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

by Dayna Stevenson

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Garnets are not anywhere near as costly.”

  She scowled at the earring, feeling slightly betrayed. “Oh, rats.”

  “But it doesn’t matter what it is—why haven’t you taken it to the managers? The unfortunate lady will probably come looking for it.”

  “Well, if it’s just a worthless garnet, what difference does it make?”

  “It’s not worthless, Christine, and it probably has sentimental value. It isn’t right for you to keep it. You have to take it to the managers.”

  “It’s two years too late,” she informed him in a superior tone.

  He continued to frown, and she set her face in a heartrending expression of loss and despondency. She had spent years perfecting that look, and now, so complete, with its wide, glistening eyes and trembling mouth, its power could not possibly fail her. “You wouldn’t make me throw out these few little things, would you?” she asked, looking up into his eyes.

  “They belong to other people,” he said, but she could tell the look was already getting to him.

  “But there’s no way to get anything back to them now,” she pleaded. “And most of it is absolutely worthless—just little trinkets that make me happy.”

  He sighed and handed her back the earring. She jumped up with a cry of joy and embraced him, then twirled around the room, looking so absolutely happy that he couldn’t possibly change his mind. “Oh thank you!”

  “Just promise me that you’ll give anything more that you find to the managers.”

  “Oh, I promise!”

  “Good.”

  She smiled radiantly at him and made for the door, hoping he was sufficiently distracted to allow her to escape the room before he remembered about the cleaning. “Well, I’ve got to get to practice, I’ll see you later—”

  “Christine, come back here. There isn’t a rehearsal today—it’s Sunday.”

  She took her hand off the knob with a feignedly self-conscious giggle. “Oh yes, of course, how silly of me. I meant that I was going home—”

  “After you’ve finished cleaning up this mess.”

  “But it’s the Sabbath! You can’t force me to work on the Sabbath!”

  “That’s not going to work, Christine. You aren’t even a Christian.”

  “You’re mean!” she said loudly, pointing an accusing finger at him.

  He didn’t seem to take her declaration very seriously. “Yes, I’m very mean. Now, what I’m most concerned about is those trays.” He shifted the mountain of clothing to one arm and gestured to the heap of trays, silverware, and food from last week’s meals molding on the table. “They’re attracting ants.”

  “It’s more convenient to take them a week’s worth at a time.”

  “I’m sure the kitchen staff do not appreciate scraping week-old food off their trays.”

  “It’s not a big deal—it’s not like they can have me fired or anything.”

  “Christine, it’s a matter of consideration.”

  She arranged her face in a pout before stepping forward to take the trays. “Oh, fine then.”

  “Good. Before you go, tell me which of these to put in the wash.” He offered her the mass of muslin.

  “Goodness, how should I be able to remember? Just wash them all.”

  “Christine, that’s—”

  “Alright, I know, I know, extra work for the washwoman. I’ll figure it out when I get back.” She dumped the food and silverware onto the first tray and stacked the rest of the trays beneath it. She had started for the door when Erik said,

  “As a matter of interest, La Madeleine is celebrating its fortieth anniversary as a church today. Madame Giry has informed me that they’ve purchased several carts filled with fireworks for the occasion.”

  “La Madeleine? That temple a few blocks away?”

  “Yes.”

  “You mean it hasn’t always been a church?” she asked, trying to balance the hefty pile of pewter as the bowls, poorly stacked on top of the molding food, threatened to slide off the tray.

  Erik set the clothing down and took the stack from her. Within moments he had rearranged the tray’s contents in a stable fashion. “Napoleon had it built during his reign as a ‘Temple of Glory.’ Years after his second exile it was converted to a church.”

  “How nice.” Christine hadn’t even known that Napoleon was exiled a first time, let alone a second. How strange. Why had he been exiled, since the French people loved him so much even now, decades after the end of his rule? But it had all happened so long ago, she supposed it didn’t matter. “Isn’t it kind of stupid to have a celebration for some old building?”

  “Well, this year is also the sixtieth anniversary of Napoleon’s death.”

  “That’s great. Fireworks, is that what you said?”

  “Yes—and since it’s so close, the celebration will be easily visible from the roof.”

  “Marvelous, fireworks!” She started for the door, thrilled with the idea of free entertainment and heavenly bursts of colored light.

  “Christine, wait.”

  “What for? Let’s go watch the fireworks!”

  “But it’s three o’clock.”

  “So what?”

  “They won’t start the fireworks until nightfall. There’s no need to go up to the roof yet.”

  “Oh,” she stammered, blushing. How incredibly stupid of her. “Yes. I knew that. I was just going to—uh—return these dishes!” She grabbed the trays out of his hands.

  She met but a few people in the halls on her way to the kitchens. It made sense, she supposed; all the Christians took Sundays off. She didn’t really understand it—the majority of the rats, stagehands, and other unimportant persons did not attend church; why would the managers give them the day off for worship if they weren’t going to use it? On the other hand, she had no desire to attend church either. When she had first been hired at the Opera Garnier, she had obediently gone with Mamma to Mass, Communion, and all the rest of it, but after a while she had point-blank refused. They never said anything about the Angel of Music there and had even gone so far as to deny his existence—not that she was even sure of it herself anymore. In any event, it was a waste of time to attend the services of a religion she didn’t believe in, and even when she had used the time to pray to the true gods, she could always think of better things she could be doing. She could pray to the gods any time.

  There was a lone worker in the kitchen preparing supper for the boarding rats; he scowled when he saw the extra work she had brought for him. She ignored him and flounced away, filled with the ecstasy that came with absolute power. She could do whatever she wanted, and none of her fellow workers, now so below her divine status, could say anything! She could use as much gas as she wanted for the lamps in her dressing room; she could order outrageous meals; she could demand gifts from the managers (well, she was still working on that one); she could—

  “Christine!”

  “Hello,” she said cheerily, suddenly noticing Raoul coming down the corridor. He looked particularly dashing as he strode towards her, wearing a double-breasted overcoat and top hat, and carrying his gloves in the same hand as his cane. She hadn’t seen this particular cane before—a black wood with a mother-of-pearl cap. It was simply beautiful!

  He bowed and kissed her hand. “My fetching faerie, how are you on this lovely day?”

  “Simply marvelous! I can’t wait for the fireworks!”

  “Fireworks…?” Suddenly he scowled. It did nothing to diminish his radiance—the way his eyes, so light, so beautiful, glittered like ice in the gaslight; the way his hair, so immaculately styled in the latest of fashions, shone like beaten gold…. “Oh yes,” he said, sounding slightly annoyed, “that’s what Veronique was going on about this morning—some anniversary of Napoleonic something-or-other. It seems the peasantry of Paris will use anything as an excuse for a party.”

  “Yes, it’s the anniversary of the—who is she?” sh
e demanded suddenly, willing herself not to be suspicious. She didn’t think she could stand to feel jealousy ever again. “Oh, wait,” she said, a wave of relief washing over her, “she’s your brother’s fiancée. Nevermind.” She was slightly embarrassed now. “Are you going to watch the fireworks?”

  “I’m afraid I have no choice in the matter. Veronique wishes to go—the historical significance, or something like that—and so I must as well.”

  “Why?”

  “Because…well…my brother is so uncomfortable around other people, you know, so even with his fiancée there, he still made me promise to come with.”

  “What a wonderful brother you are!”

  “Yes, I suppose.”

  They talked for a few minutes more before Raoul bid her goodbye and continued down to the managers’ office (apparently to reprimand them for over-selling tickets to the first four performances). Christine skipped back to her dressing room, in good spirits on account of the fireworks and the fact that she could just relax for the rest of the day.

  She was sadly disappointed, therefore, when upon her return she learned that had Erik unearthed her Idomeneo script from where it had been languishing under a pile of costumes in a corner. Handing it to her, he lectured sternly, “If you’re going to prove that you’d make a better diva than Carlotta, you need to know your lines.”

  Christine folded her arms, intending to look daunting and superior so he wouldn’t address her like a procrastinating pupil. However, judging from the amused flicker in his eyes, the effect she achieved was closer to that of a pouting child. “But I have the most wonderful mentor in the world to teach me,” she said, smiling flirtatiously. “I shouldn’t have to memorize lines.”

  His amusement was replaced by a more serious look. “Christine, no amount of talent can make up for a lack of dedication.”

  She scowled. “Fine, fine,” she groaned, eyeing the script with loathing. Raoul wouldn’t lecture her like this. He’d accept her decision without question. Then why does he order dinner for you when you go out, instead of letting you decide? murmured the voice in the back of her mind. Her scowl worsened as she pushed this thought away. Raoul was helping her. But so is Erik, the voice pressed, and over something much more important.

  Christine, unable to decide which side was right, decided that she didn’t have to come to a decision at that exact moment and dismissed it with a sigh of relief. She took the script Erik was offering her, and, in an attempt to avoid cleaning, sat down to memorize her lines.

  Christine shivered as she reached the top of the stairway, pulling her shawl tighter about her shoulders. The late-November air was crisp and cool, and the icy breeze, full of swirling leaves from the gardens of the Champs Élysées, where Raoul lived, easily pierced the shawl’s thin wool. The sky was clear, without a single wisp of cloud to mar its pristine depths. The stars were just starting to appear, seeming like luminous diamonds against the Prussian blue of the firmament.

  Slowly she walked out onto the roof, wondering if Erik was already there. She couldn’t see him; the only figures visible were the angels of gold and marble, forever watching over the great city with loving eyes. Fortunately there was no snow—the last thing Christine wanted was to spend a night freezing on a rooftop.

  She sat down on the stone base of a statue, thinking mildly. It was too bad she couldn’t watch the fireworks with Raoul. He would have taken her to the Madeleine and made sure she had the best view in the whole city. He would have treated her to dinner and purchased more fireworks if they ran out too soon. But the evening would still be enjoyable. It wasn’t that she minded being around Erik. He was wonderful to her—he had saved her life twice, he was a marvelous teacher and he catered to her every whim. He met almost all of the requirements on the list she had written up for the perfect man qualifying under devotion, subservience, strength and connections. Except where money and looks were concerned, he was a rather wonderful man.

  She heard footsteps, and she looked up to see Erik. “Good evening, Christine.”

  She smiled brightly. “When will the fireworks start?”

  “Soon,” he replied, walking out onto the roof. “But I’m afraid you won’t see much from where you’re sitting.”

  Christine frowned and looked about her. “Why not?”

  “Because the Madeleine is over there,” he informed her kindly, gesturing to a part of the city obscured by a protruding section of roof near where Christine was sitting.

  “I knew that,” she protested, though she knew it was pointless to lie.

  His smile was affectionate. “Of course. Where shall we sit?”

  She thought for a moment, scanning the rooftop for a good vantage point. “Can we sit up there?” The place she was pointing to was a higher echelon of the roof. There did not seem to be an easy way up, but it seemed to Christine that it would provide the best view.

  As Erik helped her up to the lofty place she’d chosen, a cold wind reduced Christine to prolonged spasms of shivers. It had been a mistake not to wear warmer clothes.

  “Do you want me to fetch your coat?” he asked her.

  About to refuse, Christine sat down on the roof and immediately felt its freezing touch through her thin dress. But it would be unfair of her to send him on an errand, just when the fireworks were about to start. “No, that’s fine,” she said, teeth chattering in contradiction to her words.

  Wordlessly Erik removed his jacket and draped it over Christine’s shoulders. She started to thank him, but a burst of scarlet light cut her off.

  “It’s beautiful!” she cried, clapping her hands together in childish joy at the explosion of fireworks. The entire sky had been lit by that first red blaze, followed by silver waves of sparks that melted away into the darkness. Even the lights of the city, usually so bright, appeared weak and diminutive compared to the opening blast of the Madeleine’s celebration. After a few seconds of serene darkness, the sky exploded into an infinity of colors. Christine forgot all about the cold, completely entranced by the erratic flashes of electric blue and emerald green that illuminated the blackness. An audible cheer went up from the crowds gathered near the Madeleine, who had momentarily stopped their celebration in awe of the spectacle.

  Christine gasped as a blinding flash of light gave way to a shower of golden sparks. “How is such beauty possible?” she gushed. Erik seemed content to sit in silence, so she continued, “My father told me that they were fallen stars that had been caught before they touched the ground, so they wouldn’t die. Their light would be put in bottles and thrown into the sky, so the star could return to the heavens. The jar would explode, and the star would escape—but it would give us a beautiful flash of colored light, to thank us for saving its life. But…” She paused sadly, about to give voice to a terrible blasphemy: “But that’s not true, is it?”

  Erik shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”

  “What are they really?” She wasn’t certain she wanted to know—it would be much easier to keep her father’s story intact; it was horribly painful to admit, even to herself, that he had been wrong, even about something small like this.

  “If I recall correctly,” Erik said thoughtfully, rubbing his chin, “saltpeter, sulfur, and charcoal are ground together into a powder, to which various metal shavings are added to produce colors—strontium for red, copper for blue… I can’t recall the metals. A ball of slow-burning powder is used to…”

  She listened intently, trying to force herself to accept the truth; it was difficult, because she understood little of what he was saying.

  “…the powder is made to burn, but not to explode,” Erik continued, seeming to warm to his subject. “When it’s lighted, it burns slowly, you see, giving the firework time to shoot up into the sky before the fire reaches the inflammant—”

  “Please,” she interrupted, unable to keep herself silent. “What does all that mean?”

  “Well, put simply, you take a paper tube and fill it with saltpeter—”

>   “What’s that?”

  He thought for a moment, searching for a simple explanation. “Gunpowder, basically. Then you add metal shavings to produce the colors.”

  “How?”

  He opened his mouth to tell her, and she said hastily, “No, wait, nevermind. I’m really not that interested.”

  Christine thought for a long while, too busy digesting this revelation to appreciate the sublime display lighting the sky. She didn’t really want to contemplate it—the last thing on earth she wanted to do was discover anything incorrect in her father’s wonderful stories.

  She slid closer to Erik, realizing that his body was much warmer than hers was. Erik noticed that she was shivering, and he hesitantly wrapped an arm around her shoulders. He still loved her passionately, which made her feel a little awkward, but he was too much of a gentleman to try anything, so she welcomed the buffer against the icy winds. As her shoulders and arms grew warmer, so did her disposition.

  A dozen fuchsia orbs burst in the night sky simultaneously, forming a vast crown above the roof of the Madeleine. As their vibrant rays grew longer, they turned a dazzling silver and fell to the earth. The effect was so beautiful that for a few moments Christine decided it was even better than Les Ambassadeurs.

  Chapitre Vingt-Deux: La Beauté Importe Plus

  Christine stared desperately at her script, futilely trying to ignore all the clamor on the stage and concentrate on her lines. She wished miserably that she had a music stand so she could have her hands free to plug her ears—she simply couldn’t block out all the crashes, the swearing, the laughter, and shouting that constituted the stagehands’ contribution to the rehearsal. The managers had decided (at the last minute, as usual) to start the third act today, and they had pushed up the date of the performance again as their need for performance profits grew more intense. Christine was the only person who was pleased by this decision, because, having yet to memorize her lines for the last half of the second act, she was the only one who stood to gain today as they shoved all the sets, costumes, and music for the second act out of the way in favor of the final act. She would be on equal footing with the rest of the actors again.