Mon Dieu, the Monster! Wait…the Monster had kept him from freezing to death? But that wasn’t important right now—
“And Christine was ‘all over him’?” he asked, absolutely horrified.
She stuck out her bottom lip in a definite pout. “Uh-huh. Like she was—what’s that word—besutted.”
So great was his horror that he didn’t even bother to correct her. “Good God,” he cried, hurriedly slinging on the rest of his clothes, “he’s got her in his power!”
As he seized his rapier and strode towards the door, he heard Prunellie wail, “What about dinner?”
Chapitre Vingt-Six: Abandonner le Ange
Raoul pounded on the door to Christine’s dressing room, hoping fervently that she was there. The man in the stables said he hadn’t seen her return. The blasted peasant had also ventured to criticize him—a vicomte—on the condition of his horses, which he had whipped all the way back to the Opera Garnier in his haste to rescue his love. Raoul was in no mood to be civil, and these words sent him into such a rage that he had struck the man with his riding crop. He hadn’t even bothered to buy the man’s silence concerning his ungentlemanly behavior, dashing into the building with all possible celerity. He could deal with the man later. It was Christine that mattered now. He would have to fight the dastard of a Phantom, and by God, he would hack the creature into pieces so tiny that he would be unrecognizable!
“Christine!” he yelled, pounding harder. “Open the door!”
Suddenly the door was thrown open, and Raoul had to act quickly to keep his next blow from hitting her. “Raoul!” she exclaimed. “What’s the matter?”
He pushed past her, rapier drawn. “Where is he?” he demanded, straining his eyes to see in the dark room. Blasted gas lamps, they didn’t light up anything at all. “He’s here somewhere, I know it—lurking, like a spineless jellyfish—”
Christine tugged on his arm, looking absolutely confounded. “Who?”
“The Monster!” He jerked his arm out of her grasp and strode towards the closet.
“No,” she cried, “don’t—”
An avalanche of clothing toppled out as he threw open the closet doors, forcing him to jump back to avoid being buried alive. No one could have hidden in such a mess, but he threw a few hanging dresses out of the way to expose the empty back of the closet. . He whirled around to face her. “Where is he?!”
“Who are you talking about?” she cried, a querulous strain destroying the melodious quality of her voice.
“Your precious Angel of Music, that’s who! It has to be him! I didn’t hear his voice this time, but only one man could possibly be responsible for two such dastardly deeds!”
She stared for a moment, eyes wide like the blank eyes of a doe. Then a small smile crept over her face. “The Angel isn’t real, Raoul—you know that.”
His rage had dissipated by this time, both exhaustion and Christine’s apparent safety forcing back the waves of fury, replacing them with both relief and confusion. “But you’ve always believed in the Angel,” he said slowly. “You even screamed at me in Les Ambassadeurs when I—”
“I don’t believe it anymore.” Christine smiled at him, and her beauty seemed to light up the dark room. She stepped forward and touched his shoulder in a coquettish fashion. He sheathed his rapier, content to stare down into her beautiful, Elysian face. She looked like a delicate, ethereal faerie in this dim light; he knew every inch of her face so perfectly that he could have drawn it with absolute precision. Yet tonight there was some inexplicable change; perhaps her eyes shone brighter than usual, or she stood with a taller, prouder stance. Whatever it was, it made her so beautiful that he immediately forgot about any Angels of Music that might have been lurking around.
“It’s thanks to you, Raoul.” Her voice was soft, mellifluous, like the gentle strumming of a harp. He felt his tensed muscles relax at her touch, and he allowed himself to put aside his previous rage.
“So the dastard—sorry, my love, I shouldn’t use such language around you—the monstrous con-artist—womanizer—pretender—didn’t follow you to Perros?”
She faltered, and for a horrible instant all his fears were revived. “What are you talking about?” she laughed, though it sounded rather forced. “No one followed me.”
“I was informed that a monster was there with you! Haunting your every step!”
“Monster!” she shrieked, her voice loud and harsh in a sudden flare of anger. “How dare you say that!” She was about to say more, but she cut off abruptly. “There wasn’t anyone with me, especially not any monster!”
“Then who was it that peasant saw you with?” he demanded.
She started coughing, and he patted her back impatiently. After a moment she recovered and replied, “Just the cabriolet driver; I had to hire a coach, you know.”
“And he didn’t try anything?”
“Of course not!”
He breathed a sigh of relief as all his concerns were washed away with the glorious quality of her voice. Obviously that hideous peasant wench (Prune, or whatever her name was) had been wrong. Perhaps it had not been the same man whose voice he had heard in her dressing room—just a disgustingly-deformed cutpurse, perhaps. What an imbecile of a vicomte he was to have trusted a peasant, especially such an ugly one.
After a few moments, his mind registered what she had said a moment ago. “Thanks to me?” he wondered aloud.
“Yes—you made me realize that my father’s stories were just that: stories. I don’t believe in the Angel anymore. Or Odin, or Freya, or Asgard, or any of it.”
He blinked in astonishment. He would never have thought that Christine would find it within herself to reject her pagan upbringing, even with his dashing, majestic guidance to aid her. He beat down the surprise; of course his influence would save her from the evils of pernicious paganism. No one but a vicomte could have done something so impossible. It was such a relief to know that the conniving womanizer in her dressing room months previous—though he was still a problem—could no longer ensnare his beautiful Swedish blossom with his ridiculous lies. And even a dastard such as this one must know that he could never be a match for a Chagny. Still, he would have to speak to the Préfet about discovering the identity of this insolent imposter.
He drew her willowy body against him, stroking her face and her lustrous hair, reveling in the touch of her soft, silky skin. She was undoubtedly the most beautiful creature the world had ever seen. “My darling Christine,” he murmured, pressing his lips to her hair. “I love you, my precious,” he murmured in her ear. “I love you beyond the limits for which love sets itself.”
If Veronique were here—thank goodness she was not—she would have been delighted to point out that he had appropriated this line from Cyrano de Bergerac. Raoul hated the play—it implied that all ugly men were ingenious, and all handsome ones were worthless. As if a dashing, debonair man like Christian de Neuvillette would need some large-nosed buffoon like Cyrano to compose his words of love for him. Why, it was absolutely insulting. Raoul needed no such aid.
His Swedish faerie relaxed the tiniest bit, and he took it as a sign to continue. “Oh, my darling desideratum, no beauty can match yours, no star outshine the shimmering…” He couldn’t remember the word he had used when he had recited this endearment to Jacqueline Lafontaine two weeks ago. The first surrogate that came to mind was, “vatical glitter in your eyes.” He still didn’t know what vatical meant, but Christine didn’t know either, so it was perfectly acceptable.
Christine looked up at him, quite confused. The bewildered look she wore so often made her look so vulnerable, so beautiful…. “What does that mean? Desid—what was that word? And that other word?”
“Why, my pet, it means that you are the most beautiful woman in the world.”
“Why didn’t you just say that?”
Raoul sighed. Just as it was a waste of time trying to charm Veronique with his intelligence, it was ineffective on Christine as we
ll, even though she was on the opposite end of the intellectual spectrum. “Nevermind.” Then he moved in for the kill, capturing her lips with his and held her there, treating her to the full power of his Chagny charm.
For a moment she was reticent, but no woman alive could resist a Chagny, and soon she was ardently kissing him back. She was clinging to him so tightly, and the softness of her curves pressing into his body was enough to drive him mad. His hands began to rove over her body, stroking, caressing—
Christine pulled away. “Raoul, that’s improper!”
“It doesn’t matter, my delectable darling, I can’t help myself—”
“You have to wait until we’re married!”
“That’s ridiculous! How can—” he hurriedly stopped himself. He had almost just ruined the magnum opus of all his seductions! He took a deep breath to calm himself before speaking again; how could he possibly be losing control? No woman had ever been able to affect him so intensely. “Oh yes, of course, how ungentlemanly of me. Forgive me, my angel. I’m powerless against your beauty.”
She looked unhappy for a moment, and then pushed her discomfort away and forced a smile. “Well…I forgive you, I guess.”
A temporary inconvenience, he was certain; she’d come around. Besides, he didn’t want to rush the crowning seduction of his career. Just the same, she wasn’t coming around very fast, and he couldn’t afford to waste too much time.
He wished he still had those flowers he had brought. Then he remembered: he had also brought a necklace for her, safely tucked away in his jacket pocket. Triumphantly he brought it forth, presenting the gilded box to her with a genteel bow. “Then please allow me, pretty mademoiselle, to express my love another way.”
She opened the box, and her eyes grew so wide that he fancied he could see the locket’s reflection in them. “Raoul,” she gasped, lifting it out of the box. She seemed breath-taken; he congratulated himself on his choice of bauble. Of course, he’d commissioned it before he’d realized that she no longer believed in the Angel. Oh well. It was still an expensive-looking piece of jewelry; that was all that mattered.
“This is but a small taste of the endless banquet of luxury I can bestow upon you.” He kissed her hand, allowing his lips to linger a moment longer than was mandated. He couldn’t believe he was reduced to such paltry affections.
“Oh, Raoul, you’re so wonderful! It’s so pretty! Real diamonds!”
“Nothing is too much for you, my darling, my splendiferous siren. But I must take my leave now—I have a polo match to win!”
“Polo, how exciting!”
Raoul kissed her again, lightly, teasingly—which, thankfully, she didn’t object to—and left the room, not headed for a polo match, but for a jewelry shop; if he couldn’t speed this conquest up, it wouldn’t happen at all!
Christine stared at the pendant long after Raoul had departed, admiring the delicate scrollwork, the perfect, curving lines that spelled out “Ange.” It was a beautiful necklace; more expensive and exquisite than any she had ever worn.
But after the initial euphoria of receiving had worn off, her awe was replaced by sadness; she wished the necklace said something else, anything else. She didn’t want to be reminded that she had just given Raoul credit for Erik’s actions. It stung of treachery. What was worse, she didn’t want to be reminded of the fact that Raoul could give her such beautiful things, and Erik—sweet, caring, steadfast Erik—could not.
Falling into an abject melancholy, she collapsed onto the stool in front of her vanity table. With unsure fingers she secured the chain’s clasp around her neck and surveyed the effect. The mirror reflected an unwanted image: a poor, unhappy girl from the insignificant town of Upsala trying on a locket that should belong to a French noblewoman. She sighed and dropped the necklace onto the cluttered vanity. It wasn’t meant for the likes of her. She wasn’t worthy of a vicomte’s affections. How could he possibly wish to marry a penniless peasant?
But then she remembered: she wasn’t insignificant anymore, nor was she penniless. Certainly, she hadn’t received her salary as diva yet, but it would make her an independently wealthy woman. And while a title as diva of the largest opera house in the world was perhaps not quite enough to earn access to the unreachable echelons of Parisian nobility, it could certainly earn their respect and society’s consent for a marriage to a vicomte. It could truly happen—she could make herself worthy to be Raoul’s wife.
Her reflection glared at her from the recesses of the mirror. You foolish wretch, it cried at her, you can take no credit for your ascension to the position of diva—that was Erik’s doing! Both his teaching and his influence with the managers secured your status, not just your own talent. You would be nothing without Erik.
Christine turned away from the mirror, covering her face in her hands as she began to cry. It just wasn’t fair—how was she supposed to choose between beauty and ugliness, wealth and poverty? The answer was obvious on both counts, but she could not bear to think of the repercussions of her decision. What would become of poor Erik if she deserted him?
Erik folded his arms, studying the policemen with sardonic interest. They had, judging by their conversation, been searching the Garnier room by room for hours now—quite a considerable undertaking. He felt no need to guess as to the identity of their quarry; the managers had been badgering the Prevote for weeks now to get rid of the Opera Ghost. Of course, they were searching in all the wrong places. Why on earth would the Phantom of the Opera be hiding behind a rack of dresses in the costumery, or under the staircase leading to the cellars? Honestly, these men would never learn. All they needed to do was look up at this very moment and they would see him standing on a rafter beam fifteen feet above their heads. But of course, they would not think to do anything of the sort.
He suspected they were less focused on looking for him than for his hideout. But they were searching in all the wrong places for that, too. The buttons and levers that controlled the entrances to his secret maze of passages were hidden out in the open: the torch held by a golden statue in the main foyer, the left-most jewel in a gilded mirror in one of the second story alcoves. These men seemed to be looking for a sign proclaiming “This Way to the Phantom’s Lair.”
It annoyed him a little that the managers underestimated him so; he would be a poor phantom indeed if it only took a handful of low-ranking members of the Préfecture de Police to capture him. But it was just as well—he could forgo a challenge, however nice a change it would be, if it meant being able to spend more time with Christine.
He forced his attention to return to the two men combing the corridor beneath him; even though he was thoroughly confident in his ability to evade Paris’ finest, it wouldn’t do to make stupid mistakes due to preoccupation. The mustachioed policeman was cautiously opening a door with the placard “Ladies’ Powder Room: Employees Only.” Apparently he held some compunction about invading territory designated solely for female use, because he closed the door without entering. That was too bad for him, because Erik had a passageway located inside, ingress granted by a covert mechanism behind a candelabra.
“Nothing in here,” the man said to his partner, who was examining the wall underneath a particularly large, cumbersome painting. Erik supposed the painting did look suspicious; most managers wouldn’t waste any painting, even a poor specimen such as this, in the backstage areas of the Garnier. Of course, these policemen were unaware that one of the more mischievous stagehands had taken the painting from one of the main hallways and placed it here as a joke.
The man struggled for a moment to re-hang the painting, having to rest the expansive frame against his chest to do so. He seemed intent on proving that he was a man, capable of handling it himself, because he chose to struggle instead of asking his partner for aid. “Fine—then,” he panted, endeavoring to raise the frame high enough to catch the hook. “Let’s—report—back.” Even from the significant distance, Erik could see the beads of sweat reflect the light of the
lamps.
He managed to half-hook it and stepped back with a “Ha ha!” of triumph. Had Erik been a simple observer and not the object of their search, he would have considered stepping in to grab the painting before it crashed to the floor. As it was, he merely shook his head in disgust and walked across the rafter to the next room. He winced as he heard the crash echo down the corridor and the mustachioed partner’s shout of, “Oh, nice going, idiot!” as he made his way back to Christine’s dressing room. With policemen such as these, he thought, I needn’t worry about evading capture, but merely protecting the opera house from sustaining too much damage.
A few minutes later he slid the mirror back and stepped into Christine’s presence. It was oddly dark in the room; he noticed with some surprise that the lamps had been turned down, so that their light was only enough to give a lambent semblance of illumination, nothing more. It was odd—Christine usually overran her allotted share of gas of during the third week of the month. Perhaps she had suddenly become conscientious of the fact that the managers took the cost of the excess gas out of her pay. He certainly hoped so; though he cursed himself for being overindulgent of her irresponsibility, he had paid the costs out of his own pocket for the last few months, though she wasn’t aware of it. He needed to be more firm. She would never learn to be responsible if he took care of everything for her.
It took him a few moments to locate Christine in the darkness, her obscure form becoming visible as his eyes adjusted. She was hunched over her vanity table, clasping something between her hands. A faint noise reached his ears: she was crying! He wondered suddenly if he should disturb her. It had only been an hour since he had left her to return the coach. She had been through a lot today; perhaps it would be better if he just slipped back downstairs before she noticed—
“Don’t go.”
He stopped halfway through the mirror, surprised. He hadn’t made any sound to alert her to his presence. Silently he returned to the dressing room, stepping forward until he stood just behind Christine, who had not turned around.
Costumes and Filigree: A Novel of the Phantom of the Opera Page 30
