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

by Dayna Stevenson

  She tried to shake the ridiculous feeling, telling herself that lounging in luxury was not dull or pointless, and it was certainly better than slaving for a living. But despite how much she loved her new life, with its opulence and fine food and glamour, she missed it all—she missed the rehearsals, the performances, the shouting and chaos of backstage, the music, the lessons…and most of all, she missed Erik. She had expected to miss him when she married Raoul, of course, but she had figured that she would get over it quickly enough. But now all she could think of was his kindness, his beautiful voice, his boundless knowledge…. Just thinking about how his eyes, usually cold and distant as emeralds, would grow soft and warm when he looked at her, made her feel so…

  Suddenly she realized what she was doing and abruptly turned and went back inside. How utterly ridiculous, she told herself, shutting the balcony doors with a firm clack. I have everything I’ve ever dreamed of, and I’m busy thinking about somebody else.

  She marched herself to the closet and pulled out one of the brand new gowns Raoul had purchased for her. She ran her fingers over the frills and the lace, forcing herself to admire its beauty. It was an absolutely breathtaking gown, the most expensive she had ever even seen, with tiny pearls sewn into the embroidery and gold dust lining the lace of the sleeves and collar. When she didn’t feel the effervescent ecstasy that had so overwhelmed her upon her arrival, she turned to the Marie Antoinette vase in the center of the room; though it was quite dim, the flickering gaslight made the gold filigree upon the porcelain shimmer and sparkle. After a few moments of staring, transfixed, at its beauty, she felt the giddy happiness bubble in her heart again and felt reassured. This vase, and all the lovely gowns in her closet, and all the jewelry strewn around the room, were scratching the surface of all the beautiful things she would have. No, she didn’t love Erik. That was absurd. Just a fleeting moment of sentimentality for her old life; it was to be expected. But she would get over it. After all, that distant past, where she slaved to memorize Italian and scrounged for every franc, was nothing compared to the glorious future that awaited her.

  She hung the dress back in the closet, extinguished the lamps, and crawled into her luxurious bed, hoping she would feel a little more convinced in the morning.

  Falling asleep in such an absurdly soft bed was impossible; she sank into it so deep she was afraid of being smothered. She had been trying to fall asleep for what felt like an eternity, when the rattling of the doorknob roused her from semi-consciousness.

  Oh God, she thought, thieves!

  The burglar started banging on the door. “Christine, let me in!”

  Oh, it was only Raoul. “Just a minute,” she said, less than charitably, rubbing her eyes and stumbling towards the door. What could he possibly want at this ungodly hour?

  When she opened the door—light streaming so brightly from the hallway that she had to shield her eyes—he entered before she could even invite him in. “Why do you have to keep the door locked? What if I needed to get to you?”

  “Then you could knock like a normal person,” she said sourly.

  “Leave it unlocked, please.”

  She frowned, first at his request, which he had phrased irritatingly like a command, and then at his appearance, rather insulted that he would enter her presence looking so unkempt. Wasn’t he supposed to be wooing her, slaving for her affections, taking care that every hair was in place, every inch of cloth unwrinkled, every word coated with honey? Instead of all these things she had come to expect, Raoul was still in his morning clothes—he hadn’t even bothered to change into a dinner jacket!—which by this time had quite lost their fresh, pressed look, and his hair, oily and uncombed, had been swept in an unfashionably wild ponytail. What was worse, he wasn’t even bothering to put on an agreeable air for her benefit—he just left the stressed, preoccupied look on his face as if she wasn’t important enough to act agreeable for.

  “I don’t want any servants coming in here without my knowledge.” As if it was any of his business at this hour whether or not she locked her door.

  “Please, Christine, stop whining about the servants. I have enough to deal with as it is.”

  “Hmpf! What could you possibly have to deal with? You have everything you could possibly want! Money! Titles! Glamour! Me!”

  Raoul sighed. “And with it, my share of problems.”

  “Did you want something?” she asked, folding her arms. “I’m tired.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, my sweet, were you asleep?”

  “Yes!”

  “I humbly apologize, my precious. But I’ve been up all night thinking—in fact, I’ve been thinking for months—and I have just come to a very important decision.” Suddenly he moved in to kiss her. Normally she would have enjoyed it—even though his decision to awaken her to blather about something or other was quite annoying—but his eyes were so steely and the kiss so rough and demanding that she was almost frightened.

  “Yes,” he breathed, grasping her hands and drinking in her body with his eyes, which made her very uncomfortable. “I’ve decided.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’ve decided that no matter how low your station, how terribly I’ll be looked down upon for breaking my engagement, I have decided to go against all custom, convention, honor, and societal opinion and marry you!”

  Christine blinked, completely dumbstruck, and an eternity of confused and racing thoughts seemed to occupy that single moment. “W-what did you say?” she stuttered, unable to raise her voice above a whisper.

  “I said that I was going to sever my engagement to the Comtess de la Musardiere at the cost of my honor so that I might marry you!”

  She yanked her hands away, absolutely aghast. “Y-you—you—you said that she was Philippe’s fiancée!”

  His face lost a bit of its madness, replaced by an unsure regret concerning his rash words. “I—I couldn’t risk losing you, my angel, my precious—”

  “Then you didn’t intend—” She cut off, so terrified of his answer that she couldn’t get the question out. She clutched the bedpost, trying frantically to fight off the trembling in her hands and the giddy, multi-colored stars that threatened her with a dizzy spell. “Y-you never intended…to…marry…me?”

  “I intend to marry you now, Christine! I must have you, I can’t let any other man even see you, I can’t live without you—” He moved in to kiss her again, but she jumped backward, almost tripping over the bed.

  “You lied to me!” she shrieked, furious tears scalding her face.

  “Yes, my darling, darling Christine, I did, but only because I love you so much! It wasn’t my fault that I was engaged—my parents signed the contract when I was eight years old! I had no say in the matter! But when I met you, I knew I could never marry anyone but you!”

  “But you were going to—you just said—until just now!”

  “I never could have gone through with it, my sweet, my precious,” he said adamantly, clutching her hand with such force that she yelped in pain. “It just took me a while to realize it!”

  She sank down on the bed, so absolutely stunned that she was unable to consciously process a thought. She couldn’t speak, and her mouth hung uselessly open as she tried futilely to gain control of her thoughts.

  “Oh, my darling, I’m so sorry,” said Raoul desperately, “I had no idea you’d take it so hard.” He released her hand and turned for the door. “I’ll just leave you alone—after a good night’s sleep you’ll feel much better, I’m sure.”

  He closed the door behind him, and Christine was left sitting on the bed in the dark. She was so numb that she couldn’t feel the mattress under her. For a long time she couldn’t bring herself to move, to blink, or even breathe, hoping, praying, that it was all just a nightmare. The shock had rendered her unable to register any of her senses, and, combined with the darkness, it was like being one of the souls languishing in the lightless abyss of Niflheim, unable to think or to feel. It didn’t
matter that Niflheim didn’t exist. Nothing mattered.

  After a while, when her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, she regained a little of her senses. She slowly laid down, closed her eyes tightly, and tried to sleep, though she knew the effort was futile, hoping she would have a better grip on things in the morning.

  Chapitre Trente-Deux: Christine Écrit une Lettre

  Christine got very little sleep that night, and the following morning found her sitting awake on her large, plush bed, trying so hard to think that she had already given herself a headache. She had watched the sun rise beyond the balcony as she had thought, and as the world had gone from obdurate darkness to a soft and rosy red, she had reasoned out her feelings.

  She felt terribly hurt by Raoul’s deception, but the unbearable pain sprang from the fact that he had not been planning on marrying her throughout the months that he had been assiduously courting her. She felt sick and used, and for the first time since she had arrived, the thought of food made her ill.

  At first—when it had still been dark outside—she had considered bidding Raoul a cold goodbye and leaving the mansion. It would serve him right. After she was gone, he would realize what an awful mistake he had made. And even if he begged and pleaded and swore undying love, she would never allow him in her presence again, even if he was the patron of the opera house. In her anger, she tried to pack all her things, but realized (with some surprise and no small amount of depression) that none of the clothes, jewelry, or food belonged to her. And as the light filtering into the room had slowly grown, and all the beautiful curtains, tapestries, gowns and jewels were revealed, she had paused to reconsider.

  By the time the sun was almost fully-risen, she had thrown out her impulse to leave. Raoul’s prior intent didn’t change any of the splendorous wealth that would be hers, nor did it change the title she so desperately craved: Christine, Vicomtess de Chagny. Raoul might have had poor intentions at first, but he loved her so much now that he was willing to sacrifice his honor to marry her. She was still loved, still fabulously wealthy, and still engaged to the Vicomte de Chagny, no matter whom he had been engaged to against his will when he had met her. It wasn’t his fault, poor man, if his family had forced a marriage upon him—in fact, it was marvelously brave and inspiring that he was willing to break away from tradition and familial expectations to follow his heart.

  When the sun was bright and completely visible beyond the balcony, she had felt good enough to change into one of the morning dresses Raoul had bought for her, apply complementing makeup, and leave her room.

  As she entered the room where breakfast was held, Raoul rose from the table and swept across the room to meet her. Philippe was nowhere in sight—he usually took his breakfast in the library—for which she was glad. It would be better to talk to Raoul alone.

  “My love,” Raoul said, kissing her hand with the utmost of gentility, “you look positively radiant in the morning sunshine.”

  The sunshine he spoke of, streaming through the glass roof of the winter breakfast room in cold white beams, blinded her as she looked up at him. “Thank you,” she said belatedly, squinting so that she could discern his features. He didn’t seem concerned at all. In fact, he was acting as if he had absolute confidence that she wouldn’t leave because of his terrible pronouncement the night before. It deflated her a little—she had been expecting him to fall to his knees and beg her to stay.

  “At my request,” continued Raoul, still holding her hand, “the chef has prepared a selection of supreme delicacies for your especial enjoyment.” He bowed and gestured to the table, and she allowed him to seat her in front of a large tray of strawberry tarts.

  She sampled one and was delighted by the exquisite flavor. “They’re wonderful,” she said.

  “I’m glad to hear that,” Raoul replied, sitting down across from her. After a moment of expectant silence, he said tentatively, “I hope that you were not upset by my untimely declaration last night, my darling—I spoke very poorly.”

  She bit into another tart as an excuse not to reply, wondering what he was going to say.

  “My prior engagement—though forced upon me—has dogged my every thought for the last two months, and I knew it was unforgivably wrong to deceive you, but whenever I was near you, whenever I thought of you…” He clutched his heart in illustration of his words. She couldn’t see his face very clearly (the room really was absurdly bright), but she was certain his expression was one of remorse and devoted love. “Whenever I thought of you, my petal, my precious, I was so overcome by love that I couldn’t bring myself to break off contact with you. And as I fell more and more in love, I was so afraid of losing your love that I didn’t dare tell you the truth about my engagement.” He stretched his hand out across the table, in supplication. “My darling, I pray you understand.”

  Overcome with flattery, Christine spared no time in accepting his hand and squeezing it in her own. “I understand,” she assured him, feeling very noble and compassionate. No other woman would be able to see past her own jealousy to the love and desperation that her fiancé held for her.

  “I knew you would,” he said, smiling, and stood. He clapped his hands, and after several moments, a servant appeared with a stack of boxes. “I’ve been trying to find a time to give these to you, my precious, as promises of my undying love.”

  Christine dusted the crumbs from her hands and hurried to the large parcels, which the servant had deposited on the opposite end of the table. She debated for a moment about which to open first, then picked the largest one, ripped away the ribbon, and threw off the lid.

  “Oh, Raoul!” she cried, holding up the silk gown inside. “It’s absolutely beautiful!”

  “I bought matching jewelry for it as well,” he said, smiling at her delight.

  “Oh, Raoul, I love you! It’s so beautiful! It must have cost a king’s—oh!” she cried again, as she lifted the lid from a small box to reveal a sparking diamond choker.

  “Here, let me help you try it on,” Raoul offered.

  As she lifted her hair out of the way to allow him to fasten the choker around her neck, she couldn’t repress a giggle of happiness. How she could ever have considered leaving was quite incomprehensible to her now.

  Raoul spend the entire day showering her with fabulous gifts and assuring her of his undying love; she couldn’t ever remember a more wonderful day.

  The following morning, she awoke early to fetch the ink and paper Philippe had kindly given her to write a letter to Mamma. She reached under the velvet chaise, on which she was sitting, to retrieve her fountain pen, trying to think of what else to include in her letter. She felt a little guilty that she hadn’t written Mamma sooner; the poor woman must be frantic by this time. But everything had been so beautiful, so wonderful, like a faerie tale come true, that it had quite slipped her mind. Still searching the carpet for her pen, she read over her letter:

  “Dear Mamma:

  I’m sorry I haven’t written earlier. I’m sure the past four six days have been horrible for you. Everything is wonderfull here. The food is excellent and I get to wear the most beautyfull clothes in the world. I’m going to marry him. He says I can’t leave because of the numoneea but I’m sure you can come see me and try some of this marvo marvellus food.”

  The food was wonderful, but she was exaggerating her happiness so Mamma wouldn’t worry; even if she could resolve her hurt concerning Raoul’s lie, he was still acting so strangely, and all the food and beautiful clothing in the world couldn’t make up for the loneliness and regret that she was constantly pushing away. It didn’t make any sense. She wasn’t sure of anything anymore.

  Her hand closed around something and she brought it out from under the chaise. To her surprise, it was a piece of chocolate. She supposed she had dropped it yesterday when she had gotten so flustered about accidentally breaking the delicate scrollwork on the back of the chaise (she had been laying upside-down with her head off the seat and her legs resting on the scrollw
ork, which hadn’t been quite as durable as she had thought). She bit her lip and ate the chocolate, which was still good, and hoped that no one would notice the poor job she had done of fixing the chaise.

  A moment more of searching yielded her pen (fortunately not leaking, as most fountain pens did; she didn’t want to ruin anything else) and added to the page,

  “You’ll be happy to know that Raoul’s brother, Philippe, has been teaching me all about Christianity.”

  She thought for a long moment, but couldn’t think of anything else to say. What she had written seemed sufficient, so she signed her name, dabbed it with an ink blotter (also thoughtfully provided by Philippe), and set it on the floor.

  At that moment a knock came at her door, and Christine sat up. “Come in,” she called, licking the chocolate off her fingers.

  Raoul entered, looking dashing and well-groomed (trying to make up for his scruffiness the other night, she assumed), and proclaimed, “Good morning, my beauteous bluebell! And how are we today?”

  Upon seeing him—so handsome, so marvelously dressed, so obviously devoted to her courtship—the last bitter dregs of her unhappiness dissolved. It didn’t matter if he had been engaged to someone else. Nothing mattered except that he loved her and was going to make her a vicomtess. She opened her mouth to tell him all this, but he kept talking:

  “I know you aren’t pleased with Philippe’s simple, unaffected breakfasts, so I have instructed the cook to include première douceur and a soufflé.”

  She treated him to a brilliant smile. “Oh, Raoul, thank you! What does that mean?”

  “Première douceur is a coffee gelée that has—” Suddenly his eyes locked on the balcony, and his face, so warm and charming, turned cold and hard.