the woman inside. The neckline plunged to a deep vee between her breasts, lifted high and steady by her corset. Her long, white arms were bare from the shoulders down; only the narrowest band of blue rosettes formed the sleeves that rested just below the juncture of arm and shoulder. The delicate curve of her collarbone, the dip at the base of her throat, were shown in fine relief by the yellow light above.
But her face. It was her face and voice that captivated the audience. A woman had never sung so purely, so cleanly and perfectly in all the Opera House’s history. The rapturous expression on her beautiful countenance bespoke of some ecstasy that was beyond the grasp of the audience, but that clearly moved her. She sang as though she could never stop, as though she would never tire, never run out of words or notes.
Indeed, Christine knew she had never sung so beautifully. She felt the music filling her veins, sounding her nerve endings…carrying her away. She felt Erik’s presence, knew he had somehow caused Carlotta’s embarrassment to pave the way for Christine's own triumph.
As she sang, she did as he requested: She sang for him. She felt his hands on her skin, his gentle lips scoring her bare shoulder. Her breasts, lifted enticingly, tightened and swelled as she recalled the gentle, persuasive hands that had fondled them earlier.
She felt naked, bare, warm, and titillated and basked in the heat of the limelight, and she felt as though she and her angel sang together, somewhere, alone. And joined together as one.
They were joined. They would be one.
And when she was done, when she broke from the trancelike state that had enabled her to sing without nervousness or fear, the applause of the audience brought her back to herself. She bowed and curtsied and accepted the roses and lilies and gillyflowers tossed and presented to her. Elation grew inside her as the audience continued to cheer, until her excitement was such that she was hardly able to stand still. She had succeeded! She had never been so happy, so exultant, in her life.
When a large mass of blush-edged white roses dropped at her feet, bound with a crimson ribbon, she looked up and saw Raoul waving to her from the box nearest the stage. Smiling, flush and exhilarated with her triumph, Christine picked up Raoul's offering and buried her face in the beautiful blooms.
And when she ran off the stage and hurried her way through the wings of the backstage, Raoul was already there to meet her. Somehow, he managed to slip an arm around hers and whisk her off into an empty wardrobe closet before she reached the foyer de la danse and any of her other admirers could get to her.
In the small, close room, lit by one single lamp, they were surrounded by racks of glittering gowns and feathered headdresses, props of swords and shields and belts and girdles. Lacy corsets, flowered hats, gloves, and silky, beaded skirts pushed them together so that they stood very close in the narrow aisle of the closet.
“Christine, my love, you were brilliant!” Holding her hands, he gazed at her fervently, his shadowed blue eyes gleaming with pride and emotion.
“Thank you, Raoul,” she cried, hardly able to contain herself, and dropped the roses at their feet as he drew her into his arms.
His kiss was brief and gentle, sweeping reverently over her parted lips. “You are so beautiful,” he whispered against her mouth, drawing her flush against him. “And you sing like a perfect angel. You are perfect, Christine.”
She pulled away, resting a hand against his handsome cheek, excitement still raging through her. His skin glowed golden in the yellow light, his butter-colored hair tipped with a nimbus from the illumination behind him. “I am not perfect, Raoul, but it is kind of you to say so. Indeed, my tutor says I still have much work to do.” Christine smiled up at him, her attention on his slender, elegant lips. How lovely it was to see the man in front of her, to touch him and to look at him…Still exultant and bold, she stepped forward into him and raised her face to kiss his delicate lips.
His arms wrapped around her as though suddenly loosened from bounds, pulling her roughly up against his body. Their mouths fought to taste the other, to sample and lick and nibble. His shoulders, high and broad, felt sturdy under Christine’s hands…so different from her encounters with Erik, where she had never faced him…never felt the length of his body pressed up against her breasts, her mons…never fulfilled the need to touch him, to trace her hand over his body.
“Christine,” Raoul muttered, and he was moving along her jaw to her neck, his mouth wet on her skin. She arched back, pushing her chest into his groping hands, wanting to feel those fingers over her tight nipples.
Her breasts pulled free and he bent to take one into the warm cavern of his mouth. Christine arched against him as he sucked, her hand trailing down to the bulge between his thighs.
Suddenly, the door just behind Raoul’s shoulder opened.
Christine pushed him away as she recognized the erect black figure of Madame Giry. “M-madame,” she stammered, hastily thrusting her breasts back into their confinements.
“Christine. You are keeping him waiting.” Her black eyesscored over her and then over Raoul as she waited, arms crossed over her middle, for Christine to put herself to rights.
“Of course, madame,” Christine replied, suddenly overcome with remorse. How could she have kept Erik waiting? Of course he would want to see her…after her performance tonight, he would want to be with her…to touch her. To make her feel.
As she was making a final adjustment, Raoul had turned politely away, but as she stepped out of the wardrobe closet, he was waiting for her.
Just as Erik was waiting for her.
How could she have forgotten Erik, even for the moment? The excitement of her second debut, the thrill of conquering the audience yet again…of being the beautiful lady of her dreams…and then Raoul had appeared to sweep her off her feet before she knew what he was doing.
But only her angel could make her feel…truly feel. Only with him was she able to leave the grief and emptiness behind her.
It was for him that she sang.
Perhaps…perhaps tonight, she would be able to see and feel him at last. “If I’ve pleased him,” she whispered to herself as Raoul took her arm with a proprietary air, following Madame Giry down the busy passageway.
“Pleased who?” he asked, slipping a finger down beneath the edge of her now-in-place bodice to smooth over her areola.
“My tutor,” she replied, pulling gently away.
“Tutor? You did mention a tutor. Who is it?” asked Raoul, his brows drawing together in an annoyed fashion.
“Do you remember when my father used to tell us about the Angel of Music? He promised to send him to me…and he has. My tutor is the Angel of Music! He will be waiting for me. And if I have pleased him…” Her heart raced in anticipation.
“What is it you are talking about, Christine? Waiting for you? Who is this man?”
She stopped in the hallway, pulling Raoul to the side so that the bustle of stagehands, dancers, and musicians could continue unfettered. “He is the Angel of Music, Raoul. He…he lives here at the Opera House, and of course he will be waiting for me in my dressing room. It is because of him that I am able to sing as I do.”
“He lives here? He’s not…he isn’t this—this thing that they call the Opera Ghost?” Raoul looked horrified. “The creature who ran Carlotta off the stage tonight? Did he put some sort of spell upon her?”
Christine reached for his cheek. “Raoul, he is not
a ghost. And he is a friend to me…and a teacher.” A lover. “He’s been my tutor for more than three months, and since he has come to me, I have been so happy. You should be happy for me too. Since I lost Father, I have not been able to find peace…until my ange.”
“But Christine…a man? In your dressing room? Why, that’s improper!”
Christine smiled fondly up at him. “Improper? I am an actor, a singer…I live in the world of the theater. And you were in my dressing room as well.”
“Christine, you cannot see him anymore.” Raoul was greatly agitated. “You must tell him that he cannot visit you.”
Now she dropped her hand from his face, her heart beating faster. She could never agree to that. “But why? Raoul, I would never do that.”
“Because…because my future wife cannot be meeting with strange men in her dressing room.”
Christine stared up at him in shock, but before she could respond, a strong hand gripped her arm. It was Madame Giry, and she had a most urgent, annoyed look on her austere face. “Christine, you will anger him if you tarry further.”
“Yes, of course,” she said, and started off down the hallway, bringing Raoul along with her.
“But, Christine…you…”
“I must go, Raoul. The angel is very strict and I do not want to anger him. It is because of him that I have had the success that I have. You saw what happened to Carlotta tonight when she failed to follow his instructions.”
“But…you will dine with us tonight, will you not?” Raoul looked at her so pleadingly, his blue eyes as desperate as the grip on her wrist. His hold caused her to stop just outside her dressing room door, and he spun her from her path to look at him.
She couldn’t turn him down. “I will. I must speak with the angel first…and then, yes, I will be pleased to have dinner with you, if he permits.”
