Erik nodded somberly. “Do you need help convincing the managers to give you the day off?”
“No, but—well, actually, I wasn’t going to bother you about it, but since you’re offering, that would be wonderful, thank you—but what I wanted to say was that I want you to come with me to Perros.”
The room fell into silence as Erik studied her thoughtfully, a troubled look on his face. Oh gods, what if he wouldn’t go? She hadn’t even considered that possibility. As the silence dragged on, she began to truly worry. No, he had to go! It would be so terrible if she had to go alone!
Finally, Erik spoke: “Certainly, Christine, if that’s what you want. I would be happy to accompany you.”
Christine jumped up, beaming with joy and relief, and hugged him impulsively. “Thank you, oh gods, thank you! This is wonderful! You have no idea how worried I was that you’d say no! Oh, this is—” Then she remembered that she still had no transportation to Perros. “Oh, I forgot—I’ve always just managed to get a ride from someone going out that way, and it’s always been fine, because I was alone, but with you coming too I think that—um—a private coach would—would be better, you see, but I, um—I can’t exactly—”
“Afford one?” he finished amicably. “Don’t worry, Christine; a friend of mine has a very nice cabriolet I’m sure he’ll lend us.”
“Really?” exclaimed Christine, delighted beyond words. “That’s wonderful! This is perfect! Thank you! Thank you!” She clapped her hands together, overjoyed, and bounced out of the room, heading straight for the managers’ office to tell them she wouldn’t be able to attend practice.
Erik watched Christine skip away, considering the situation bemusedly. He certainly hadn’t expected her to ask him to accompany her. If he were to mourn the passing of a loved one, he would most certainly want to be alone. But Christine probably wanted someone to support her—a position he was delighted to fill. Much as he hated to admit it, he had been a trifle worried that she’d ask that vicomte to lend her one of his fancy carriages, and that the damned fop would turn it into some sort of picnic. Still, it made him very happy that she would prefer his own company to that of the dashing and wealthy vicomte.
Well then, he would be sure to take special care to make sure that nothing went wrong. Turning slowly, still immersed in thought, he made his way back through the trick mirror and down the stairs. He’d have to hurry if he wanted to contact Darrius in time to secure his cabriolet for tomorrow.
“Well, of course, you can use my coach,” said Darrius Bandari, with an shrug of indifference. “I can’t figure out why you want it, but you’re welcome to it.” He shook his head in confusion, causing the ornamentation of his Persian turban to flash and sparkle in the firelight of the parlor. The foreign decorations that graced the silk of his turban meant nothing to the people of Paris, of course, but Erik knew the exact meaning of every thread and every colored bead; in essence, they proclaimed the wearer of the turban to be a retired official of the Persian government and testified as to his expertise, bravery, and loyalty to the ruling sultana.
Erik shrugged and replied, “Yes, well, it’s not exactly me I want it for.” He felt a little guilty that he rarely contacted Darrius for anything other than borrowing his carriage. The man was a good friend. But Erik had always felt safer if he kept everyone—including Darrius and Antoinette, who had only ever been kind to him—at a distance. Though after having so much contact with Christine for the past few months, he felt more at ease in the Persian’s presence.
“Huh.” Darrius helped himself to another Danish from the tray on the table. “You don’t have to wear that, you know.”
Erik fingered his mask. “I feel more comfortable with it on.”
“If you say so. Are you going to tell me why you want to borrow it? Figuring that it’s mine, I think I have a right to know what you’re doing with it.”
Erik studied the street below, through the crystal-clear windows of Darrius’ luxurious flat, thinking about his answer. Though Darrius’ apartment was only a dozen blocks away from Christine’s, it could have been a world away. The floors were richly carpeted and the paint on the walls was bright and bold, so unlike like the faded, peeling paint that Christine hated. One could actually see out Darrius’ large, perfect windows without laboring to do so. The Persian government took very good care of him.
He sighed inwardly; he wasn’t certain he wanted to tell Darrius what he would be using the coach for—he had no desire to hear another lecture like the one from Antoinette. But Darrius was right, it was his property. “I assume Antoinette has told you about Christine Daaé?” he began, hoping he wasn’t making a mistake.
Darrius nodded, his mouth full of Danish, and gestured with his free hand that he only knew a little.
“She needs it to visit her father’s grave in Perros.”
“I see,” said the Persian, raising a dark eyebrow. “And you’re going along?”
Erik nodded.
Darrius grinned widely and grabbed another pastry. “Aha, so it’s a date, then!”
“No,” was the terse reply.
“Don’t get mad,” the Persian chuckled. “I’m thrilled for you!”
“I never said that I—”
“You didn’t have to,” Darrius informed him cheerily.
Erik shook his head. “Believe what you will.” With a sigh, he stood and bid Darrius goodbye. He hoped that everything would run as smoothly as the Persian seemed to think it would.
As Erik sat in the driver’s seat of the coach in an alley behind the opera house, awaiting Christine’s arrival, he let his mind dwell unpleasantly on the Vicomte de Chagny. Just because the fop hadn’t been invited to Perros didn’t mean he wouldn’t come. It wasn’t exactly a secret that Christine was taking the day off; the managers had, predictably, thrown a fit when they learned that their leading soprano was skipping out on the first run-through of the entire third act. Even Antoinette hadn’t been able to convince them to let her go. That is, not until a letter from the dreaded Phantom had mysteriously appeared in Richard’s coat pocket. The two men had then argued for a good hour and a half over whether or not to give in to the Phantom’s demands; fortunately for them, they had come to the correct conclusion that whatever the Phantom said was law. Even more serendipitous was their decision to postpone the run-through until the next day. Christine had concluded that this meant they felt they “couldn’t bear the thought of a rehearsal without their fabulous new diva.” This was partially true, he supposed, but he suspected the managers simply didn’t want to have to deal with their old diva as a stand-in. Well, so much the better for Christine.
Feeling very stiff, Erik shifted his weight on the hard seat. Darrius’ cabriolet was a small, black, French affair, with two seats, one of which was for the driver. Such a coach was considered quite small by the ostentatious denizens of Paris, but it was perfect for Erik’s purposes. Still, he wished the seats had been cushioned; if he was uncomfortable, then Christine would be utterly miserable. That is, if she ever showed up. She had kept him waiting for more than twenty minutes; perhaps he should go see what was holding her up. On the other hand, he didn’t want to pressure her—he hadn’t forgotten the vicomte’s highhanded order of “two minutes.” It was appallingly arrogant of the self-absorbed vicomte to dictate unachievable, imperious orders as if he were the president of France—an impression that Erik had no desire to cultivate for himself in Christine’s eyes. He would wait a while longer.
There was nothing in the shaded, hidden alleyway to divert his attention, and his eyes fell on the worn violin case resting nearby on the seat. It was significantly larger than a violin case needed to be, necessary to conceal the Punjab lasso hidden next to the instrument. Given the nature of their trip, he hadn’t dared bring his rapier, but he had no intention of being weaponless if the vicomte decided to show his face at Perros. He hadn’t actually planned on bringing his violin—he hadn’t planned on doing anything much on this trip, really, exce
pt protecting Christine from riff-raff and offering her what comfort he could. But that morning the poor girl had suffered a momentary break-down and had tearfully told him all about her father’s illustrious career as a violinist. Erik hadn’t been certain what to do, unused to seeing such abject despondency in the girl, and had thoughtlessly said the first thing that came to mind—that, if she wanted, he would play something for her.
Christine had immediately stopped crying and had looked up at him from where she was sprawled on the floor, smiling with a sort of wretched hopefulness, saying, “You’d do that? Really? Oh, you’re so wonderful!” and proceeding to tell him the name of her father’s favorite piece and just how happy she would be if he would play it for her father at his grave.
So there had been nothing for him to do but to rush back down to his music room and hunt for his violin, which had been gathering dust in its case on an obscure shelf. Christine’s entrance into his life had greatly reduced his pursuance of music, and for a moment he had feared that he’d forgotten how to play the instrument altogether. What was worse, he had never played “The Resurrection of Lazarus” on the violin before; he had the sheet music for it, but it had been written for the organ. It had taken quite some time to find it in the vast library of music he owned, but fortunately he had managed it.
He’d had exactly two hours before they left for Perros to transpose the notes to fit a violin and to practice the unfamiliar piece, but he was confident that he could play it tolerably well. If only he would have anticipated that Christine would keep him waiting for a half an hour, he could have used the time to run through it a few more times.
This thought reminded Erik that Christine had still not appeared. Perhaps something had happened—maybe the detestable vicomte had held her up. Though the vicomte would certainly not try anything untoward with so many people around, Erik’s blood boiled at the thought of the slimy little worm getting near her. Standing abruptly, he jumped out of the coach and began walking towards the door.
Just before his hand could touch the knob, the door opened to reveal a faintly smiling Christine. Even with her drab mourning gown and tearstained face, she was still radiantly beautiful, reminiscent of Desdemona in the fourth act of Otello, when she had prayed, crying, to the Virgin Mary. Just the sight of her was enough to send a wave of heat through his heart.
“Oh!” she said, surprised to find him on the other side of the doorway. “Do you need to go back in and get something?” He shook his head. “Okay. Shall we go?”
Erik nodded slowly, wondering if it would be advisable with her temperamental condition to ask whether or not she had run into the vicomte. She probably didn’t, he decided, studying her expression as she walked past him towards the cabriolet. Asking would only serve to upset her. It was doubtful that the vicomte would dare to intrude on Christine’s mourning, but then, the stupid man didn’t have much by way of tact. He sighed inwardly and proceeded to help Christine into the coach, thinking grimly that he would have to keep very much alert on this trip.
Chapitre Vingt-Quatre: John 11:44
Raoul stood outside the main doors of the Opera Garnier, arms full of flowers and boxes of Belgian chocolates, growing rather annoyed. He had intended to show his devotion to Christine by showering her with gifts and asking her out to dinner again, but he had been confronted with a terrible situation that prevented him from doing so—an obstacle utterly insurmountable, even for a dashing vicomte such as himself.
The fact that there hadn’t been a doorman outside the opera house during the daytime (due to budgetary constraints) since Richard and Moncharmin took over had never unduly concerned him before, because all the patrons came at night; however, it was proving a difficult situation at this precise moment in time. His arms were so full of flowers that he couldn’t open the door in front of him—and he couldn’t put them down without risking ruining the expensive arrangements. The largest bouquet, which contained roses and purple orchids, had been arranged by the most famous florist in Paris, and had cost more, he suspected, than the managers of the Garnier made in a month. It would be inexcusable to set such a bouquet on the dirty ground just to open a door!
On the other hand, if he couldn’t get in, he couldn’t present the flowers to Christine and his efforts would be wasted anyway. He had to complete his seduction soon (but not too soon, of course; after all, it was his grand finale) or he wouldn’t have time to enjoy his seductive little diva before his marriage. When he had realized his predicament, he had glanced back at the carriage to ask his coachman to open the door, but the man had already driven around to the back of the opera house. Well, that was one coachman who would be looking for a new job.
If worst came to worst, he supposed, he could just discard the flowers and give Christine the other present he had brought, which was safely tucked away in his coat pocket: a heart-shaped gold necklace fitted with diamonds that spelled “Ange.” The half-carat ring hadn’t been enough to coerce her into his arms; perhaps a reference to her ridiculous Angel of Music would.
But just the same, the flowers had been highly inconvenient to procure. He sighed heavily, coming to the one logical decision he could think of: he would have to stop someone on the street and ask him to open the door.
He spotted a well-dressed gentleman strolling along the sidewalk and walked down the steps to intercept him. Oh God, he hoped the man wouldn’t recognize him; what a terrible thing it would be to be caught in such an ignominious predicament!
“Excuse me, monsieur!” he called to the man.
The man turned, surprised, and studied him for a brief moment. “Bon jour, monsieur.” Raoul could tell that the man was wracking his memory for the identity of this stranger, made fully aware of Raoul’s noble status by the crest embroidered on his coat. “Do I know you?”
“No,” Raoul informed him, hoping that it was true. “Could you perhaps open this door for me?”
He gestured awkwardly towards the opera house, and the flowers threatened to fall out of his grasp. He scrambled to keep them from falling and nearly slipped on the icy pavement.
“Why—why certainly,” the startled man replied, seeming rather amused by how absurd Raoul looked and the ridiculousness of his predicament. He started up the steps, and Raoul followed, forcibly beating down the embarrassment he felt with the knowledge that the man had no idea who he was.
It was not to be so for long. After the man had opened the door and Raoul had entered the main foyer, the blasted gentleman exclaimed, “Why, you’re the Vicomte de Chagny, aren’t you?”
Inwardly cursing, Raoul summoned up all the dignity he could and said, “Yes—yes, I am.”
The man went away chuckling, and the very embarrassed vicomte slowly turned, his face deep scarlet and furiously set, and made his way up the grand staircase to find Christine.
“What do you mean, she isn’t here?!” demanded Raoul, furiously slamming the flowers down on the desk in front of him. He had been carrying them for almost a half-hour, and not only were his arms beginning to ache, but the moist stems of the flowers had started to transfer hints of green to his formerly-immaculate sleeves. Normally he would have considered this ridiculous search far too much effort and a waste of time he could be spending wooing more easily-found maidens, but Christine wasn’t just another conquest anymore—with each passing hour she grew more and more beautiful, and other women, though still worthy of some small pursuit, grew dull and monochromatic. The insatiable passion in his chest to possess that ethereal beauty was raging hotter with every moment she was out of his sight—and after twenty-six minutes of being told “No, I haven’t seen her” from half of the Garnier’s employees, he had gone from annoyed to absolutely livid.
“Where could she possibly be,” he snarled, “except at rehearsal as she is supposed to be?!”
Moncharmin stepped back involuntarily, though his surprise quickly turned to outrage. “Don’t shout at us,” he snapped, squaring his shoulders affrontedly. “She requested p
ermission to visit her father’s grave—surely we could not deny her that!”
Raoul faltered, suddenly remembering that it was the anniversary of Gustave Daaé’s death. Blast it, how could I have forgotten such a thing?! What would Christine have thought of me if I had brought her flowers and chocolates, utterly oblivious to her grief?
He realized then that perhaps he shouldn’t have been so rude to the managers, as it was not their fault in the least; but he certainly couldn’t admit that to them. Affixing a dignified scowl to his face, he demanded, “And why did you let her take the day off, with such an important rehearsal going on?”
“There is no rehearsal today, vicomte,” Monsieur Richard informed him shortly.
“Why not?”
Richard and Moncharmin glanced at each other, seeming very loathe to give their reason. During this long moment of silence Raoul realized rather belatedly that if Christine was at Perros, she was out there alone. Why had she not asked him to come with, so he could protect her and offer her comfort? It was a personal matter, certainly, but she was madly in love with him—how could she insult him so?
Finally Richard spoke. “We received a rather…portentous letter from the Opera Ghost implying that if we did not give Mademoiselle Daaé the day off, he would—” He faltered, making Raoul wonder what exactly it was that the Phantom had threatened them with.
“Well, it’s not important,” the frustrated manager finished. “In any event, we decided it would be better if we cancelled rehearsal altogether.”
“A good deal of the choreography in the third act needs to be rewritten anyway,” added Moncharmin.
Raoul sat down, aghast and unsure of what to do. Ignoring the managers’ continued conversation, he tried to work out the best course of action. If Christine had not asked him along, obviously she did not want him along and would become very angry if he appeared at Perros. But what reason could the girl possibly have for denying herself his charming company?
Costumes and Filigree: A Novel of the Phantom of the Opera Page 27
