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

by Dayna Stevenson

  Casting about for something to say, he inquired, “Do you still want me to play?” He did not want to encroach on Christine’s vigil in the chapel; it would be better if he waited outside.

  “Yes—hearing his favorite song might show Father that I still love him, even if I can’t believe in his stories anymore.”

  He’d meant to comfort her, not her father, but if that was what she wanted, he would oblige. As Christine knelt in front of the altar and began addressing her father, he slipped outside. He glanced around (the idea of a violin-playing spirit—if that was what it had been—was rather disturbing to him), but saw nothing. The snowstorm had subsided somewhat, now a moderate fall of dazzling white, though the wind still beat against the ragged trees and crumbling tombstones with a brutal ferocity.

  He strode back to the carriage and, unlatching the violin case under the protection of the coach roof, scrutinizing the instrument for any lingering precipitation that would prove it had been played since their arrival. The inspection yielded nothing. He shrugged off the chill creeping up his spine and returned to the chapel.

  He chose to sit on the thick granite railing that lined the chapel steps, where his violin would be somewhat protected by the overhang of the roof. He brushed the snow off the railing, then sat down and unlatched the case. Quietly he touched the bow to each string to check that it was still in tune and removed the glove from his left hand so he could play the chords unhampered. A few flakes of snow settled on his skin, sapping the warmth from his fingers. Sweeping them off, he began to play.

  Raoul jerked the reins, calling the foaming horses to a stop in front of the iron gates of the Perros cemetery. Drawing his rapier, he scanned the snowy ground around the entrance for a sign of Christine’s mode of transportation. He saw nothing; but how else could she have gotten here, save hiring a coach? She couldn’t walk all the way, and even she wouldn’t be stupid enough hitch a ride with dangerous ruffians. He jumped down and scrutinized the fallen layer of snow and was shocked to find that there weren’t even any footprints. Had she not made it to Perros? Perhaps she was staying in town, waiting for the storm to subside. She had always been very finicky about the weather—if there was any kind of wind or precipitation at all, she had refused to go outside. But if the blizzard here had been anything like the one on the road, he couldn’t blame her for waiting it out indoors.

  Still, he ought to make sure she wasn’t trapped in a snow drift somewhere. Or worse, in the clutches of a villain. He could just picture it: Christine, cowering against a frosty tombstone, half-frozen in a wet, translucent cotton gown clinging to her slight but sensuous curves, begging the evil man for mercy as she wailed for the Vicomte de Chagny to rescue her!

  It took more effort than he had anticipated to open the iron gate, as he had to contend with old compacted snow as well as that from today; it had never snowed this hard in all his recollection, and whomever had constructed the gate had built it tantamount to the ground, obviously assuming that snow would never be a problem. It was obvious that Christine had not come through before him; her delicate arms would not have been able to move the weighty, gelid bars. Well, she must be waiting for me in town, he thought with a shrug, and he turned to leave.

  Suddenly he heard a series of high, tremulous notes carry on the wind. It sounded almost like…like a violin. But there was no one here but himself—the untouched snow and unopened gate had proved that. He felt a cold shiver race down his spine as the notes spiraled higher and higher, drawn out like the plaintive wail of a ghost. But that was ridiculous. There were no such things as spirits. He forced his fingers to loosen their rigid grip on the hilt of his sword, telling himself that he was a vicomte, descended from a long line of fearless nobility, and therefore had no need to fear anything—especially nonexistent spirits. Willing himself to be unafraid, he stepped into the cemetery and firmly closed the gate behind him.

  He could grasp vague snatches of melody over the harsh cry of the wind, and he walked down the clear ground marking the pathway with slow, measured paces, trying to use the music’s volume to determine if he was getting closer. His arms, protected only by his jacket and a thin suit, were freezing; he had not bothered to fetch a coat in his haste to aid Christine. He tried to ignore it, but it was convenient to tell himself that the goose-bumps forming on his flesh were from the cold and not from unease.

  The music seemed to be coming from the center of the graveyard, near a crumbling chapel framed by statues of the Madonna. He approached it in a roundabout fashion, sneaking to the border of the cemetery and edging along, assuring his quivering pride that he was merely sneaking up on the specter and not avoiding it. When he drew within thirty paces of the tiny building, the song suddenly died away. Gripping his rapier more tightly, he edged closer and peered through one of the broken windows.

  He caught only a half-second’s worth of sight, but it was indelibly imprinted in his mind: there, kneeling at the altar, was the ghost! Her gown was the ethereal white of hoar frost, her hair a deep brunette under the shimmering frost that clung to its lengths. She had her back to him, so he could not see her face, but he was certain it was as phantasmally pale as the rest of her skin. Mon Dieu, she was beautiful.

  She turned her face slightly in his direction, and he gasped—it was Christine!

  After that brief instant, he felt a sharp crack of pain in the back of his skull, and as his world dimmed into blackness, he tried to face his assailant. In the fleeting moment before unconsciousness engulfed him, he saw the fiend—a tall, dark-haired man wielding a violin case, with a white mask concealing the right half of his face. In the fiend’s haste, its mask had slipped a little, and as Raoul collapsed in the snow, he caught a horrific glimpse of monstrous visage underneath the porcelain….

  By the time Christine left the chapel a few minutes later, smiling joyfully as she rewrapped her shawl to combat the chill of the icy air, Erik had hidden the vicomte in a small shed on the edge of the cemetery, moved the conspicuous coach to the other side of a grove of concealing pines, and swept some of the aristocrat’s more salient footprints from the path. Erik had resumed his seat on the railing and was putting his violin back in its case as she stepped down to meet him. “Why did you stop playing?” she asked, treating him to a brilliant smile, beautiful eyes light with tranquility.

  “I’d reached the end of the song,” he lied, adjusting his mask.

  “Oh—I guess I was so busy talking to Father that I didn’t notice. Well, let’s go!” she jumped down to the next step. “By the way, did you hear something? A clunk somewhere?”

  “I couldn’t say.” He probably shouldn’t have knocked out the vicomte; there would be negative repercussions from his hasty decision, he was certain. But Christine had just gone through a very difficult transition, and the last thing she needed right now was a confrontation, especially with that brainless fop.

  “Oh. Nevermind then. Goodness, it certainly got dark quickly!” she remarked, noticing the darkness and the moonlight playing off the ocean waves. “…You know,” she added after a lengthy pause, “Yesterday I believed—at least, I told myself that I did—that the sun was truly the demi-god Day, who rides through the air in his fiery chariot, led by his horse Skinfaxi—that means ‘Shining-Mane’—whose mane is so bright that it illuminates all the earth.” Her laugh was small and embarrassed. “I…I suppose not.” She skipped down the rest of the steps.

  Erik breathed an inward sigh of relief at her obliviousness to the vicomte’s presence as he stood and started after her. He hadn’t used his lasso on the meddlesome fop, much as he had wanted to. But he supposed it was for the better; Christine might have heard if there had been a scuffle, and if the vicomte had been found dead anywhere near Perros, she would connect it with their visit. And besides, he wanted so badly to be a good man—worthy of Christine’s love, or at the very least, her friendship—that he didn’t want to clandestinely dispose of the aristocrat, though it would probably be in Christine’s best inter
ests. But perhaps with this warning, the vicomte would take the hint and leave the girl alone—but he doubted it.

  Suddenly she stopped and turned, and he had to step quickly to one side to avoid colliding with her. “I—um—that is—” She frowned and pulled angrily at the lock of hair she was twisting around her finger, silent while she tried to figure out what she wanted to say. “I want to thank you. For everything you’ve done for me.”

  “You’re welcome,” he said, as much surprised as pleased.

  “And I want to say I’m sorry for being so mean to you.”

  “You have no cause to apologize.”

  “I really do! I haven’t been very nice to you, and—well, nevermind,” she said, looking flustered. “Let’s go.”

  She hurriedly turned and began to stride away; when she was about ten paces from the chapel she paused, looking confusedly around the cemetery. “Which way is the carriage?”

  Erik gestured to the back wall, and she hurried along the snowy path, oblivious to the few footprints that he had missed.

  All the way back to Paris she was singing and chattering and laughing, happier than he’d ever seen her. She’d insisted on sitting in the driver’s seat with him, and she was sitting so close it was taking all his strength to keep from sweeping her into his lap and kissing those beautiful, beautiful lips.

  She was oblivious to his predicament, however, and sat tantalizingly close to him as she talked the entire way back to the city. She informed him several times that she’d told her father all about Idomeneo and being the new diva, and about Raoul and the new managers. “The candles you’d lit for me almost went out when I mentioned Raoul,” she said cheerily. “Father must’ve been very surprised that Raoul was the opera’s patron!”

  Erik had never believed in ghosts—though now he wasn’t certain—but if the sudden gust of wind affecting the candles was Gustave Daaé’s doing, he suspected that it was an indication of disapproval, not pleasant surprise. “Is that so,” he replied, fighting to keep his voice amiable.

  “And of course I told him all about you, too. He likes you.”

  “Is that so.”

  “Yes—the candles flashed and the flames got really big!”

  He wasn’t certain how to respond to that. It was probably just a trick of the light; despite her recent abandonment of superstition, she was apparently still easily influenced by coincidental occurrences. Still, what if she was right? Was Gustave Daaé pleased with his daughter’s mentor?

  Suddenly annoyed with himself, he shook his head and applied his concentration to driving the cabriolet. Thoughts like that were pointless to dwell on.

  Raoul’s eyes fluttered a few times and finally stayed open, and he lifted a shaking hand to his head, where a pounding ache had taken residence. It took him a few moments of semi-conscious thought to register that he was lying on something hard. For a few moments he thought indignantly that he would have the maid fired for providing him with such a hard mattress. But then he remembered that he wasn’t at home, or at any inn. He had been in a graveyard. It must be the frozen ground, he thought. But then…why isn’t it cold?

  In fact, despite the snow and howling wind which he was certain were still around him, he felt quite comfortably warm. Very odd. And as he stared upwards, trying to reason out this conundrum, he realized that there was no stormy sky above him, but a thatched—albeit leaking—roof. That certainly didn’t make any sense. The only roof in the cemetery was the stone one belonging to the small chapel.

  Then he heard a high, feminine voice squeal, “Oh, Mamma, look—‘e’s awake!”

  His first thought was that it was Christine, but then a face bounded into his vision, only inches from his own, and he realized with a burst of disappointment that it wasn’t her. This girl was nowhere near as pretty as his Christine was. As a matter of fact, she was downright ugly. She looked to be about Christine’s age, certainly, but she was not attractive in the least. Her hair, the color of muddy straw, fell in braids like grimy, frayed ropes. He could tell from the redness of her skin that her face had just been meticulously scrubbed, but her profuse acne was still quite apparent. She was smiling excitedly down at him, and he saw that her teeth were rather crooked.

  Raoul fought the urge to close his eyes. He considered himself an excellent judge of beauty and deemed himself entitled to only the best—a category that this peasant wench didn’t qualify for in the least. But he would be courteous towards her, as was his duty and devoir; a Chagny was a gentleman at all times, even to such an ugly, no-account girl. “How do you do?” he greeted her, as politely as he could manage.

  “Oh, Mamma, ‘e’s wun-derful, ain’t ‘e?” she said, swinging her head to speak to her mother, causing her braids to whip Raoul across the face. Good God. The sooner he got away from her and back to women like Christine, the better.

  Christine. The thought of her caused him to sit bolt upright as his woozy mind recalled the scene at the graveyard: a ghost, bearing his darling Christine’s appearance, in the chapel…. And that monster! How could God allow something so hideous to exist on this earth? It hadn’t even had the courage to fight him man-to-man!

  “I must rescue her at once!” he declared, reaching for his rapier. His hands grasped only air, and when he looked down he received a shock. Excepting his undergarments, he was completely unclothed.

  A peasant woman—presumably the girl’s mother—handed him a wooden cup filled with some sort of drink. She was stout and as unattractive as her daughter. She spoke in a rough country accent: “You certun’ly would’a died if’n tha’ man ridin’ out’a town ‘adn’t’a mentioned seein’ your ‘orses wanderin’ around outside the cemet’ry.”

  Raoul wondered briefly who the man could have been, and why he couldn’t have taken the time to rescue him himself. He might have been persuaded to give the man a reward for saving his life.

  “Lucky the storm ‘ad died down enough so’s me ‘usband could go find yeh,” the woman continued. “You was ‘alf froze, an’ we thought at first you was dead. Lucky you managed to crawl into tha’ tool shed.”

  Raoul blinked a few times, confused, then shrugged and cautiously inhaled the pungent scent of the brew he had been offered, identifying it as hard cider. “Then it seems I owe your family a great deal, madame.”

  The uncomely girl bounded back to his bedside and, sitting down with an unrefined thump, began shaking his shoulder, causing him to spill cider on the patched quilts. “So what was it that hit’cha, mister?”

  He touched a hand to the aching spot on the back of his head, horrified to find a grotesque lump. “Some cutpurse, no doubt,” he told her. It was a long enough story that he shuddered at the thought of having to endure looking at her while he related it. It was none of her business anyway.

  “I bet you’re a prince, ain’t’cha, mister?” She was actually batting her eyelashes at him.

  “I am the Vicomte Raoul de Chagny, mademoiselle.” He ignored her giggle at being addressed in such a polite manner. “Might I have the pleasure of knowing your name?” Her name was of little consequence, but his faultless breeding demanded that he be formally introduced.

  “Shucks, mister—I’m Prunellie.” She leaned towards him, doing her pathetic best to be alluring. “Are y’married, Mister Raoul?”

  He choked on the fiery cider he was tentatively drinking, and she thumped him on the back a few times. He kept coughing for a few moments longer, hastily debating over the best course of action. “I’m engaged,” he finally settled on. It was true, despite his wishes to the contrary.

  “Aw, that’s too bad,” she informed him. “But we can still ‘ave dinner t’gether, right?”

  He shrugged noncommittally, drinking the cider—as poor-quality as it was—as an excuse not to reply. As gratifying as it was to be adored as he deserved, he wished she could be just a little bit prettier. A lot prettier, actually. The sooner he returned to civilization, and beautiful women like Christine, the better off he would be.


  This observation prompted an unwelcome thought to appear in his mind: Christine had been inside the chapel when he had been attacked by a monster. He had failed to protect her!

  He leapt to his feet, uncaring that his cider sloshed everywhere. “My clothes, quickly!” he ordered the girl. “Christine might be dead by now!”

  Nonplussed, Prunellie handed him his shirt. “Y’mean Christine Die-aye, mister?”

  He froze, one arm in his shirt. “How did you know?”

  “Ah, she n’ me was friends, back when she lived here. She passed by las’ night.” Suddenly she frowned, folding her arms in a childish display of frustration. “But nooo, she couldn’t stop t’talk t’me at all—she was all over that man with ‘er.”

  Raoul dropped the shirt and gripped the girl’s shoulders. “What man?” he asked urgently.

  “Th’ man that told us about seein’ your ‘orses. Dunno why ‘e didn’t jus’ rescue you ‘imself—”

  “What did he look like?” interrupted Raoul furiously.

  “Well, ‘e ‘ad dark ‘air and nice clothes and was real, real nice lookin’, mister, ‘cept for this weird mask thing on ‘alf ‘is face.”