Costumes and Filigree: A Novel of the Phantom of the Opera

by Dayna Stevenson

  “Who do you think I am?” she demanded, standing abruptly, hands clenched and shaking.

  “I’m sure I don’t know, mademoiselle,” the servant replied, in such a formal, mechanical way that he seemed almost an automaton.

  “I am Christine Daaé, Diva Extraordinaire of the Opera Garnier!”

  “Of course, mademoiselle.”

  “I am! Raoul even had it inscribed on a gold nameplate for my dressing room door!”

  “Yes, mademoiselle.” The man was visibly uncomfortable. She couldn’t tell if he believed her or not—but she decided to give him the benefit of the doubt; he was only following orders, after all. It was that butler who had insulted her. She would have Raoul fire him.

  At that moment, the butler in question returned. “Monsieur le Vicomte sends his apologies, but he cannot be disturbed.”

  “Can’t be disturbed for his own fiancée?” Christine exclaimed, momentarily forgetting that Raoul hadn’t actually proposed yet.

  The butler’s eyes widened considerably. He coughed, seeming quite distressed. But his answer did not change—“I’m sorry, mademoiselle. Perhaps you could leave the vicomte a note?”

  Christine fought to control her anger. It would not do for Raoul to hear of her acting in such an unladylike rage. “Y-yes.” She followed him out into the main foyer to an ornate table.

  “You may write a message on the back of your card and leave it here,” he instructed, gesturing to the silver tray resting on the oak surface.

  “I—I forgot to bring them,” she lied.

  Disgust made itself even more evident through the butler’s polite mask. “Very well, then. Sébastien, please fetch Mademoiselle Daaé a sheet of paper.” The servant bowed and retreated through a doorway.

  The longer Christine waited, the more her fury mounted. It was absolutely ridiculous that she was being turned away. She doubted that the man had even bothered to speak to Raoul—there was no way that Raoul de Chagny could have anything more important to do than to attend to her needs. Of course—it made perfect sense! Raoul didn’t even know that she was in the house! That butler was trying to ruin her marriage!

  She glanced toward the butler, who was partially turned away from her, staring, soldier-like, into the air. Now was her chance.

  Without any advance warning, she suddenly turned and bolted up the grand staircase. She heard the man shout angrily for her to desist this moment, but she only ran faster. With a jerk she threw open the door she had seen the man go through earlier.

  When she saw Raoul, she felt her heart stop.

  There was her fiancé, seated on a velvet loveseat, laughing merrily and kissing the giggling nymph in his arms, the buttons of whose dress were opened all the way down to her chest, giving the vicomte a teasing glimpse of her charms.

  “Raoul!” she cried, unable to believe the horror before her eyes.

  The vicomte jumped as though she had struck him with lightning. He shoved the protesting girl aside. “Christine!” he exclaimed.

  “Master!” The butler grabbed Christine’s arm.

  “I said I was busy!” Raoul shouted.

  “Yes!” Christine shrieked. “And never would I have dreamed that you were busy with—with—that!” She started to point towards the husband-stealing creature pulling the shoulders of her dress back up to their proper locations. The butler roughly secured her other arm.

  “Jus’ what d’you mean by that?” the woman in question snapped, tossing back her mussed golden hair. She was beautiful enough to be a valkyrie. Her clothes were as worn and poor as Christine’s own, and from that and her lower-class accent Christine guessed her to be a flower girl. From her neck hung a shining opal—that, more than anything else, kindled Christine’s rage.

  “That should be mine!” she shrieked, pointing an accusing finger at the necklace.

  “Christine—darling—precious—you don’t understand—”

  “I understand perfectly!”

  “No, you don’t! Anceline is my cousin!”

  “Oh, is that how it is?” the flower girl demanded, hands on her voluptuous hips.

  Raoul scowled and, stepping over to Anceline, whispered something in her ear. Christine thought she caught the word “francs” in the middle. Anceline’s eyes lit up greedily. “Whatever you say…cousin Raoul,” she said, with an obsequious grin.

  “I’m not stupid, Raoul!” Christine suddenly became aware that there were tears pouring down her face, carving chasms in the makeup. She couldn’t allow Raoul or that woman to see her so upset! “Let me go!” she snarled, stomping her heel into the man’s boot.

  At a nod from Raoul, the butler released her. Christine flew down the steps and out of the house, crying madly.

  How could he—? How could Raoul even look at another woman? It was impossible! IMPOSSIBLE!

  She didn’t stop running until she had reached the Rue Notre-Dame-Des-Victoires. As she started into the tenement building up to her small apartment, the tears started flowing afresh as she viewed the cramped, narrow hallways and peeling wallpaper that surrounded her. She was nothing—a simple, stupid, penniless waif. A godlike figure such as Raoul, with his millions of francs and title of nobility, would never demean himself by marrying a thing like her. She was just another flower girl to him. A toy—a plaything!

  She collapsed on the stairs. “No, no,” she sobbed, beating her forehead into one of the steps. “It can’t be true—it just can’t. He loves me! He has to love me!”

  She stayed on the staircase for a long time, until another tenant chanced by and concernedly helped her up to her apartment. By that time, she had made up her mind—if she couldn’t be the Vicomtess de Chagny, life held no further interest. She’d throw herself off the roof of the opera house—that would show Raoul what a mistake he had made!

  Chapitre Vingt: Le Suicide Manqué de Christine

  Christine shivered as she peered over the edge and drew her shawl closer about her shoulders. It was several stories to the pavement below. The height had never bothered her before, but now, as she imagined the drop and the sickening splat that would follow, she felt intensely ill. But she had to go through with it—she had to punish Raoul for the terrible crime he had committed.

  She smiled dizzily as she pictured the faithless Vicomte de Chagny at her funeral, collapsed against her coffin, uncaring as his silk garments were ruined by the cold, muddy ground. “I loved her!” he would cry, tearing at his clothes in a grieved frenzy. “I loved her more than any man has ever loved! How could I have been so stupid as to turn away from her, even for a moment? And now she’s gone—gone—gone forever!”

  She laughed aloud, savoring the power of the moment as she condemned Raoul to a life of sorrow and regret, wandering Europe, seeking the happiness he had thrown away. Yes, he would be sorry for his mistake!

  Filled with renewed conviction, she stepped up to the edge. “Goodbye, cruel world!” she proclaimed, throwing off her shawl.

  A freezing wind struck her, and the resulting spasm of shivers robbed her of her balance. Before she could register her situation, she tumbled off the ledge.

  No, no, she didn’t want to die! Oh, gods—!

  Suddenly she felt a rope snap around her waist, jerking her upright. She was still screaming hysterically, too terrified to form a coherent thought. It took her a long moment to realize that she could still feel the roof’s sharp edge through her shoes.

  A moment later there was a strong, comforting arm around her, guiding her away from the precipice. She turned and clung to her rescuer, sobbing uncontrollably. “O-oh t-thank you, thank y-you,” she cried, her words barely comprehensible through the tears.

  “What were you doing, Christine?” Erik’s voice was soft and gentle, despite the tense urgency she could feel radiating from his body.

  His calming presence washed over her, and after a few minutes of frantic weeping, she regained enough composure to raise her head. “I was going t-to kill m-myself.”

  “Bu
t why? What’s the matter?”

  “I—” But she couldn’t tell him about Raoul. Desperate to maintain the small amount of pride she had left, she merely said, “It doesn’t matter.”

  “But it does!” he protested. She could feel his muscles tense beneath the cotton shirt, and she realized that he was fighting the desire to hold her more tightly. “Tell me what’s wrong, Christine,” he pleaded. “I’ll do everything I can to help you.”

  She sighed and buried her face in his shirt, exhausted by the flurry of emotions that whirled in her dizzy head: desperate relief, confusion, embarrassment, teary gratitude, and cold shock. She just wanted to relax in a strong pair of arms and forget about the horror she had almost experienced. “It’s not important now,” she sighed, suddenly very tired. “I want to go inside—I’m cold.”

  As he led her across the rooftop and out of the frigid wind, she thanked the gods that Erik had been there to save her. It was better that she hadn’t killed herself; that would be as much a punishment to herself as to Raoul. She’d just have to think of some other way to take her revenge.

  “Mademoiselle Daaé!” Mercier exclaimed. “Where have you been? Practice began an hour ago! Most of the cast has already left!”

  “Oh, I’m very sorry,” she said as she walked onto the stage, smiling brilliantly in the hopes of avoiding a lecture. “You see, I had a problem with my costume—”

  “Mademoiselle, Monsieur le Costumer is not in today and we are not practicing in costume!”

  “Oh, fine then,” she snapped, throwing her script down onto the stage. “You want to know the truth? I figured it would be a waste to come to practice because I had planned on killing myself at ten-o’clock!”

  Mercier pursed his lips and tapped his baton angrily on his music stand. “Stick with the first story, mademoiselle, and take your position. We’ll start the second act with a skeleton crew, and you!—yes, you stagehands!—go fetch everyone back here!”

  As the employees in question meandered rather drunkenly away, not bothering to hurry in the slightest, Christine felt her hand tremble, and she would have dropped her script if it hadn’t already been on the floor. It had been a few hours since her near death experience, and though she had calmed down quite a bit, she still felt numb and she was suffering from spasms of shakes. She had already thrown up twice, but she still felt a little nauseous as she thought of that sickening drop. Thank the gods for Erik.

  “Zut, mademoiselle,” continued Mercier sourly, “it will take at least another hour to get all the cast assembled again! Where’s Idamante?”

  “Right here,” a young man called, striding up to stand near Christine.

  “Good morning,” she said, eyeing the handsome singer appreciatively. He was tan and dashing with a thin, wiry figure. His untidy hair fell over his eyes, making him look rather adorably like a sheepdog.

  “Bon jour, mademoiselle,” he said, with a shy smile. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

  “We haven’t, no. What happened to Alain?”

  “He was fired. The managers hired me this morning.”

  “How splendid—I’m sure you’ll make a dashing Idamante,” she said, fluttering her eyelashes. She decided she liked him; something about him struck her as being innocent and subservient, like a farm boy.

  “Oh—thank you. My—my name is François Rousseau. Like the philosopher.”

  “Oh, how fascinating—any relation?” She had no idea what philosopher he was talking about, but she thought it would flatter him to show interest. Unlike Raoul, he did not seem to possess the polish and in-charge nature that made Raoul seem so aristocratic; but this man was genial and polite, and very good-looking.

  “Alas, no,” he said with a smile.

  “Ah, what a shame! Oh, I haven’t introduced myself, how silly of me—I am Christine Daaé, Diva Extraordinaire.” She heard a muffled chuckle from Mercier’s direction and pointedly ignored him.

  “It is an honor, mademoiselle,” François said, kissing her hand.

  She giggled and looked away, feigning shyness. It was perfect—what a marvelous revenge this would be. Raoul would be absolutely furious when he heard about her affair with a penniless singer (he must be penniless—no millionaire would look like a farm boy on purpose). And in a month from now when they performed Idomeneo together, Raoul would be forced to watch her shower this boy with love on stage in front of all of Paris, raging and unable to do anything to stop her! It was brilliant!

  “Sing something, François,” she begged.

  “Oh mademoiselle, I couldn’t interrupt rehearsal—”

  “Please, just a short something.”

  François bit his lip and sang a line from one of the arias. He was quite talented, and his voice fit the part well.

  “Oh, François, that was absolutely beautiful,” she cooed, placing an admiring hand on his arm.

  “You really think so, mademoiselle?”

  “Of course! You are magnificent!” His voice was good, it was true, but it was so far beneath Erik’s that it was like comparing Asgard to the dank hells of Niflheim.

  She heard commanding footsteps at the back of the stage, and she turned to see Raoul eyeing François, looking furious already. Her anger flared, disrupting her planning, and she turned sharply away. “Monsieur Mercier, if you please?” she prompted tersely.

  “Very well, mademoiselle. We’ll start with scene two. You and Monsieur Rousseau are alone on stage. There are a few recited lines before the aria. Mademoiselle says, ‘Se mai pomposo apparse sull'Argivo orizzonte il Dio di Delo, eccolo in questo giorno, oh sire, in cui l'augusta—’ What is the matter, mademoiselle?’”

  She blinked slowly, not wanting to look foolish in front of either handsome man, and yet she was unable to find a way around admitting, “I’m sorry, monsieur, but I lost you after ‘say-tie.’”

  Mercier sighed. “It’s ‘se mai.’ Pick up your script, if you please, mademoiselle, and study the line while we go on to Idamante’s reply.”

  “Please, mademoiselle,” said the farm boy, “let me get it for you.”

  “Oh, why thank you, François.” She accepted her script with a sweet smile.

  “Now, Monsieur Rousseau, your line is, ‘Principessa gentil, il bel sereno anche alle tue pupille omai ritorni, il lungo duol dilegua.’”

  François repeated it perfectly. Perhaps her farm boy theory was incorrect.

  At this point, the vicomte interceded. “I see the managers have replaced Idamante again.”

  “Indeed, monsieur,” Mercier said, with an ill-hidden sigh.

  Raoul drew near François, seeming oblivious to Christine’s presence, and shook the man’s hand. “I am the Vicomte de Chagny.”

  “François Rousseau. Pleased to meet you, sir.”

  “A pleasure.”

  Christine, thrilled that her plan had already been thrown into gear, interjected, putting admiration into her voice, “François is a marvelous singer, you know—absolutely godlike.”

  Raoul cast a glance her way. “How nice. Tell me, François, is she not the most radiant angel you have ever seen?” He gestured grandly towards Christine, a brisk efficiency in his manner.

  “Why yes, monsieur, she is—absolutely beautiful.”

  “Oh, why thank you—”

  “You’re fired,” Raoul informed François coldly.

  “I beg your pardon, monsieur?!”

  “You heard me,” Raoul bellowed, gesturing wildly with his gilded cane. “Out! Out!”

  Poor François, face a picture of hurt confusion, rushed to comply.

  “What are you doing?!” Christine screamed.

  “Firing a country bumpkin who had the effrontery to look at you!”

  By this time, the managers had heard the uproar and appeared. As Christine stormed off the stage, both were loudly protesting the vicomte’s outrageous pronouncement. In her fury, she ignored them and Raoul, who was still shouting, striding to her dressing room to lock herself in and fume over the f
ailure of her perfect plan.

  Later that day, Christine was still in her dressing room at her vanity when a knock sounded on her door. She squeaked in surprise, startled out of her thoughts. “Yes?” she called, hurrying to stuff the necklace she had filched from the costumery into a drawer.

  “It’s Raoul.”

  She slammed her hairbrush onto the vanity. “Go away! I’m very busy!”

  “Please, Christine, I need to speak with you!”

  “I don’t care!”

  “But you don’t understand!”

  “I understand perfectly! You were having an affair with a flower wench!”

  There was a long silence, and Christine realized that since Raoul had never actually proposed to her, he technically couldn’t be having an affair. But it didn’t matter—he was still being unfaithful to her!

  “Please, Christine, just open the door! I won’t even come inside!”

  “Oh, fine!” She shoved the stool back and stomped over to the door. As she flipped the catch on the lock, she set her face in a haughty, uncaring expression, trying to summon up all the diva poise she could muster.

  She opened the door a crack. To her irritation, while Raoul looked terribly distressed, it had not affected his appearance at all. He couldn’t be too agonized if he had still bothered to arrange his hair. “What do you want?”

  “I want to explain yesterday’s unfortunate misunderstanding.”

  “Misunderstanding! Is that what you call it!”

  “Yes! Christine, in your haste, you misinterpreted a perfectly innocent meeting between myself and my cousin!”

  “Cousin! Bah! You were kissing her!”

  “Of course I was—she’s family!”

  “What about her dress?”’

  “What about it?”

  “It was down past her shoulders, that’s what!”

  “It was an accident, Christine—right before you came in, she tripped on the edge of her dress and fell. I caught her.”

  “Don’t be absurd! Even if it had happened that way, you wouldn’t have a penniless cousin!”

  “Poor Anceline was disinherited,” he said desperately. “Because her cruel sisters were jealous of her beauty. She’s forced to sell flowers to keep from starving.”

  “I’m not stupid,” Christine snapped. “If that were true, she could just sell that necklace and be set for life!”