She spent over an hour kneeling at the foot of her father’s altar beseeching his forgiveness before she felt better. Surely he understood; so many things had happened—divahood, Raoul’s appearance in her life again, Erik—she had just forgotten to visit him. It didn’t mean he was any less important to her, she had told him repeatedly. From now on, she would burn several candles instead of just one—it would be more expensive, and much as she didn’t want to burden Mamma, the added expense would show her father the extent of her devotion.
After she had returned the pilfered costume to its proper location, she headed back to her dressing room. Now that she felt better (surely her father was happy with her again), she wanted to spend a few hours lounging around before the rehearsal.
When she had reached her room, however, she encountered Erik. “Hello,” she greeted, thinking, Curse it, he’ll want me to practice reading that horrid sheet music during my few hours of leisure! She had to think up some excuse before he could bring it up.
“I just stopped back to get a shawl before I went home for a few hours before rehearsal,” she said hurriedly. She snatched a crocheted swath of wool from a clothing pile near the door and turned to run.
“No lesson today, Christine?”
“Lesson?” she queried innocently, as if it hadn’t been her intent to escape practice. “Oh, yes, well, I think we could skip one day, given that tomorrow is All Hallows’ Eve and all—”
“Christine, you know that if you let yourself skip today, you’ll skip tomorrow, and the day after that, and when the curtains open in December you’ll be completely unprepared.”
“But I have it all figured out: I don’t have to perform Faust and learn Idomeneo on top of it like everyone else does, right?” She couldn’t help but smile, mostly at her good fortune but also a little bit of vindictive amusement when she thought about all those rats working so hard while she was lounging.
“Yes, but—”
“I’m not refusing to do two on a permanent basis, just for a little while—this being my first real diva position, I think it’s unfair to make me work on more than one opera at a time. So they’ll just have to deal with inferior singers for a while longer.”
“Just the same, you shouldn’t have refused to finish an opera you agreed to start—it’s deleterious to your career.”
“So,” she continued, ignoring him—she had no idea what he’d just said anyway—“if everybody else is worrying about two operas, and I’m not, it will take everyone a lot longer to learn Idomeneo than it will me. So I can just relax.”
“How will you become a diva if you do not practice?”
“I have the Angel of Music to teach me,” she said, smiling flirtatiously. It was hard, looking into that gruesome face. “I shouldn’t have to memorize anything.”
She had expected him to relent, to say, yes, certainly, you don’t have to memorize anything, and then wave a sublime hand and fill her mind with the notes and lines of the opera. But instead, she found herself drawing back as his face darkened, and a frustrated, almost angered light sparked in his eyes. “You still believe that, Christine?” His voice was rigid, cold.
“But it makes perfect sense—” she began.
“It makes no sense at all. Why would I deny it if I were?”
“Because—because you’re embarrassed that you’re cursed with such a terrible face while you’re here on earth, because you are truly so beautiful!”
“That’s not true.”
“Of course it is! Mamma Valerius was telling me about Sodom and whatever the other one is—”
“Can angels bleed?” he asked suddenly.
“Of course they can’t,” she snapped, folding her arms. What a stupid question.
“I can.”
“Prove it!” Any moment now he would confess.
He walked towards a beaten-up desk she had rescued from being thrown out, on top of which she had piled the plates and silverware from her last few meals, intending to take them down to the kitchens later and save herself a few trips. The opera house food wasn’t that bad, she supposed, but it was meant for chorus girls who couldn’t afford to eat out, so it was bland and cheap. Nevertheless, it wasn’t convenient to have to run home twice a day. She wondered if he was going to eat the overdone chicken she had left on one of the plates. She started to warn him, but he raised a hand for silence.
He picked up a knife and handed it to her, then offered his hand. “Cut my palm, then, if you think I’m so invulnerable.” Confidently she stepped forward and drew the pewter blade across his palm, thinking that she had won.
An uneven line of scarlet appeared the instant the knife had passed. He held his hand up to the sunlight, which dispassionately illuminated the blood the small cut had summoned.
“But—but—angels can’t bleed,” she said dully, staring at his hand. That’s what her father had said—and he couldn’t be wrong.
“Correct,” he said tersely, fishing a handkerchief from his coat pocket and dabbing away the blood before it could stain his sleeve. “Do you believe me now?”
“I—you—you lied to me!” she accused furiously. How could she be stupid enough to believe that the Angel had come, not once, but twice?
“I told you that already.”
She screamed in rage and reached up to slap him, but he caught her wrist, holding it gently. Unable to handle her own gullibility, she burst into tears.
His features softened, and he released her arm. “I’m sorry, Christine—I know it doesn’t mean much, but I never meant to hurt you. I just wanted to help you learn to sing, and I knew you wouldn’t have anything to do with something like—” He stopped abruptly. “Nevermind. The point is that I never meant for it to go this far.”
She continued to cry. Fortunately he did not touch her again. She wouldn’t have been able to stand it if he had.
“You’re doing very well, Mademoiselle Daaé,” said Monsieur Mercier wearily the following day, setting down his conductor’s baton. “Once you stop daydreaming and missing your cues, you’ll have the entire first paragraph down perfectly.”
“Thank you, monsieur,” said Christine, forcing a smile to show that she wasn’t embarrassed by all her screw-ups. After all, they had only been rehearsing for two days, and it wasn’t her fault she couldn’t keep her mind on all this Italian gibberish or control the wandering of her thoughts, dwelling on Raoul’s handsome visage, his golden hair, his mansion…. She imagined being introduced as Christine, Vicomtess de Chagny, and practically swooned over the beauty of the name. As a child, Raoul had been very proud of being one of the only noble families to still hold their ancestral lands, making his surname and title both “Chagny.” And to think that she, born penniless and common, would be able to flaunt that name! It was almost too much to contemplate! She imagined fabulous dinners, clandestine rendezvous, even his proposal. Sometimes she made it past their wedding without being interrupted, and she never could restrain a small, giddy giggle as she pictured herself on a balcony in the Chagny mansion, clad in only the most expensive silks and laces, lounging atop a mountain of jewels and golden doubloons.
But, unlike her usual blissful daydreams, today’s had been distant and half-hearted, overshadowed by all her terrible ordeals with Erik. The constant sick feeling in her stomach redoubled as she thought of his hideousness, and his cruel lies. But she couldn’t figure out what to do—she had tried looking into other vocal instructors, but though several of Paris’ finest had jumped at the chance to teach the new diva of the Garnier, she hadn’t found one with even a fraction of Erik’s talent. She hadn’t been looking very long, but she was beginning to doubt that she would be able to find anybody as good.
Everything was made worse by her uncertainty about Raoul—what she would say to him when she saw him again. What could she say? She had run away from him the other night, just when he was declaring his love! But she was blameless—he had been moving a bit too fast, and she was wrung out from all the recent horrors.
“And you, Mademoiselle Giry,” continued Mercier, “will start doing much better once you realize that you cannot dance and chat with that stagehand at the same time!”
“I’m sorry, monsieur,” said Meg, hanging her head and moving away from the troll-like Tannenbaum.
Normally Christine would have defended her—especially now that her diva status gave her some clout—but Meg still wasn’t speaking to her. So Christine just ignored her in return and flounced past her former friend and the hulking stagehand without even glancing at them to prove she didn’t feel she had anything to be sorry about. She was so sick of the whole affair that she could just scream—everyone thought she was a stupid, flaky liar now, and it was all Meg’s and Erik’s fault. If Meg hadn’t thrown such a fit and if Erik hadn’t have sent her that note, she could have just sent Tannenbaum to prison and everyone would have been happy.
She glanced around backstage, hoping she wouldn’t run into the vicomte; she was fairly certain he was in the opera house, and she didn’t want to see him just yet. She was still so embarrassed about running away from his affections, and then lying on top of it….
She made it off the stage, and she was about to breathe a sigh of relief when a voice made her jump.
“Christine, where have you been all day?” asked Raoul cheerily, stepping into her path. “The only way I could find you was to attend the rehearsal. And I have a lot to do, as a gentleman of Paris and co-patron of the Opera Garnier—it was very difficult to find time to search for you.”
She just stood there, unable to say anything. A faint blush had risen to her cheeks, and she suddenly found it impossible to look at anything other than the floor. Oh gods, she was a mess—her dress was old and worn and she was wearing very little jewelry. What a time for him to see her! “Um, Raoul,” she stumbled, “I—”
“I understand perfectly,” he interrupted, placing a finger to her lips. “No need to be embarrassed, my sumptuous songbird. You don’t hate me for kissing you, surely?” His devilish grin was in complete contrast to his demure words, as if he had no doubts whatsoever that Christine had enjoyed herself.
“No, it’s not that,” she started, trying to figure out how to warn him about Erik. “It’s just—”
“You’re worried about your career,” he concluded. “Yes, that must be it. Well, don’t worry, you’ll make an absolutely radiant star, despite the managers’ reservations.”
“But learning Italian is so hard.”
“You just have to apply yourself. You wouldn’t want to disappoint me, would you?” he asked, with a dashing grin.
“No!” she said, feeling a frantic need to study her lines.
He chuckled. He was so handsome that she couldn’t look at him without feeling her legs melt out from underneath her. His hair, so beautiful, held the same newly-cut look that it always did, making him look very handsome and wealthy. He’d had blond hair as a child, Christine recalled—a shimmering, angelic blond. But time had transformed it into a deeper, caramel color. It suited his noble, stately air, and it seemed to Christine to reflect his transformation from the innocence of childhood to the commanding majesty of the French aristocracy. His black, immaculate tailcoat—the height of gentleman’s formal attire—contrasted sharply with the pure white of his dress shirt and bow tie. His shoes were so polished that she could see her face in them. And in one gloved hand he held an ebony cane, capped in gold.
For a long moment she stared, drinking in all the splendor, but after a time, her wonderment began to melt into a sort of sad inferiority as she considered her own clothes. She was a pathetic Swedish peasant, and he was a vicomte of France. There was no way she could hope to marry anyone so far above her. But Raoul was so wonderful, so gallant, so caring—surely he wouldn’t tell her he loved her unless he planned to marry her. Please, Frigg, Freya, goddesses of love, she prayed, please let us be married!
Christine looked up into Raoul’s eyes, and the commotion of the stage crew faded into the background. His face, so flawless, looked as if it had been carved from marble. His eyes were glittering and pale, lighter than ice and just as clear. She found she was having a hard time keeping her thoughts straight, and she fought to regain her mind as it filled itself with thoughts of Raoul, everything else being forced into the darkness. She tried to speak, but her voice was a squeak. “Raoul—”
“What’s the matter?” asked the vicomte, frowning. “Do you feel all right?”
“Um—yes—”
“Good—I’d hate for you to miss having dinner with me because of an inconvenient illness.”
“Dinner…?” Had he mentioned taking her to dinner? It was so hard to think….
“But of course, my captivating chrysanthemum—I’m taking you to Les Ambassadeurs. I’m giving up quite a few Halloween parties, but you are worth it.”
“Oh, I can’t go,” she said, without really listening, gazing into his perfect face. “I have ceremonies to perform and—”
Suddenly she was jarred out of her cloudy delirium. “Les—Ambassadeurs?” she managed, eyes widening in amazement. Only the wealthiest and most affluent of noblemen could afford to dine at Les Ambassadeurs! It was four blocks from the opera house, and Christine had walked past the elaborate facade many times, each time wishing that she could enter and knowing she never would.
“Don’t look so shocked, my alluring ingénue,” he chided her with a roguish wink. “Did you honestly think I would be so ungallant as to take you somewhere cheaper?”
“Christine, are you sure you want to skip practice tonight?”
Christine froze, halfway out her dressing room door. She hadn’t thought Erik knew she was there—she had been so quiet! All she’d wanted was a fashionable dress and a necklace for her dinner with Raoul tonight, but her clothes were all too plain for such an elegant occasion. Only moments before, as she was searching through her own measly assortment of garments, had it come to her that she could go down to the costumery and borrow a gown and some jewelry. There was nothing wrong with that—she’d have them back before anyone missed them. How embarrassing would it be to arrive at the Les Ambassadeurs in one of her worn muslin dresses?
But meeting Erik along the way had not been a part of the plan. She turned, seeing that he was standing in the empty frame of her mirror. She hurriedly closed the door, hoping no one walking by had seen Erik. In her haste she knocked over the foot-high pile of clothing draped over the back of a chair, which she set to picking up, glad that it gave her an excuse not to meet his eyes. It was easier to lie to someone that way. Besides, she didn’t want to see that mask and think about his ugliness, or her own stupidity. She hated him for tricking her, but she knew it was partially her own fault—he had told her the truth, and she had refused to believe it. Her hate was further tapered by the knowledge that this man was necessary to her ascension to greatness—at least, until she could find an alternative. But tonight she had more important things to worry about than music. “Can we practice tomorrow night?” she asked sweetly. “I’m much too tired tonight, and I have a very important ritual to the gods to perform.” Hopefully the gods wouldn’t be too angry that she was putting off the ceremony until after she had returned home from the restaurant.
“As you wish,” was his reply. “Should I accompany you? I know your flat is just two blocks away, but if any of those brazen aristocrats—”
“No, that’s all right,” she cut in, beads of sweat forming unbidden on her brow, fearing that he meant Raoul. “It’s not even dark yet; plenty of people will be around. No one would dare try anything with so many onlookers.”
“As you wish,” he said again, though it seemed a trifle sadder this time.
“Yes, well, good night.” Christine felt a twinge of regret at lying to him, but she brushed it away. He was a monster. She shouldn’t have any compunction about lying to him. And it was none of his business anyway.
Raoul beamed at Christine, who had just exited the Garnier. “My melodious mar
igold, you look simply ravishing!”
She smiled and thanked him demurely, trying very hard not to stare at how expensive his suit was. It consisted of a dark, glossy brown tailcoat and trousers with a matching waistcoat, the most formal and pricey gentlemen’s attire in Europe. She had to refrain from touching the lapel of his jacket in awe, and could not tear her eyes away from his bow tie and the winged collar of his shirt, both so unbelievably white and immaculate that they seemed to give off a glow.
She couldn’t believe that her perfect faerie tale was all coming true. A faerie tale in which she, a beautiful peasant, undeserving of all the hardships she had suffered, fell in love with a handsome prince, who would sweep her off her feet and carry her away to his castle. She felt so giddy (in part from how tightly she had laced her corset) that she feared she wouldn’t be able to walk down the few steps to the sidewalk without fainting.
Raoul approached and kissed her gloved hand. “You have wonderful taste in clothing, my resplendent beauty.”
She blushed; the gown she’d chosen was one from Cosí Fan Tutte. It was the color of bluebells, with crisp, white lace lining the sleeves and bodice. Vast sapphire bows lined the bodice as well, drawing attention to the low cut neckline. The fashions of mid-eighteenth century Italy, when the opera was placed, required her hair to be piled atop her head and secured with bows and flowers—but she hadn’t had time, so instead it fell in free-flowing cascades. The gown wasn’t as fancy as one of Carlotta’s, but she wouldn’t have fit into any of those.
As Raoul helped her into the carriage, she couldn’t restrain an exclamation of surprise at the splendor of the carriage’s interior. But as she was about to step into the magnificent coach, a gust of wind made her shiver, and she glanced over her shoulder. Erik wasn’t there, of course, but she felt the same twinge of fear nevertheless.
Christine gasped in awe as Raoul helped her out of the carriage, unable to take her eyes away from the towering marble pillars and magnificent façade of the building before her. Its white stone seemed to glow in the golden light of the setting sun. Fountains lined the cobblestoned walkway, shooting endless jets of sparkling water into the air. “It’s beautiful,” she breathed.
Costumes and Filigree: A Novel of the Phantom of the Opera Page 16
