Raoul chuckled. “Yes, I suppose it is.” He seemed unmoved by the grandeur of Les Ambassadeurs. But then, he probably dined here on a weekly basis.
Try as she might, Christine could not contain her awe as they walked through the behemoth double-doors into a lobby that put the opera house to shame. The floors were marble, perfect and lustrous and streaming with veins of white and silver. The candelabras on the walls shone beyond any silver Christine had ever seen. The waiters and clerks were all dressed in immaculate uniforms of costly black fabric. Oh, how wonderful it would be to be so wealthy! To live in a manor, to be able to wear a dress only once and then throw it away, to socialize with the nobility and celebrities and even royalty!
Raoul handed their reservations to the desk clerk, who glanced at Christine briefly before summoning a waiter for them. “Back so soon, Monsieur le Vicomte? But not with Mademoiselle Lafontaine tonight?” he inquired conversationally, filing away the reservation slip.
Raoul’s face momentarily clouded with something akin to annoyance, and he said, his voice clipped and cold, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“As you wish, sir. Then who is your mademoiselle tonight?”
“Her name is none of your business.” The coldness of Raoul’s voice, its sharpness not unlike a shard of ice, sent a shiver down Christine’s spine. “Just show us to the table,” he ordered the waiter.
Christine pouted. “You should be shouting my name from the rooftops,” she said, folding her arms.
Raoul smiled and patted her hand. “Of course, mon ange.”
“Right this way, monsieur,” their designated waiter instructed obediently. As he led them through a massive curtained archway, Christine wondered what the clerk had meant—he seemed to have implied that Raoul came here with other women. But that was absurd. He only had eyes for her.
She clung to his arm, unsure of what to think. “Who is Mademoiselle Lafontaine?” she asked, trying not to jump to any conclusions. It was only fair to let him explain why he had come here with some other woman.
“My…cousin. Jacqueline. I don’t like her in the least, but family obligations necessitate it, you understand.”
Christine nodded uncertainly, wishing that it hadn’t taken him that suspicious extra second to answer. “Is she pretty?”
“No, not in the least,” he answered quickly. “In fact, she’s downright unsightly—turned up nose, pockmarked face, about thirty pounds overweight.”
“Oh.” That was good. There was no reason to doubt Raoul—he was too gentlemanly to lie. But just the same, she wasn’t certain what to think.
As they entered the main dining room, her amazement swept away her thoughts of mistrust. Though the lobby had been impressive, it was absolutely nothing compared to the dining hall. The floors were marble laid in a checkerboard pattern than ran the length of the hall, but the walls were marble as well—not silver, like the lobby, but gold, glittering like an infinity of stars in the rich candlelight. The ceiling seemed no less than fifty feet high, from which hung numerous golden chandeliers; their halos of luminescence lit up the ceiling, which was painted in bright colors depicting cherubs and angels. It was more fabulous than dining in Valhalla, the Hall of the Slain, with its roof of golden shields. The waiter led them to a table by the far wall, in an alcove near a vast window that peaked gracefully near the distant ceiling. The curtains were amethystine, beyond which was a heavenly view of the Seine, sparkling like a million diamonds in the rays of the setting sun. It was all too much for Christine, who felt like crying and laughing at the same time. Everything was so beautiful!
“Oh, Raoul,” she breathed, clinging to his arm, “it’s like Breidablik itself! But no, not even Breidablik could be so beautiful!”
“Bray-da-what?” Raoul said, sounding slightly less than patient. But that must have been her imagination. He was a gentleman, and he was madly in love with her. He was undoubtedly hanging on her every word.
“Breidablik!” she said again. “Baldr’s mansion in Asgard! The most beautiful place in all the Nine Worlds! I wonder if Breidablik has so many golden chandeliers—”
“There is no such thing,” Raoul cut in, his voice tight and almost angry. “And please don’t speak so loudly, my precious; you’re making a spectacle of us.”
Her brow creased in bewilderment. “No such thing? But I can see them hanging from the ceiling.”
“No—Breidablik! There is no such thing as Breidablik, or Baldr, or Asgard, or the nine worlds, or your ridiculous Angel of Music!”
She ripped her hand away from his arm. “How dare you say something like that!” People turned to stare at them, but she didn’t care. It served Raoul right if people were staring. “Of course there are!”
He stepped forward and grasped her shoulders, forcing her towards their table. “This is not the place to discuss it,” he muttered between clenched teeth.
As they sat down, the waiter handed them their menus and informed them that he would return when they were ready to order. Christine’s fury dissipated immediately as she saw the menu (after all, she couldn’t blame Raoul for having been brought up without knowledge of the gods. And the menu was so exquisite!). Though she was wearing gloves, she still hesitated before touching it. It was made of delicate ivory-colored paper and gilded with gold leaf and borders of filigree. She gaped as she saw the list of entrées, each one sounding more delicious and expensive than the last. But there were no prices next to the meals, so she could only guess at how terribly costly they must be.
After a few moments had passed, Raoul summoned the waiter. “I would like the nage corsée langoustines for the first course,” he said cordially, “the casse croute de noix for the second, and the pigeonneau désossé for the third, all with the wines suggested in the menu, except for the third course, for which I would like the Dom Hauvette.”
“Very good, Monsieur le Vicomte. And for dessert?”
“Fraises des bois con glase, with the Charbot sauce.” Raoul turned to Christine. “What would you like, my pearl?”
Christine, who had not yet decided on anything she wanted, stammered, “I—I hadn’t really decided—it all sounds so good—”
“Does mademoiselle need a few more minutes?” inquired the waiter.
Raoul shook his head. “No, that’s not necessary. She shall have all the same as I ordered.”
“Oh, yes,” she said to the waiter, happy that she hadn’t been forced to choose.
The waiter bowed. “Very good, monsieur, mademoiselle. The first course will arrive shortly.”
Christine amused herself during the wait by studying the elegance around her. The dark, genteel suits and sumptuous, flowing gowns….
It took her a few minutes to realize that the glances she was receiving were not kind or admiring—rather, they raked over her centuries-outdated dress, laughed at her stage makeup, and smiled knowingly, having pegged her occupation as a foreign ballet rat. She flushed and shifted her weight on the chair, noting with embarrassment that every woman in the room save herself was wearing the very latest of Parisian fashion, light-colored gowns without sleeves, and hair pulled back at the sides and worn in a elegant knot or cluster of ringlets. She glanced down at her own dress, with its full-length sleeves graced with large blue bows and her loose, unadorned hair, and she hung her head miserably. The worst realization was that her ridiculously-outdated Spanish farthingale that gave her skirts a full bell shape couldn’t be farther from the slim silhouettes of the women around her. She didn’t need this cruel reminder of her own inferiority.
Christine stared down at the table, wringing her hands, and tried to listen to Raoul’s polite conversation, until the first course arrived. It distracted her from her misery, and before long, she was chattering again, though not quite as happily.
The first course was so wonderful that she wolfed down every last morsel and drank a great deal of wine, and she was quite full by the arrival of the second course despite how tiny the portion
s of each delicacy were. She hadn’t taken notice that Raoul was eating rather little, no doubt saving his appetite for later courses. If only she’d noticed before she’d started eating she wouldn’t have made such a mistake.
At one point she brought up Mamma’s occupation as a seamstress, hoping that Raoul could pull a few strings and have her hired at the Garnier; she didn’t expect to be poor for very much longer (not with a vicomte so obviously interested), but the extra money right now would certainly help, and it would be nice to secure Mamma a better position for when Christine was married.
“She’s simply marvelous,” she told him, taking a sip of the fabulous wine the waiter had just set down for the second course. “She’s much more talented than any of the Garnier’s costume staff.”
Raoul took a sip of wine. “How interesting,” he offered.
“It would be very wonderful of you if you could get her hired there; her skills would benefit the operas a lot.”
“Of course, my exquisite éclair,” he said, sampling the scallops. “I’ll speak to the managers first thing tomorrow.”
After that, their talk was of little things, such as the opera house or how beautiful the dining hall was. Christine did most of the talking on the latter subject, unable to contain her awe of the grandiose building. After each burst of amazement from the girl, Raoul would nod politely and remark that it could not possibly surpass her beauty, never failing to make her blush.
By this time, Christine had completely forgotten about the problems hanging over her. Everything was so dazzling that there was no room in her head for anything else. But between the first and second courses, Raoul said, “I don’t know why you’re so amazed, my shapely sylph—I dine like this every night. And so shall you, when you come live in my mansion. My family’s head-chef may not be quite as good as the one here—believe me, I’ve tried on numerous occasions to get him to join my staff, with very generous pay—but I suppose you’ll have to settle for the second-best chef in France.”
Christine halted in the middle of a bite of black Italian truffles. She wasn’t really surprised, of course, that Raoul would extend such an invitation, but it was still so wonderful to hear. Marriage to a vicomte—how marvelous! How perfect, how wonderful, like a faerie tale! She would escape wretched poverty and spend the rest of her life in the most opulent mansion in Paris!
Raoul was still talking, and she tried to subdue her excitement and concentrate on him. “…my mansion overlooks the Seine, Christine—it’s the most envied piece of property in Paris. That’s why my great-great-grandfather built it there, you know. And even back then it was terribly costly, but he had to have the best….”
Try as she might, Christine couldn’t focus on him; Erik kept creeping back into her mind. She wouldn’t be able to hide the fact that she was a vicomtess from him. A sick feeling wormed its way into her stomach, making her set down her fork. What would she do without his guidance?
“Christine, my darling little rose?” queried Raoul, breaking off his speech. “You look ill.”
“I’m fine,” she said quickly. Erik was ruining her evening, and he wasn’t even here!
There isn’t any reason not to enjoy myself! she declared inwardly. I’ll marry and escape his clutches soon enough, and there is nothing this monster or any other can do about it.
And with that, she pushed all thought of Erik from her mind and renewed her concentration on her scallops and truffles. Though at first she had some difficulty, she managed to sink back into the state of awe and almost religious reverence of the splendor around her.
The wine was excellent and Christine was delighted that every course was served with a different vintage. Christine was amazed by this extravagance, even after Raoul explained that each wine complemented the individual courses. Even though her appetite had long since vanished, she couldn’t keep herself from eating every bit of food on her plate, as well as finishing off many of the various bottles of wine. By the time they reached dessert, the room was spinning and Raoul had been reduced to a mere blur. The lights were so bright, and everything seemed to sway and dance before her eyes. She had to squint to see the strawberries mixed into her rose ice cream, but she made sure to eat every last one of the beautiful scarlet blurs.
She couldn’t remember much after that. Brief flashes of the carriage crossed her vision, but she knew nothing more until she found herself in bed the next morning.
Chapitre Seize: Les Conséquences
Christine awoke slowly, unsure of exactly who or where she was. These questions gnawed at the back of her clouded mind, adding to the insufferable headache that was plaguing her. Her vision was blurry, and she blinked a few times to clear away the haze. It did little good, and she soon gave up. She also stopped trying to figure out who she was, as the effort had thoroughly drained her. She was on a bed; that much she had deduced. The lumps and sags in the mattress seemed quite familiar to her, so she decided it must be her own bed. She couldn’t figure out anything else.
And that will have to do, she decided, closing her weary eyes and sluggishly reclining further into the pillows. Even with her eyes shut, the light from the window hurt most dreadfully, and she pulled the covers over her head. It was terribly comfortable—even with the lumpy mattress—and she decided she wouldn’t get up. Her head hurt too much to even contemplate such a thing.
She remained in this stupor for some time before someone came into the room. The doorknob turned with a deafening, high-pitched squeak, and Christine cried aloud. Someone entered, their footsteps shaking the floor and making Christine’s stomach quake sickly. Then the person, whom Christine had not yet identified, said, “CHRISTINE, ARE YOU BEING AL-H’RIGHT?”
The woman’s voice was not loud to her own ears, perhaps, but to Christine, it was like someone taking a hammer to her brain. She screamed shrilly, her body jerking forward to a sitting position. Her eyes opened involuntarily, and the bright sunlight exacerbated her torment. Clutching her head, she tried to force the pain away, but only succeeded in spurring it on to a greater duration. Under normal circumstances, she might have realized that the woman was Mamma Valerius, but the pounding in her head left no room for anything else.
“OH, I AM SORRY, MY DEAR,” Mamma said quietly (though it did not seem quiet at all to Christine), placing a comforting hand on the girl’s shoulder.
Christine managed to keep from screaming by biting into her bottom lip. “P-please,” she whined, trying to keep her voice as low—and therefore as painless—as possible. It was still agonizing, but she forced herself to continue. “It h-hurts.”
“Yes, I am sorry, Christine,” Mamma breathed, her voice barely audible to her own ears. To Christine’s, however, it was like an entire orchestra blasting an inch from her head. “Ze vicomte said you should be staying in bed today.”
“What’s wrong with me?” moaned Christine, squeezing her eyes shut to keep out the searing light.
“You zhust drank a bit too much, mine child.”
It took a long moment for the words to penetrate the cloudy haze in Christine’s mind. Goodness, had all that beauty and glamour been worth it, with the repercussions so high?
In a wonderful moment when the pain temporarily lapsed, she decided that it had been. The filigree, the glowing candlelight, the blazing chandeliers…. The thought of such brilliance brought a fresh spasm of pain, and she dismissed these thoughts. She could think about it later, when it hurt less.
Erik set down his everyday porcelain mask and replaced it with a less-noticeable black one. He then threw on a cloak and pulled the hood down so the mask was obscured by the shadow. Unearthing a small hand mirror out of a bottom drawer in a corner, he surveyed the effect with a critical and dispassionate eye. Unless one looked hard, one wouldn’t notice that he was wearing a mask at all. But perhaps that was because of the dim candlelight. Though he had no intention of passing under any streetlights, he adjusted the hood a second time.
He hated having to leave the Opera G
arnier for any reason; even with his precautions, the very idea of having people stare, murmuring to each other, was too painful. But Christine had not come back the previous day, and anxiety and the suspicion that the Vicomte de Chagny had something to do with it haunted him relentlessly.
“Perhaps she’s just sick,” Antoinette Giry had said patiently, when he’d mentioned it to her. But he doubted it. Christine was hardly ever sick. Certainly, she pretended to be ill sometimes to get out of practice, but now that she was becoming a star, she was breaking away from that damaging habit.
He’d also considered that she had needed a few days away from the Opera Garnier to recover from the horror she had experienced because of him. But while there was a possibility, ever so slight, that it was something else, something serious, he couldn’t just sit around and do nothing. (Antoinette had offered to go to Christine’s flat to check on her, but he didn’t want to take advantage of her kindness to him.)
Erik deposited the mirror back in its drawer and turned his gaze to a map of the city. With a gloved finger, he traced the route he would take to the Rue Notre-Dame-Des-Victoires, where Christine’s flat was. It was only a few blocks away, but, having never been there before, he wanted to be sure he knew the way.
Setting the map down, he picked up his Punjab Lasso and swept from the room.
Erik crouched to one side of the window, not worried in the least that the only thing supporting his weight was a meager iron rail accenting the bottom of the window frame, or the fact that the ground was at least three stories below him. Heights bothered him a little, certainly, but he couldn’t let it keep him from doing his utmost to protect Christine.
Though there were bubbles and aberrations in the low-quality glass, Christine was clear enough. She was laying in a bed in the far corner of the room, swathed in sheets, her chocolate-colored locks gracefully strewn across the pillow. Her white nightgown—though old and rather threadbare—gave her the appearance of a heavenly being. Her eyes were peacefully closed, and she seemed to glow with an ethereal radiance in the dim light of the coals in the hearth. She didn’t appear ill at all; in fact, she was even more beautiful than usual. His fears dissipating, Erik was content to watch her for a few moments, thinking of her beauty and the sweetness of her voice and demeanor…. She was so gentle, so perfect….
Costumes and Filigree: A Novel of the Phantom of the Opera Page 17
