by Heather Webb
When I’d made it through the crowd to the opposite side of the room, my disappointment flared again. There was still no sign of Raoul. Stomach pitching like a ship at sea, I continued on to the ballet room. I slipped through the crowd, dodging dancers still in their costumes who leaned into gentleman in a flirtatious way or sipped coyly from a beverage purchased, without doubt, by the abonnés who sought their company. Once at the far end of the hall, I walked through the Salon de Glacier and circled back the way I’d come.
Where was he? Raoul was nowhere in sight.
Perhaps he had given up and left, or maybe he had forgotten his invitation altogether. So many women sought his company. Maybe he’d sought the attentions of someone else.
Heart growing heavy, I headed to the last room. The Grand Foyer’s brilliance startled me, and I couldn’t help but to stop and stare. Every surface glinted as if dipped in liquid gold. Of all the rooms, the foyer stood apart as the most stunning with its lavish murals, lusty ornamentations, and a series of golden chandeliers that spanned the hall in a neat row. Now I understood why the Nouvel Opéra had taken so long to complete—outside of war with the Prussians, revolts, and swelling ground water—it must have cost a fortune to decorate all in gold leaf, hardwoods, and rare marbles shipped in from all over the world. An unbelievable sight of beauty and opulence.
A shrill laugh jolted me from my thoughts and I continued my brisk pace through the room. Unwittingly, I held my breath, hoping against hope I was wrong; that Raoul hadn’t left after all. But as I neared the western end of the Grand Foyer, my hope wilted. He had definitely left. I looked down to blink back the unexpected rush of tears, and tugged at the end of my glove. He would think I didn’t care for him, and it was just as well, I tried to tell myself. I needed to end my associations with him anyway.
I scanned the room one last time and turned to go.
And there he stood, beneath the giant clock that sat atop the fireplace mantel at the farthest end of the hall. He was alone, his head bowed, his face contemplative. He swirled the spirits in his glass, sipped from it, and tucked the glass against him in an absentminded gesture.
The boisterous conversation faded, and the room around him seemed to brighten. I couldn’t deny my feelings for him, and there was no use trying. I had always cared for him. Nothing had changed that, not even the years.
He turned, as if sensing my eyes on him.
I caught a glimpse of sadness on his features first—or was it resignation—before it gave way to a smile.
He walked toward me, sending my heart into a frenzied pace. The sight of him flushed all thoughts from my head. What would I say?
“Bonsoir.” His lips brushed my cheek in greeting.
Tongue-tied, I searched for the right words.
“I thought you weren’t coming,” he said.
“I had to practice first,” I said hoarsely, throat burdened with emotion. The urge to touch the curve of his mouth overwhelmed me.
“Yes, of course.” He laughed and smacked his forehead with his palm. “I should have realized. Well, I am happy to see you now.”
We stood for a long moment, smiling at each other but saying nothing.
A blush burned across my cheeks, my chest, and heat radiated from my skin. At last, I glanced away, over his shoulder at a golden lyre mounted above a doorway to the balcony. An old Norse tale Papa told me, about an enchanted lyre, streamed through my head for an instant, before the reason I wanted to speak to Raoul flooded back.
“I wanted to thank you properly,” I said. “For your gifts. The book, and the lovely magic box you gave me when we were children.”
His brow raised in surprise. “You still have the magic box? That gives me more pleasure than you know.” He stepped closer. “I was afraid you would see my gift as childish, but I’m delighted you like it still.”
“I had given up illusions since . . . well, since Papa died. I locked it away until recently. Your book prompted me to begin again.” I looked down at my satin gloves, sliding one atop the other. “I’m not certain I would have taken up illusions again, had you not given me the book. I haven’t been this happy in a long time.”
His eyes crinkled at the edges and he leaned closer, until our faces were only inches apart. The faint smell of cognac mixed with his natural scent of seawater. I yearned to press closer still, into his arms.
“You can’t know what it does to me to hear you say that.” Soberness replaced his smile. “To make you happy, even in such a small way . . . You’re a dear friend.”
Tension vibrated between us. I moved closer.
“Raoul”—my tongue curled around his name, caressed its contours—“it’s not in a small way at all. I’ve loved illusions always. I hadn’t realized how much until now.”
“I know,” he said so softly, the din around us might have drowned out his words had I not been centimeters from him. He grasped my hand and squeezed it.
His touch sent a swarm of bees through my veins.
“Why, there you are, Monsieur le Vicomte!” Carlotta’s soprano singsonged behind me. “We’re ready to leave.” She swept between us, ignoring me with blatant disregard and giving me her back. “The others are just behind. I’m afraid our restaurant awaits.”
I had the sudden urge to shove her, watch her lustrous curls fly about her shoulders, hear the satisfying thud of her ample form connecting with the floor. I shifted my gaze to an oval portrait high overhead, trying to gain control of my emotions.
“Christine!” Monsieur Delacroix joined Carlotta, looking as pristine and handsome as ever. “What a delight to see you here.” He kissed my cheeks and smiled warmly. “You usually hide in your dressing room.”
Avoiding Carlotta’s glare I said, “I thought I would enjoy the social part of the evening for once.”
“A fine idea,” Delacroix agreed.
Another woman joined them, at her side was the policeman, Inspector Mifroid, who I’d seen questioning the cast and crew the last couple of weeks. She flashed Raoul a pretty pout, and released her grip on the inspector’s arm.
“There you are.” The woman fluttered her lashes at Raoul. “We’ve been looking all over for you.”
Was this the future fiancée Carlotta had referred to at her soirée? The woman sparkled in white silk crusted with beads, her hair was pinned in an elegant chignon, and black gloves tapered to her elbows. Her entire person glittered beneath the light of the chandeliers. Pretty to be sure, and a catch for any man. My heart slowed at the thought of her hand in Raoul’s, him beaming in her presence.
Against my will, my eyes darted to Raoul’s face to assess his level of interest.
He smiled easily, though his shoulders appeared rigid. “I was having a brandy, and a moment away from the crowd. How are you, Claude?” He clapped Inspector Mifroid on the shoulder. “It’s been too long, my friend.”
“You owe me a drink.” The inspector grinned. He was younger than most of the police officers I had seen, with round eyes and boyish pink cheeks.
“And a game of cards,” Raoul said.
Carlotta gazed at Raoul. “There is plenty of brandy at the restaurant, gentlemen. Shall we go?”
“Before we go, Christine”–Delacroix cupped my elbow with his hand—“I wanted to tell you that I have an awards banquet on Monday, put on by the Académie des sciences. I’ve already spoken with Madame Valerius and she has consented to release you for the night.”
He had asked for permission without talking to me first—and Madame had consented—without care for my own wishes? Everyone saw fit to choose for me without bothering to consult me. Anger reared up inside me again, streamed into my fingers and curled them into fists. When would my wishes be important? It wasn’t that I didn’t want to go, it was that I was never consulted in the first place, as if I were a child.
“It will be a formal affair. Wear something appropriate.” He noted the expression on my face and hastily added, “As you always do.”
I had yet t
o reply and he had the audacity to tell me what to wear? Still, I couldn’t think of an excuse not to join him when I had nowhere else to be—except for practice with the Angel. And I wouldn’t tell the professor that, for certain.
“Are you all right?” Raoul asked. “You’re shaking.”
So I was. Shaking from irritation at Delacroix and Carlotta’s arrogance, and from the emotion Raoul inspired in me that I couldn’t control.
“There you are,” said a male voice, similar to Raoul’s in timbre and pitch. His brother Philippe clapped a large hand over Raoul’s shoulder.
Philippe wore a suit and cravat fit for a nobleman, but his broad smile suggested amicability, as if he cared more about being approachable than wealthy and superior. The gentleman possessed Raoul’s fair looks, though his nose took up more of his face, and his eyes were sky blue with crinkles at the edges, instead of the seawater hue of Raoul’s.
Mademoiselle Sorelli, the head ballerina, held fast to his arm. She had removed her tutu and now wore a silky skirt with folds cascading to her knees and a shawl with fringe about her shoulders. As usual, her lovely cheekbones looked as if they could cut glass. Her gaze caressed Philippe’s face, her burgeoning love for him as apparent as the nose on her face. I pitied her. She could never be more than his mistress. Convention and his social status wouldn’t allow it—just as I could never be with Raoul.
My humor darkened further and my legs ached with the need to flee.
“Philippe, you remember Mademoiselle Daaé?” Raoul said, gesturing to me. “From our summer in Normandy when we were children.”
“Of course.” Philippe kissed me on the cheek in greeting. “Once a lovely child and now a beautiful woman and singer. You were marvelous.”
I smiled. “You are too kind.”
“Our little Christine has come a long way from a poor musician’s daughter, hasn’t she?” Carlotta cooed, as if proud as a mother hen. Yet, jealousy burned in her eyes. “It is a shame her talents won’t be on display. They asked me to return to the stage as soon as I was able, so I dragged myself from bed today, just so I could perform.”
“And what a performance it was,” Inspector Mifroid said.
I reddened in spite of myself. All seemed glad to welcome Carlotta back.
“We all begin somewhere,” Raoul said, jumping to my defense. “Some of us are born into more humble beginnings, and others are blessed with wealth, both through no fault of our own. It’s what we do with our lot that counts most.”
Had we been alone, I might have reached for Raoul's hand and squeezed it. He was a gentleman and a truly good person. Pain rippled through me as I remembered once again that we could never be together.
“Quite right,” Delacroix added. “In fact, a colleague of mine saw you sing and has asked me to introduce you to him. He would make an excellent match for you.”
I glanced at Raoul, but he looked away. Once again, I had been served an “opportunity” without asking for it, never mind the fact that I was forced to suffer their condescension openly.
Annoyed, I steeled my voice. “It’s a kind thought, Monsieur, but I really must be going. It’s getting late. I won’t keep you all from your reservations. Good night.” I turned to go, moving swiftly away from the group that was too important, too high-standing in their social circles to welcome me.
“Christine, wait,” Raoul called after me.
I pretended not to hear him. Without looking back, I forged on to the cast room, collected my cape and gloves, and hurried into the cool night air.
After a night of dreamless sleep, I headed to the opera house the next day, Raoul’s words playing in my head, over and over.
You can’t know what it does to me to hear you say that. To make you happy, even in such a small way . . .
My stomach flipped each time I thought of the light in his eyes, the warmth of his hand—until I remembered something else he had said.
You’re a dear friend.
The buoyancy of my mood deflated each time those words rang in my ears. He seemed to have feelings for me one instant, but made sure to emphasize our friendship the next. Grunting in frustration, I entered the building and made my way to the cast room. I plopped down in a chair, sullen as the day’s early winter sky.
I’d barely sat down when Meg swished into the room, the ruffles of her purple dress fluttering below the hem of her overcoat. “Have you heard?” Her eyes were bright with excitement. “The ghost demands we perform his opera. Everyone is learning their parts, and listen to this! He’ll play the lead! Do you think he’ll show himself?”
I nodded glumly. “I wonder how the opera ghost will perform on stage.”
Meg grinned. “I guess we’ll see, soon enough. Maman says the opera will be magnificent.”
“Or a complete horror.” Secretly, I wondered how the Angel convinced the directors to do his bidding this time.
“Oh, I just ran into Carlotta.” She removed her coat, hung it on the wall. “She said something about the directors. You’re supposed to meet in her dressing room in five minutes.”
“Oh?” I unbuttoned my cape and slid it from my shoulders.
“She said it would be of great interest to you, whatever that means.” Meg rolled her eyes.
I laughed at how much the gesture transformed her usually sweet expression. “You don’t think she’s sincere?”
“When is Carlotta ever sincere?”
The day Carlotta told me I would never take her place, she was hateful and insecure, but very sincere. The woman was a viper.
“Much as I dislike her, you should see what she wants,” Meg said. “You never know. It might be important.”
I sighed. “You’re right.”
“You’ll have to tell me what she says.” Meg’s eyes gleamed with a wicked luster. “Though, if I am being too nosy, never mind me, of course.”
I laughed once more at her expression. Reluctantly, I headed to Carlotta’s dressing room. Her door stood ajar so I stepped just inside. “You wanted to tell me something, Carlotta. I—”
My voice shriveled in my throat. Raoul held a massive bouquet in his arms.
“Oh! I’m sorry. I—”
“Christine, how lovely to see you,” Carlotta said. “Just look at these beautiful flowers. Some gentlemen have exquisite taste, don’t they? All of that proper upbringing serves them well.” She looked at Raoul with a knowing smile. “Thank you, Raoul. I’ll pass them along to Mademoiselle DuClos.”
Raoul bought a stunning bouquet for Carlotta’s friend? I forced myself to swallow a groan. He did care about her.
Raoul gently set the flowers on a table. When I caught his eye, he opened his mouth to say something, but closed it promptly.
“I apologize,” I said, choking on the roses’ perfume. “I didn’t mean to interrupt. Meg said you wanted to see me.”
“Oh? About that, well, never mind.” Carlotta fluttered her lashes at me like a dismissal.
Forgetting my manners, I stepped backward through the doorway and left; the image of Raoul’s startled expression—and the triumph etched on Carlotta’s face—burned in my mind. The Angel had warned me about Raoul, and he was right. I would only get hurt should I pursue my feelings for him. But as the pang rippled through me again, I knew I’d already allowed myself to go too far. It was time to stamp out my girlish notions and move on.
The evening of Monsieur Delacroix’s Académie ceremony, I resigned myself to accompanying him. He was a friend, after all, and it was his big night. Usually I enjoyed my time with him, as long as we didn’t discuss the opera ghost. We set off toward our destination, but the carriage didn’t stop in front of the hotel where the banquet was to be held. Instead, we pulled into the drive of the Académie de sciences.
Delacroix stuck his head out of the window and shouted at the coachman. “Around to the back.”
Puzzled, I frowned. “Why are we here?”
“I need to take care of something first. It will only be a few minutes, an
d then we’ll be on our way.”
“May I come in with you? I’ve never been inside a school before.”
He hesitated a moment. “You haven’t? That would make sense, of course. Fine, fine. You can see my office. Come. We must move quickly so we aren’t late.” He held out his hand to help me step down from the coach.
We covered the short distance to the door. Using his own key, Delacroix unlatched the lock and we ducked inside. The building smelled of musty volumes, ink, and unidentifiable odors, no doubt, from an array of experiments behind some locked door. I followed him with haste. Much of the hall lay in shadow at the late hour, though an occasional pool of light spilled onto our path.
“Éduard.” Delacroix tipped his hat at a man who sat at his desk.
“Gustave?” the man replied. “Why aren’t you at the ceremony?”
“I’m on my way,” the professor called over his shoulder as we barreled down the corridor.
For some reason I felt the need to be silent, perhaps in reverence for the thousands of brilliant minds that had spent time under this roof, or maybe it was the deep quiet of the building. It could also be my foul humor. I couldn’t erase the image of Raoul in Carlotta’s dressing room, arms filled with flowers. Neither could I shake the feeling that Delacroix was on edge, that something wasn’t right.
I followed the professor up two flights of stairs.
“Here we are.” He slipped a heavy iron key into the hole and popped open the door. As he turned on a lamp, I came in behind him.
Bookshelves lined three of the four walls, and on the third, a large corkboard hung beneath a window, covered with dozens of photographs. Delacroix’s desk filled the small office and lay beneath orderly piles of pamphlets and papers. In one corner of the room, a stack of booklets towered to the ceiling. With one gentle push, the whole thing would topple.
“Wait here,” the professor said, tugging a lumpy envelope from one of the locked drawers in his desk.
