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

by Dayna Stevenson

  It was several minutes before she could locate someone else, but it was better than allowing the maid to feel any superiority. The man pointed her towards the grand staircase, informing her with Italian-tainted French that the comte was in the library just off the main foyer. She had to go back and ask directions twice, and finally the man accompanied her to library. She felt extremely stupid as she passed through the library doors, but the servant smiled and wished her a good day, and she decided with relief that her authority had not been compromised.

  The comte was seated near one of the enormous bay windows, poring over a book. He looked up as Christine entered and rose to kiss her hand. “Mademoiselle Daaé, what may I do for you?”

  Christine smiled up at him. He wasn’t very handsome, but he had an inherent kindness that made him attractive. “There is a statue in one of the hallways I’d like removed.”

  He looked somewhat surprised—she supposed she shouldn’t be moving things around before she officially joined the household—but he took it in stride. “Which one, mademoiselle?”

  “Well, really, I’d like to get rid of about half of them—it makes me so uncomfortable to have all these naked people in the halls!”

  He offered her a seat. “I’m sorry if the Classical pieces offend you, mademoiselle; I’ll cover them up during your stay, if you wish.”

  “Thank you, but how can you even have them in your house?”

  “Grecian tradition views the human body as something beautiful, mademoiselle, something to be appreciated.”

  “Well, that’s fine for Greeks, but I don’t like them.”

  “You said you were offended by one particular piece?”

  “Yes, the one of Thor—it’s an absolute disgrace! Thor is tall and muscular and bearded and carries a hammer, not a stupid little sword! Why, the only right thing in the whole sculpture is the giant’s head!”

  Philippe thought for a moment, rubbing his chin bemusedly. “I believe, mademoiselle, that you are thinking of Donatello’s sculpture of David.”

  “David? David who?”

  “David and Goliath, mademoiselle. Raoul told me you are a recent convert to Christianity; perhaps you have not heard of them?”

  “I think I have—my father told me something about a Goliath, I’m fairly sure. Which one was he?”

  “He was a giant—I believe the Norse refer to them as ‘jotun.’”

  Christine’s face brightened excitedly as she heard the term. “I haven’t met one person in this country that knew anything about my—that is, the Norse religion!”

  “Religion fascinates me, mademoiselle; I learn as much as I can. It’s difficult—only Snorri Sturlson’s records have survived the centuries.” Suddenly he changed the subject, looking rather uncomfortable: “Mademoiselle, are you happy with my brother’s treatment?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “It’s absurd—absurd and frightening—that he’s imprisoned you in this house.”

  “He’s just worried about the pneumonia. And that mean nobleman—what was his name again?”

  “Laurent D’Aubigne.”

  “Yes, him. He’s just trying to protect me because he loves me!” she said, smiling happily.

  “Then you don’t object to any of this? Not even his engagement?”

  “No,” she said, rather puzzled. She was thrilled to be engaged to Raoul, even if he hadn’t shown her the wedding ring yet or set a date. It didn’t matter if she couldn’t leave—she didn’t want to anyway.

  He looked the tiniest bit relieved, but still unsure. “Well, if you don’t mind, then I have no right to object.”

  The room was silent for a moment before Christine said, rather awkwardly, “What was it you were saying about the Norse religion?”

  “Just that it fascinates me, mademoiselle.”

  “If I tell you about the gods—they’re called Aesir—most of them, anyway—some are Vanir—will you tell me about Christianity? I’m trying to learn, but it’s all so confusing!”

  Philippe looked so excited at the scholarly opportunity that Christine had to smile. “A splendid proposition, mademoiselle! How much have you read of the Bible?”

  “Not very much—some of Revelation, and a little of Matthew.”

  “If I may offer some advice, mademoiselle, wait to read Revelation until you have a better grasp on Christianity—Revelation is very hard to understand and while important is by far not the most important of the things you should be learning.”

  That was what Erik had said. She shifted uncomfortably as she thought about him, not wanting to remember that it was because of his support that she had had the strength to stop clinging to her father’s stories. After a moment of regret, she shoved all thought of him out of her mind. She was going to be a vicomtess. That was the only thing that mattered.

  “Did God really create the world in seven days?” she said hurriedly, trying to keep her mind off the subject.

  “That’s correct.”

  “Then the Earth wasn’t made from the body of Ymir? He was the first giant,” she added.

  “No. Giants exist only in myth.”

  “So they’re not real?”

  Philippe nodded.

  “Then what about that Goliath person? He was a giant.”

  “I’m very sorry, I misled you when I said that—he was just a very large man.”

  “Oh.”

  The comte smiled. “I’m sorry to disappoint you.”

  “Nevermind—tell me about angels.”

  They talked for the rest of the afternoon; Christine told Philippe, who she found to be a very kind man and a good listener, all about the creation of the world, the various gods, the escapades of Loki, the death of Baldr, and finally Ragnarok, when everyone would die. She did her best to give Philippe every last detail, knowing that she would never repeat the stories again.

  In return she learned about the differences between the Old Testament and the New Testament, including the New Testament’s two commandments, which she had never heard of, and all about the teachings of Jesus Christ.

  When Raoul returned that evening, she tried to tell him just how wonderful and knowledgeable Philippe was, but he merely kissed her—hard, but distracted, not romantic in the least—informed her that D’Aubigne would no longer pose a threat (though he refused to say any more) and began to pace. In the hours until suppertime he paced endlessly in the first floor hallways, cursing and ranting. She wasn’t sure what he was so upset about—he ought to be thrilled that he had someone as wonderful and enchantingly beautiful as herself to dote upon. It was rather irritating; he had hardly paid her any attention at all since she arrived. Philippe tried to talk to him too, but he refused to speak to anyone.

  Christine, rather sulky, returned to lounging in her suite of rooms; she didn’t want to be around him when he was so angry. She read a few paragraphs that Philippe had suggested, but they confused her and she decided to put off studying until she had talked with him again.

  Chapitre Trente-et-Un: Les Fenêtres dans Enfer

  Late one night, five days before the opening of Idomeneo, in the earliest hours of the morning, the Champs Élysées lay in an inky blackness the likes of which its wealthy denizens had not seen for several decades. It was a strange sight, to see such darkness along the most affluent street in the city, but the cause was common knowledge: some of the more foppish young noblemen had taken it upon themselves to upgrade their streetlights from gas to electricity; as the incandescent lamp had only just been invented, however, and the gentlemen were ignorant of all the scientific details, the endeavor had been a spectacular failure and the street lay dark.

  It was almost three in the morning, and all lights in the innumerable windows along the Champs Élysées had long since been extinguished, save for a blazing fire in the hearth of Raoul de Chagny’s suite of rooms, which, in that obdurate darkness, lit up the bay windows of the Chagny mansion so bright and fiery that they appeared to be windows into Hell.

&nb
sp; Philippe hesitated before knocking on Raoul’s door. He rarely felt nervous about speaking to his brother, but he still wasn’t sure if it was his place to speak out or not. Raoul’s affairs were his own, and Mademoiselle Daaé seemed happy enough at the moment as a captive, but he couldn’t allow this insanity to continue.

  The vicomte threw open the door, and Philippe had to shield his eyes from the brightness of the room, the brilliant red of the fire almost blinding compared to the darkness of the hallway. “What is it?” Raoul demanded.

  “I need to speak to you.”

  Raoul ran and hand through his hair in agitation and stepped back to allow Philippe ingress.

  The comte stiffened as soon as he had crossed the threshold. “It’s broiling in here!”

  “Nevermind what the temperature is—what do you want?” asked Raoul, shutting the door with a thud.

  “I have to speak to you about Mademoiselle Daaé, but Raoul, why don’t you open a window? And why have you built the fire up so high? It’s liable to spill out of the hearth!”

  “Will you just tell me what you want?” he demanded again, showing signs of irritation.

  “Very well, then.” Philippe took a breath and tried to compose his words before speaking. “I’m worried about you.”

  “I’m just fine.”

  “But you’re not—you’ve kidnapped a maiden and practically imprisoned her!”

  Raoul’s eyes flashed angrily. “I did not kidnap her—she came willingly!”

  “Be that as it may, you’re keeping her locked up here like a prisoner.”

  “It’s only for a little while until the soldiers capture the damned Phantom.”

  Philippe’s breath caught in his throat. “You called in the army?”

  “But how did you—”

  “I called in a few favors.”

  “Of course! The police were too stupid to catch him—what else am I supposed to do?”

  “I thought you were worried about the Marquis D’Aubigne!”

  Raoul’s expression became matter-of-fact. “I was. But he’s not a problem anymore.”

  Philippe’s blood threatened to freeze in his veins as Raoul’s tone sunk in. He had heard that the marquis had been missing for the past two days, but Raoul didn’t even know about that—he had barely left the house in that time. “What does that mean?” he asked, afraid of the answer.

  Raoul waved a hand dismissively. “Nevermind. It’s the Phantom that’s the threat now.”

  “I thought you didn’t believe in him!”

  “I’ve seen him,” said Raoul loudly, his eyes bright and dangerous. “At the Perros cemetery—he’s a monster, Philippe. A devil. And he’s out to get Christine.”

  The comte blinked in surprise, puzzled and disturbed by the maniacal rage that flared in his brother’s eyes. Raoul took his brother’s expression for incredulousness and snapped, “I know it sounds insane, but it’s true!”

  “I know the Phantom exists,” said Philippe slowly, noting with unease that Raoul was clutching a bottle of wine with such brute force that his entire hand was a strained white. “Monsieur Debienne is a good friend of mine; he told me of their dealings, and he wouldn’t make up such things.”

  “Then you know what this fiend is capable of!”

  “The mysterious nature of their interaction made Debienne quite nervous, but once he had gotten over his initial anxiety, he found the Phantom a fair and just gentleman and an excellent asset concerning the operas due to his incomparable knowledge—”

  “Ha!” spat Raoul, before downing the last of the liquor in his bottle; he hadn’t even bothered to pour it into a glass. “Trust a craven weasel like Debienne to come up with a story like that—a gentleman, ha! As if an animal—a demon—could ever merit such an appellation! Debienne’s words have absolutely no standing in my book—scurrying off to England because the stress was too much for him! He wouldn’t stand up to the monster like a man!”

  Philippe started to defend his friend’s honor, but Raoul cut him off: “I don’t care what you think. This is my battle, and I intend to win it at all costs!”

  He began to pace madly in front of the brilliant fire, pausing every few moments to run a hand through his hair. After several rounds in front of the fireplace, he stopped and said, with a defensive kind of apology in his voice, “I don’t mean to be so sharp with you, Philippe. You’ve always been very good to me. I couldn’t ask for a better brother.” He resumed his pacing, and the comte noticed that the track where he was walking was worn, and the rug’s colors starting to fade; obviously he had spent many nights in this restless fashion. “But I can’t lose her now.”

  Philippe watched him concernedly for several minutes, observing his face as it turned from regret to anger to desperation in a hellish cycle. He saw more of his brother in those few, infinite moments than he had seen of him in a lifetime.

  After a tense length of pacing, Raoul stopped once more and stared into the fire in confusion and wonderment. “God,” he said, with a bitter smile of amazement. “At what point did Christine become more than just a week’s conquest?” Philippe said nothing, and he continued, to no one in particular, “I was just going to renew her acquaintance, enjoy her for a while, then send her on her way when the wedding drew near….”

  “It’s only three weeks away.”

  “I know,” he snapped. After a moment, he resumed pacing. “But it’s much more than that now. I can’t let her go.” It was as if a fiend had taken residence inside his chest, scratching and clawing at his heart, demanding to touch her, to caress her, to possess her…. Every moment in her glorious presence was like a taste of Heaven, just as every moment without her was like burning in Hell.

  He was clenching a fistful of jacket that rested over his heart, squeezing it so tightly that the edge of a metal button drew blood from his palm.

  He closed his eyes and savored the pain, though it gave only a little relief from the burning need that raged in his breast. Blood soaked the front of his shirt, but he didn’t stop until he had crushed the delicate button into pieces.

  He smiled mirthlessly and dropped the pieces into the fire, watching as the blood crackled and spat in the flames. “And I would die before I married Veronique de la Musardiere.”

  “I think she’s quite charming,” Philippe ventured.

  “Of course you would.” Raoul picked up a book at random and began leafing through it to distract himself.

  “I’ve only spent a few hours in her presence, but she strikes me as a kind, noble, and intelligent woman.”

  Raoul slammed the book shut. “Then why don’t you marry her?”

  “Because you have promised to do so.”

  “I can’t go through with it!”

  “You gave your word.”

  “I’ll have to break it!”

  Philippe shook his head in disbelief. “I thought that honor meant everything to you—you’re a gentleman, a son of the Chagny house.”

  “No gentleman could be expected to endure this!”

  Raoul stewed in silence for several minutes, until finally turned to face Philippe and grabbed his shoulders. “What do you think I should do?” he demanded.

  After a moment of thought, Philippe said tentatively, knowing that his opinion was not what Raoul wanted to hear, “I think that the Comtess de la Musardiere is an absolutely wonderful woman. Were I in your place, I would never even toy with the idea of refusing her hand, honor or no honor. And as you well know, it would be a terrible crime to go back on your word.”

  “I know, I know!” Raoul snapped.

  “But it would also be a crime to enter into a marriage—to vow to love and care for a woman until death—if you can’t stand even to be near her.”

  “Then what can I do?!”

  “I think if you spoke to Mademoiselle de la Musardiere privately and told her in a kind way—sparing her feelings as much as possible—”

  “Feelings, ha!” Raoul muttered bitterly.

 
“—that you wish to marry Mademoiselle Daaé, she would agree to break the engagement.”

  “But—marry her? Don’t be absurd!”

  “You aren’t planning on marrying Mademoiselle Daaé?”

  “No! Well, maybe—no, I—I don’t know!”

  “Then you just want to keep her locked up here as a mistress?” Philippe demanded.

  “Yes! No! I don’t know! I never meant for it to get this serious!”

  “Can’t you at least let her return to her own apartment? And what about Idomeneo?”

  “Damn Idomeneo!” he shouted, throwing the book to the floor in rage. “I can’t let her go! No other man can have her!”

  Christine gazed out at the city, drinking in the beauty of the Seine, appearing in the dim light like a vast silver ribbon, glittering as it wound through the heart of Paris. It was just after three in the morning, according to the massive grandfather clock in a corner, but she couldn’t bring herself to sleep. The city seemed to defy the lateness of the hour, its bright lights turning even the distant sky from black to a dim ultramarine. Her balcony faced east, giving her a majestic view of the Seine to the south, Les Ambassadeurs straight ahead, and Notre Dame towering in the distance. She had always dismissed the ancient cathedral as a relic of a foreign religion. But now, rubbing her cross pendant between pensive fingers, admiring the monumental stone towers so far away, silhouetted against the near-darkness, it was enough to bring a mist to her eyes. As soon as Raoul allowed her to leave the mansion, she would visit it; she would kneel at the stone steps in front of its colossal doors and pray for God to help her become a better Christian.

  Slowly, she allowed her gaze to wander across the city, basking in the beauty of the Champs Élysées, the Pavillon Ledoyen, up northwards toward the Madeleine…. Beyond the trees she could make out the Opera Garnier; it was too far away for her to see clearly, but she imagined the gold angels gracing the roof would look especially magical in the light of the city. The opening performance was only five days away. She thought about the hallways and the curtains, the seats and the staircases, the music and the costumes, and everything else that she had somehow come to miss. She had been so thrilled to get out of all the work and hassle of opera life, but standing there on her cold marble balcony, shivering as the December air sapped the warmth from her body, her life felt rather dull and pointless.