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

by Dayna Stevenson

  “Will you walk me home?” she asked, her voice dull and flat.

  “Of course,” he replied, a hint of surprise in his voice.

  “Thank you.” She sniffed, then wiped her eyes and stood. She still did not turn to face him, however, but stepped towards her wastebasket and dropped whatever she was holding into it. The metal basket clanged harshly, followed by the distinct, drawn-out sound of a chain coiling at the bottom. Erik inferred that it was a necklace of some sort, as strange as the thought seemed. She didn’t want to let him see it, however, so he said nothing.

  She finally turned around, forcing herself to smile. “Will you get my shawl?”

  As he did so, she said, “Can I ask you something?” Christine’s voice was deceptively light, and he could see she was trying her best to put on a cheery façade.

  “Of course.”

  “What does ‘vatical’ mean?”

  Chapitre Vingt-Sept: Christine Lit la Bible

  “Mademoiselle, you are greatly improved!” declared Mercier, his applause loud and clear despite the conductor’s baton in his hand. “You have really been working hard these past few weeks!”

  “Oh, thank you, monsieur,” she said, looking out at the rows and rows of empty seats and imagining such ecstatic applause from an entire aristocratic audience.

  “You’ve memorized all the choreography perfectly—unlike some others I might mention,” the conductor shot at some of the chorus girls lazily leaning against the wall of the stage. “If only your memory for Italian were as good as it is for dance steps, we would be in very good shape for opening night, mademoiselle.”

  “I’ve been trying very hard,” she said. Memorizing choreography was a lot of work (an activity she had always despised), but she figured it was the least she could do to repay Erik for all the time and effort he had put into her lessons. When Idomeneo opened on the eighteenth, there would be something she could do right—she had given up trying to read that miserable script.

  “It’s noon!” declared a stagehand. Several of his fellow employees—resting on the furniture that constituted Idomeneo’s palace—moaned and covered their ears with shaking hands, quite apparently suffering from the dreaded Phantom’s mandate of absolute sobriety in light of the upcoming performances. (Richard and Moncharmin had been trying to sober up the stagehands for months without any hint of success, so despite their refusal to give the Phantom his salary or pay any credence to him at all, Christine could see that they were grateful—however begrudgingly—for his presence.)

  “Yes, yes, take your break,” said Mercier sourly. “But be back in fifteen minutes! We can’t afford to waste any time!”

  As the ballerinas and stage crew filtered off the stage, Christine started towards her dressing room and its secret mirror; Erik was such a marvelous cook (and so dedicated to pleasing her) that, much as she hated to be constantly plaguing him with demands, she couldn’t resist the call of his kitchen.

  She walked through the wings and caught sight of Meg and Tannenbaum talking backstage; they were holding hands, and Meg was speaking animatedly. Christine had never really thought that Meg was pretty, but the happiness radiating from her face at that moment made her appear quite beautiful.

  Christine shifted her weight guiltily, thinking of her stupid lies and cruel, immature criticism of a man who seemed to her now to be absolutely perfect for Meg. Christine had been quite horrible to her too, and couldn’t fathom how Meg had remained friends with her. She didn’t deserve it in the least.

  The couple hadn’t seen her yet, so there was still the opportunity to sneak away, but she didn’t take it. After a further moment of deliberation, she stepped towards Meg and Tannenbaum to apologize for her insufferable behavior in the past few months.

  Fleurette Bisson daintily procured another hors d'oeuvre from the silver tray as she concluded her narrative: “And so I said, ‘Crinoline has been out of fashion since the Crimean War!’” When Raoul didn’t bother to look away from the window, she hit his hand with her fan. “Monsieur!”

  “I’m sorry, my sweet, did you say something?”

  “I said, ‘Crinoline has been out of fashion since the Crimean War.’”

  “Of course you did.”

  She fanned herself with exaggerated flourish, plump lips arranged in a sensuous pout. “You haven’t been listening to a thing I’ve said!”

  “Of course I have. I’ve just been a little distracted by business matters.” He kissed her hand. “I’m so sorry. It’s so enjoyable to spend an afternoon with you, my sweet enchantress.” It wasn’t exactly true. Fleurette was gorgeous, yes, but he just couldn’t seem to concentrate on her. His mind kept drifting back to Christine. He just couldn’t understand it; he had always been unmatched in his ability to woo and enjoy several maidens at once—each one a different nectar, distinct, but equally precious. For the past few weeks, however, despite his plans to enjoy a few other beauties during his extended conquest, he’d been able to think of nothing but those doe-like eyes, that slender waist, that flawless skin….

  “Oh, Raoul,” said Fleurette, giggling at his expression and pulling her hand away, “people are watching.”

  “And I don’t care!” he declared. “Not a man in the world could blame me for my infatuation of such beauty!” This wench wasn’t even in the same league as Christine; no woman could ever measure up to his dazzling diva. Still, Fleurette was very fetching, and while Christine’s willowy shape was one kind of perfection, Fleurette’s soft, full curves were another. And unlike his Swedish sylph, Fleurette, though from a smaller town far from Paris, successfully kept up with the latest fashion; her hair, a golden blonde, was pulled back into an explosion of ringlets; her bangs, short and tightly curled, drew attention to her perfect forehead and dazzling sapphire eyes. A month ago he would have been dying to win her affections. But now he could only muster a faint interest in the woman.

  “It’s so beautiful here,” Fleurette gushed, staring out the massive windows to the garden beyond. “It’s not as spectacular as Les Ambassadeurs, to be sure, but it has its own sort of elegance.”

  “The Ledoyen is nowhere near as grand, I agree, my pet—look at these walls, pathetic in their brown velvet compared to the golden marble of Les Ambassadeurs—but I do declare, the dinner menu here is slightly superior.”

  “I can’t wait to try the salmon! I’ve heard it’s absolutely divine!”

  “It will be here momentarily. But, my curvaceous charmuse, I did not take you here just for the fabulous menu.”

  “Oh?” Her fan flashed back and forth in front of her face, her expression inviting him to elaborate, to overwhelm her with romantic tribute.

  “Indeed—I brought you here so I could admire your beauty in such a magnificent setting, and watch as the surroundings, so costly and elegant, fade into nothingness compared to your…uh…” He faltered as an image of Christine’s perfect figure appeared unbidden in his mind’s eye. “Your…beauty,” he finished, rather lamely.

  Fleurette did not appear to notice. “Oh, Raoul, you’re too much!”

  “Your beauty deserves such praise, my bewitching bijou.”

  Fleurette giggled again. “Raoul, really—” Her eyes suddenly darted away from Raoul’s forcedly-adoring gaze. “Oh look, the food has arrived!”

  Raoul suppressed a sigh of relief as the waiter interrupted their conversation to place silver trays in front of each of them with salmon and chives, garnished with artfully-arranged radishes and turnips.

  “This is simply exquisite! You must bring me here again.”

  “Whatever my rapturous rose wishes,” he replied.

  Before he could attempt to continue his conquest, a voice interrupted him:

  “Vicomte, fancy seeing you here.”

  Raoul’s stomach curdled as he recognized the voice, and he cursed silently. Out of all the people in the world that could have ruined his brilliant seduction—all right, his distracted, less-than-brilliant seduction—this man was at the v
ery top of the list.

  He stood and shook Laurent D'Aubigne’s hand. “Bon soir, marquis,” he said, trying to sound composed and gentlemanly in spite of his contempt for the horrid nobleman. “I haven’t seen you in quite a while.”

  “It has been a while,” replied D'Aubigne, in his soft, irritatingly philosophic voice. His eyes, dark and unblinking, unnerved Raoul as they always did; D'Aubigne had a way of tilting his head down and staring up into one’s eyes, as if he were a bull preparing to charge. “I haven’t seen you since I managed to coerce that baron’s daughter out of your arms.”

  Raoul forced a genial laugh, though his insides were burning with an acidic rage. “Yes, I had quite forgotten.”

  “Are you going to introduce me?” the marquis asked, eyeing Fleurette behind a mask of gentility.

  “Marquis,” said Raoul mechanically, as breeding won out over hatred, “this is Mademoiselle Bisson. Fleurette, the Marquis D’Aubigne.”

  The woman-stealing dastard kissed Fleurette’s hand, making her giggle; even in such a simple act, the man’s insufferable egotism and narcissistic gallantry were infuriatingly evident. “A great honor, mademoiselle,” he said, in his usual grave voice. He turned to Raoul. “I hear you’re acting as patron of the Garnier in your brother’s stead. Such a marvelous idea, patronage of an opera house; I don’t know why I didn’t think of it myself.”

  “Are you an admirer of the arts, monseigneur?” Fleurette asked, seeming completely entranced.

  Raoul almost choked as he heard the over-inflated title. How dare she refer to the marquis as monseigneur when she had only ever called Raoul monsieur, even upon their first meeting? It was absolutely outrageous!

  “Why, yes, I am, beautiful mademoiselle, especially when the art in question involves enchanting ladies such as yourself.”

  Raoul cleared his throat. “Well, it was nice to see you again, D’Aubigne. Good day.”

  “But I just got here. I’ll join your little luncheon, shall I? Waiter, bring another chair.”

  “I don’t think that would be a good idea,” Raoul said, shooting the man a warning glare.

  “Nonsense. I want to hear all about the new diva. Her performance in Faust was the talk of Paris for weeks. You are quite a fortunate man, to have an excuse to admire her beauty whenever you drop by the Garnier—which, with her around, I’m sure you do quite a lot, now don’t you, vicomte?”

  “Well—”

  “If I were in your shoes, I’d have whisked that exquisite little songbird to my castle by now. Oh, how stupid of me—your little family doesn’t even own a castle, does it?”

  “Of course we—”

  “Don’t fret about it, Chagny; not all aristocrats can be as fabulously wealthy as I am. But what was I saying?” He paused and looked up as he said it, the way an overly-dramatic actor would. “Oh yes. The glorious little angel you haven’t quite managed to seduce. Well, don’t feel bad. She turned down the Duc de Saint-Simon too; she’s probably just holding out for a more worthy man.”

  Raoul gritted his teeth and didn’t reply; only a short time ago he would have welcomed a little competition to liven up his crowning seduction, but it had just been a game then—now Christine was far too important to risk losing to anyone, especially this loathsome cretin.

  “In fact,” drawled the marquis, “I just might stop by on my way to the Condorcet party tomorrow. I’m sure a pretty young thing like that would love to give a marquis a private rendition, don’t you think?”

  “No, I don’t! Waiter, remove that chair immediately! This is a private luncheon!”

  “Oh, is that how it is?” D’Aubigne winked at Raoul with a detestably arrogant and conspiratorial air, seemingly utterly unconcerned with Raoul’s anger. “Well, I’ll just have to dine by myself, then.”

  “Good!”

  D’Aubigne, about to leave, suddenly turned back. “My darling mademoiselle, though I hate to ruin Monsieur le Vicomte’s plans for you, my status as a marquis commands me to inform you that he is very unlikely to break his engagement to the Comtess de la Musardiere to marry you.”

  The shock on Fleurette’s face transmuted her serene beauty into aghast horror. “What?! H-how dare you?! He’s not engaged!”

  “Oh, I’m afraid it’s quite true.”

  “Raoul, Raoul, tell me it’s not!” she wailed.

  “My condolences, mademoiselle,” the marquis said, poorly-concealed triumph twisting his sympathetic air.

  As Raoul flew to his feet in rage, his shouting drowning out Fleurette’s hysteric sobs, the marquis said, quite calmly, “I think I will pay Mademoiselle Daaé a visit tomorrow. A little bit of this, a little bit of that—it should be quite good fun.”

  Christine frowned as she turned the pages of the Bible, trying to find a passage she could understand. What an idiot she was; she knew she shouldn’t have told Mamma about her conversion. Mamma had been thrilled, of course, but Christine should have suspected that she wouldn’t be content with simply being a Christian. She should have figured that Mamma would expect her to actually read the Bible and understand it. How could anyone be expected to read the entire thing? The book was almost sixteen-hundred pages!

  She sighed and returned to the passage she was currently perusing. She didn’t want to disappoint Mamma. And besides, she truly wanted to understand God, and Heaven, and Jesus Christ, and everything about Christianity. If only it wasn’t so confusing.

  “And another angel came out from the altar, which had power over fire; and cried with a loud cry to him that had the sharp sickle, saying, Thrust in thy sharp sickle, and gather the clusters of the vine of the earth; for her grapes are fully ripe. And the angel thrust in his sickle into the earth, and gathered the vine of the earth, and cast it into the great winepress of the wrath of God.”

  Christine blinked slowly, fingering the new silver cross at her throat (a gift from Erik to replace her Thor’s hammer necklace), and reread the three verses. Perhaps she should have picked another section. She had chosen this one because it had angels in it. But she couldn’t understand why the angels were making wine; they certainly must have more important things to do. And what about the “wrath of God” part? Curse it, she shouldn’t have started at the back of the book—

  “What are you reading?”

  She turned to see Erik standing in the mirror frame. “Oh, marvelous, it’s you.” She swung her legs over to the other side of the vanity stool and beckoned imperiously. “Come over here and help me.”

  Erik complied, and she continued, pointing accusingly to the passage, “What does this mean?”

  His eyes quickly took in the quarter-page. “I’m certain I don’t know, Christine. I am not very informed in religion.”

  “But you know everything!”

  Erik actually laughed at that, making Christine very happy (he hardly ever laughed), and, simultaneously, very confused. “I’m very sorry to dispel that impression, but I’m afraid I know very little outside of the realm of music.”

  “But you know about fireworks—and architecture—and Napoleon—”

  “Just commonly-known items I’ve picked up over the years. And as far as religion is concerned, I really am quite ignorant.”

  “Rats.”

  “Did Madame Valerius instruct you to read a specific book?”

  “Yes, the Bible.”

  “No, I mean a book within the Bible.” Upon seeing her blank look, he elaborated: “You’re currently reading the Book of Revelation. Did she tell you to read Revelation?”

  “What’s a Revelation?”

  “It’s the final book in the Bible. I believe it’s a prophecy of Judgment Day. It’s very confusing, even to accomplished theologians, Christine; a new convert such as yourself shouldn’t start there.”

  “Oh. Okay. Mamma said to read the Gospel, but I don’t know what that is, either, and I couldn’t tell her because then she’d know that I never listened whenever she dragged me to church.”

  Erik smiled. “The Gos
pel, I believe, consists of four accounts of the life of Christ.”

  “I thought you said you didn’t know anything about religion.”

  “I happen to know that basic fact, Christine. That doesn’t mean I know anything else that can help you.” He consulted the table of contents and flipped to a page before handing her the book.

  She looked at the first few words, which read “The Gospel According to Matthew.” It made sense so far. “Thanks, Erik,” she said. “I really appreciate—oh no!”

  “What?”

  She shoved the Bible back into his hands. “Look at this! A whole page of names! How am I ever supposed to remember all of that?”

  “Hmmm.” Erik studied the page for a long moment, during which time she continued to rant:

  “I knew I shouldn’t have told her! Curse it all, it was so much easier to be a Nord—everything made sense! Christianity is the truth so I thought I could at least try, but this is absurd! Look at that page!”

  “…It sounds as though Matthew is relating the genealogy of Jesus Christ to prove that Christ fulfills a certain prophecy. You don’t have to memorize it.”

  “Oh, good. Thanks.” She took the book back, and turning back to face the vanity, she studied the page intently. “I guess I shouldn’t complain. Anything is better than studying that horrid script.”

  “Why do you say that?” To her irritation, he didn’t sound quite as surprised as she would have liked.

  “I don’t think Mozart was a genius,” she declared, putting her feet up on the edge of the vanity and tipping the stool back onto two legs. “I think he’s an idiot. Why didn’t he write his stupid opera in French so people could understand it? Why, it’s absolutely—”

  She screamed as the stool lost its equilibrium and began to fall backward. Fortunately Erik caught her before she hit the floor.

  As he pushed her and the stool upright, she laughed giddily. This mishap constituted the third time he had saved her from serious bodily harm. “You’re really very handy to have around,” she said dizzily, trying to rearrange her mussed hair.

  “Why, thank you,” he said with a smile. He looked very handsome when he smiled. Not in the same way that Raoul was handsome, of course, but something about him was so captivating—his strong, noble stance, the glittering intelligence in his eyes, the love that played upon his features…. Even thinking about the face under that mask, she couldn’t shake the peculiar emotion.