“Christine would never do anything like that!” Raoul snapped furiously. With anyone but himself, anyway. But he couldn’t stand around and listen to Christine being maligned. “Can’t you do anything?”
Blaise had glanced back up at the furious vicomte, looking singularly wearied by the whole matter. “Monsieur, we are doing everything we can. We’ve checked all the morgues and hospitals within a fifty-mile radius and have spoken with her managers and friends at the Opera Garnier. We will find her, vicomte.”
But Raoul was far from assured. He took it upon himself to question the members of the chorus, but none of them seemed to know Christine well. All he received for his efforts were comments concerning Christine’s lack of intelligence and twenty-six variations of the phrase, “Either she ran off with some man or she’s been kidnapped by the Phantom.” Ridiculous.
By the third day, Christine had almost been driven mad by the mystery of the Angel’s mask. It was so unfair! Surely she had a right to see the Angel’s face—he had been sent to serve her! Several minutes after this furious thought, she sheepishly realized that Erik had been on the earth before her father had died—Madame Giry had informed her in passing that the Phantom had been haunting the opera house for over…what was it…fifteen years? Seventeen? She couldn’t remember. But whatever the number, her father had died almost twelve years ago. So Erik couldn’t have been sent to serve her.
That bewildering stumbling block had halted her anger for a few hours before she had come up with an explanation: Erik’s last pupil must have been living in Paris as well—perhaps even a singer or musician at the Garnier—and he was just continuing his role as the Phantom for convenience’s sake. From there her fury increased with every moment she spent in his presence—he, a slave, had no right to keep anything from her!
She could hardly speak to him without snapping. “Leave me alone!” she cried, throwing down her music. “I’m sick of working!”
“What is it that’s bothering you, Christine?” he asked, with concern and the indefatigable patience that infuriated her so.
“You!” she said, jabbing a finger in his face. “Why should I work so hard for anyone who keeps secrets from me?”
For a moment, he looked baffled. “Secrets…?” he repeated. Then the puzzled light in his eyes dimmed, replaced by an unhappy understanding. “You mean this.” He gestured to the porcelain, resigned, and yet almost pleading: “I will show you someday. But won’t you allow me a few moments to be near you before that day comes?”
Christine’s rigid posture sagged ashamedly as she realized what a horrible, unreasonable person she was being. “I’m sorry,” she said, retrieving the battered sheet music from the floor as an excuse not to meet his eyes.
“You don’t need to apologize.”
She cast around for something to change the subject to. Her eyes caught a sheaf of music laying on the organ bench. “What have you been working on?” she asked, gesturing to the organ.
Oddly, he seemed even more reluctant to discuss his composition than his angelic visage. “An opera,” he replied laconically.
“What’s it called?”
“Don Juan Triumphant.”
“Will you play something of it?” she asked.
“No, Christine,” he murmured. “It burns with terrible passions that I felt before you appeared in my life.” He hesitated before continuing, seeming rather uncomfortable with his words: “Hatred, vengeance, lust…your beautiful, angelic presence makes them seem coarse and evil. I have no desire to finish it now.” He cleared his throat. “Let us sing something from Otello,” he suggested, rather offhandedly.
Christine nodded, somewhat mystified. They began to sing a duet with a passion that she had never before experienced. Erik was singing the part of Otello; his voice was so sensuous and beautiful! What could there possibly be hidden under his mask? It could only be the face of an angel, far too heavenly to be looked upon by human eyes…. Why did he hide it from her? Nothing could ever change the overwhelming power of his voice, or the passion that had gripped her from the first moment she had heard it. How could he not know that? But she would show him the deepness of her appreciation for his guidance—he would undoubtedly thank her for removing this barrier from their relationship. Yes—there was no reason for him to continue on, hiding his face from her. She could bear it no longer. The guilt she felt only moments ago over her unreasonable words refused to leave her alone, but she pushed it aside, and didn’t allow herself a chance to talk herself out of it.
Too fast for the eye to follow, Christine’s hand flashed out and upwards—and Erik’s mask flew from his face.
Chapitre Onze: Ce qui Se Trouvait Dessous
Christine screamed and stumbled backwards, eyes wide in terror and unable to look away. Nothing—nothing could have prepared her for the horror that met her eyes. She had been expecting something heavenly—the face of an Angel, shining in immaculate perfection in the divine light of the gods. Oh, the fantasy her treacherous mind had created! How could she have believed that the flesh behind Erik’s mask was anything heavenly and divine?
There were no words to describe the monstrosity that lay underneath the tantalizing, innocuous mask. The first thought that entered her horror-stricken mind upon seeing his sickening, ghastly visage was that she was gazing upon the face of a male version of Hel, the queen of Niflheim—her right half a woman, the left half a grisly, eternally-rotting corpse. But even Hel must be a less ghastly sight to see. Then all she could think of was to escape, to get as far away from this monster as possible.
“Christine!” the creature screamed in anguish, jumping up and clamping a hand to his gruesome face. His eyes were burning, and he seemed like a devil to the terrified girl. But through his anger, Christine could see the tears forming in the corners of his eyes; a look of never-ending grief, and sorrow…. Whimpering with terror, she turned her head away.
“Why, Christine, why?” he cried, tears streaming down his terrible face. “Now that you know my hideousness—my monstrosity—you will never consent to stay with me long enough to see that under this visage is a human soul!” He turned and stumbled away from her, his breathing ragged and wracked with sobs.
Christine closed her eyes, crying and shaking uncontrollably. There was no way she could spend another moment in its presence—it was monstrous! Hideous! It was all the more agonizing that this creature—this thing—had been the Angel. How could she have been so foolish? He wasn’t even human—he was a monster, a fiend, a creature the gods should have banished to Niflheim upon his birth, as they had banished Hel, for being such a terrifying, disgusting monstrosity.
She sobbed into the floor, so afraid, so disgusted, and crying so hard that she had to gasp to force air into her lungs. Her body was starting to go numb from the freezing stone, but she didn’t have the strength to lift herself up. She felt so sick, so soiled from the horror she had seen—could still see, seared on to her eyelids, as if someone had taken a branding iron to them—that she had to fight the urge to vomit. The bile in her throat burned, and she clapped a hand over her mouth and tried fruitlessly to will herself to be calm.
Erik had seated himself at his organ, his back to her, and began to play, trying to forget the horror of the moment. She did not want to hear him play ever again, and thrust her fingers into her ears; but the organ’s notes were so low, so powerful, that she couldn’t block them out.
The music that reached Christine’s ears was intoxicating, and she pushed her fingers farther into her ears, but to no avail. It expressed every emotion, every suffering of which mankind is capable. From the low, sad tones of the bass clef, to the anger and helplessness expressed by notes in the middle of the treble clef.
But it was not an Angel playing. It was a monster.
She looked down at his mask, lying useless on the floor, and picked it up with a trembling hand. It was hard and cold, yet beautiful, as if treacherously promising beauty behind its innocent façade. For what seemed
like an eternity, she just sat there, mind awhirl and unthinking. Even though she couldn’t see his face now, she could still see it in her mind. He was still so hideous, so disgusting, that she wanted nothing more than to turn and run. But, she realized with a shiver, it would be all too easy for him to kill her and dispose of her body in a dark corner of his cellars. She couldn’t afford to anger him further.
She thought and thought, hoping she could find a way to escape the monster’s clutches. But she couldn’t run, she wouldn’t get far in the boat, and from all the way down here, no one would be able to hear her screaming for help. In the end, she had only one idea—a single, horrifying idea. She would have to play the part of the interested ballet rat.
“Erik,” she began, almost choking on the name. He wasn’t human. He didn’t deserve a name.
He didn’t turn, but he did stop playing.
“I—I am afraid, but I understand,” she said hesitantly. “It’s not your fault. I…I can accept you, and—forget about your face!” The words, such terrible, grotesque lies, burned on her tongue, but she could do nothing else. If she spoke the truth, there was no telling what he would do.
He slowly turned, and in the flickering candlelight she saw the tears coursing down his face. She was unable to fight back a shudder at the glistening contours and crags that the tears accentuated.
“You see?” he said sadly, almost bitterly, upon seeing her disgust. “There is no way you could ever do as you say.”
After a moment, he sighed and closed his eyes, turning back to the organ and resting his elbows on its oak surface to rub his temples. “You can leave. The doorway is behind that tapestry. Say the word—and I’ll barricade the trick mirror and never trouble you again.”
Christine almost laughed aloud. He wouldn’t let her go. He was lying—he was a monster. Monsters weren’t honest. He was probably waiting for her to say yes—lull her into a false sense of security—and then wham—he’d knock her out and cook her for dinner, like the trolls in the Ironwood Forest. She couldn’t take that chance. She had to pretend she wanted to stay.
“No, Erik, I don’t want to leave.” She approached him, smiling the coquettish smile she had observed on the faces of her fellow ballet girls, batting her eyelashes and keeping her gaze locked into his eyes. The beauty of his eyes did not reach her now—all she could see was the horror of that face. But she could see the pain and despair in his eyes, and she feared that if she did not pretend to accept him now, her life would be in terrible danger. She couldn’t bring herself to touch him, so she merely said, trying to come up with a reasonable explanation for her shudder, “If I ever again shiver when I look at you, it is because I am thinking of…the splendor of your genius!”
Erik’s twisted face froze in a horrific expression of shock. It made him all the uglier, and she felt very much like fainting. For a moment that seemed to stretch into an eternity, he could not bring himself to speak. Christine strove to meet his astounded gaze, though it was an impossible task. It was much worse to be forced to stare into such a hellish face than to catch a brief, terrible glimpse, as she had moments before. She could see every twist, every horrendous crag and deformity.
Just when her knees were about to buckle, Erik fell to Christine’s feet and kissed the hem of her dress. Her rigid posture sagged, and she found herself only moments from unconsciousness. She could barely hear Erik as he knelt at her feet, speaking words of immeasurable joy and love, before her world faded into blackness.
Chapitre Douze: Les Quelques Jours Suivants
For Christine, the next two days were like spending an eternity in the torture chambers of Jotunheim, realm of the evil giants. She had agreed to resume their lessons, though the sight of Erik—the mere thought of that horrible, horrible face—made her cringe. However, he seemed to love her all the more for the events of that horrible night. He stayed by her side, even when he wasn’t teaching her, and paid her constant little attentions. He reminded Christine of a puppy—a horrible monstrosity of a puppy—eager to please its master. But despite his unwavering forgiveness, Christine immensely regretted removing his mask. Not for his sake, but for her own; she couldn’t bring herself to accept that her Angel—what she had thought was an Angel—was so hideous. She put off thinking about it, trying to convince herself that beauty wasn’t important. But it was. Even being in the same room with him made her skin crawl. It was terribly difficult to play the part of the attracted, flirtatious chorus girl, not only because she was unpracticed at it, but because she had always imagined it would be a handsome, dashing nobleman she would be flirting with, not a deformed monster. Fortunately, it quickly became apparent that open flirtation made Erik uncomfortable, and she was thankful to revert to a calm, collected state—though even that was a challenge. Thank the gods he was wearing that mask. She wished she could run away, as far away as she could go, but she was too scared. Despite his submissiveness and gentleness, and though she was sure that he loved her, she couldn’t help but be afraid of him.
The strain was so great that she had become physically ill, and she had to spend a great deal of time in bed. Erik, she suspected, understood the reason for her ailment, and tended to her every whim, no matter how slight, with a somber mixture of sorrow and subservient devotion. If it had been anyone else, she would have enjoyed having such a devoted man for a servant; but she doubted very much that Erik was even a human being. The gods wouldn’t be so cruel to anyone.
She had continued to call him “the Angel” to keep her father’s heavenly story from collapsing completely. After so many years of believing in the Angel, she couldn’t just let it go. It was hard to trick herself into believing that he—such a hideous thing—was truly the Angel in disguise, but it was much easier to think that than to come to terms with the fact that she had so stupidly believed him when he answered that night, “Yes, Christine, I am the Angel.” How could she have been such a fool? But if she continued to believe that he was the Angel, she wouldn’t have to shudder and turn her head away every time she thought about what lay under his porcelain mask—there was no such thing as an ugly Angel. So she continued for some time to call Erik “Angel,” though the thought seemed so unbelievable that she couldn’t truly accept it.
He seemed to hate the false appellation. “Christine,” he told her somberly, “I despise myself for lying to you. But I consoled myself with the fact that I would reveal the truth to you, and you would know me as Erik, not ‘the Angel.’ Why do you so staunchly refuse to call me by my name?”
Christine hadn’t been sure how to reply. “Why can’t I still think of you as the Angel? You’re doing exactly what the Angel of Music would have done. Better, even,” she added, after a pause, trying very hard to keep him in a good mood.
“Thank you, Christine.” For a moment he looked unsure, then his face brightened; a horrible image entered unbidden into Christine’s mind of how disgusting his misshapen features would look contorted into a smile. It disgusted her so badly that it took all of her strength to keep looking at him as he continued sadly, “However, I am not an angel, so please try to imagine how painful it is for me to be constantly reminded of my deception.”
Christine wasn’t sure she fully understood, but she agreed to call him Erik. It was a nice enough name, anyway—it was Scandinavian. Her father had placed much importance on the meaning of names; if she recalled correctly, Erik meant “ever-ruler.” It was a cruel irony, really—the only kingdom that would accept such a monstrous face as that of their king would be the kingdom of the trolls, or that of the demons. It was horrible that such a good name would grace such a hideous creature. He didn’t deserve a name. However, even thinking of him made her stomach turn, and she put all evaluation of his name out of her mind.
Amplifying her unhappiness and anger at her own gullibility concerning the Angel was her realization that everything this creature had told her about the Divine—about Heaven, about Angels, about the universe—were merely lies to maintain his angelic pret
ense. The Angel, as he had been, had never seemed pleased when she questioned him about what Asgard was like. His voice would grow tight and his answers terse and evasive, which she had never understood at the time; now, of course, she realized that he had been forced to invent the answers to some of her more difficult questions. With the Angel’s arrival, she had allowed herself a few brief moments of hope that it was to the Christian Heaven, and not to the hell of Niflheim that she would go when she died. It was quite sad for her to realize that there were no streets paved in gold, as he had said, and that there was no endless shining city in the clouds. It distressed her greatly that she was now so unsure about the afterlife.
Erik seemed to realize the reason for her anguish, because without explanation he handed her a Bible and showed her the passages from which he had answered her impossible questions, assuring her that his answers had been based on its contents as much as possible. And indeed, the Holy Scripture did state that the house of the Lord was filled with “many mansions” in the clouds and among the stars. Even the more extravagant descriptions, such as the city of Heaven, which was made of “pure gold, like unto clear glass,” with twelve gates, and all manner of gemstones embedded in the walls, were pulled straight from the texts. It reassured her to a small degree, but she was too disgusted and too frightened of him to fully appreciate the textual evidence he offered. And she was still hopelessly lost. The Angel wasn’t real—her faint hopes had been cruelly dashed with that realization. It made her wonder: if her father’s belief in the Angel of Music had been wrong, what else had he been wrong about?
This thought only came to her once, and she shut her mind to it immediately and forced herself to forget that she had ever conceived such a terrible thought. Of course her father was right. The Angel was out there—somewhere.
Costumes and Filigree: A Novel of the Phantom of the Opera Page 11
