“I told you not to leave this open!” he snapped, striding over to slam the balcony doors shut. “And keep it locked! Something could get to you!”
“But the plague can’t get to me, way up here—”
“I don’t mean the plague, Christine, I mean the Phantom!”
“He already came,” she said without thinking.
Raoul whirled around, and his face was so contorted and his eyes so bright with rage that he looked like a devil. “WHAT?!”
She clapped a hand to her mouth, horrified. “H-he was here a few days ago, but I—”
Before she could finish, something hard hit her face, sending her staggering. As she recovered from the stinging blow, she realized with cold shock that he had slapped her. Normally she cried loudly when upset, but she was too stunned to make a sound.
“The Phantom came HERE,” Raoul raged, “INTO MY HOUSE—AND YOU DIDN’T TELL ME?!”
“It wasn’t important!” she wailed.
“HE COULD HAVE STOLEN YOU AWAY! USED YOU, MURDERED YOU, AND TOSSED YOUR BODY IN THE SEINE!”
“He wouldn’t do that!”
“HA!”
“I told him I wasn’t leaving, and he just left!”
Though his muscles were still tensed and his breathing still labored, the fire in his eyes lessened. “He left? That’s all? He didn’t touch you?”
“No!”
After a few moments her words sunk in, calming his rage. He swept the hair out of his face with a self-conscious hand, laughing a little in relief. Then he knelt before her—she had collapsed on the chaise, utterly overcome—and took her hands. “I’m so sorry, my pearl, my rose, my angel,” he pleaded, “it’s just that I love you so much, and I couldn’t bear for anything to happen to you—please forgive me.”
She sniffed and looked up. His handsome face was so wrought with distress, and his voice so golden and mellifluous and distraught, that she took pause. She supposed she couldn’t blame him—if she were a man, she would probably be horribly jealous concerning a great beauty such as herself. But still, on top of lying to her, he had actually struck her! No gentleman could ever do something so unspeakable!
He saw the hesitation in her face and said hurriedly, holding her hands desperately to his chest, “Oh, my darling, I’m so sorry I struck you, it was out of my control, please don’t be angry with me!”
“Well…” she said, rather uncertainly.
“Please, my love, I would just die if you were angry with me!”
“Okay,” she said slowly.
“Thank you, thank you, my precious,” Raoul murmured. He kissed her hands fervently, and the power of his happiness and relief thawed the ice-cold of her shock until she could summon a tentative smile to her face.
He stood, pulling her gently to her feet. “After breakfast, darling, allow me to prove my undying devotion and my sincere remorse for getting so angry—I’ll buy you anything you like; chocolates, flowers, diamonds, gowns, anything.”
She allowed him to kiss her—a soft kiss, with a cautious, subservient air that gave her a giddy feeling of power—and walked with him towards the door, the incident already almost forgotten.
As they exited her room, Raoul said, “But you must promise me to keep those doors bolted, my sweet—I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you!”
It was a little thing he asked, she supposed, and it was so wonderful to have him so madly in love with her, that she finally assented and he escorted her down to breakfast as if nothing had happened.
Chapitre Trente-Trois: La Accalmie avant le Orage
Two days later found Christine again sitting on the chaise in her room. Though the wallpapers, the silk pillows, the plush carpets, expense and glamour were all there, just the same as they had been a week ago, she couldn’t dredge up any of the frantic excitement or enthusiasm that had possessed her at the beginning of her stay. The room was strewn with beautiful gowns and glittering jewels, but she didn't feel like playing dress-up; she’d long grown tired of wandering the halls admiring statues, and besides, she didn’t want to run into any of the servants; and she’d eaten and eaten until she’d given herself a monstrous stomachache. There was really nothing else to do here, and she wasn’t allowed to go outside—she wasn’t even allowed to walk in the garden for fear she would be made off with. Philippe had offered her the use of his library, but most of the books were in other languages, and the French ones were all about philosophy; she hadn’t made it to the second page of any book she’d tried.
She’d resigned herself to spending her time in her room, but it was unbearable—she loved her soft, silken bed, but she couldn’t spend all her time sleeping. She also loved the pink porcelain bathroom attached to her suite, with all its marvelous modern conveniences, but she’d counted the tiles over and over until she feared she’d go mad.
Christine glanced towards the shuttered windows and bolted balcony doors, wishing she could at least feel a fresh breeze, but Raoul would be furious if she disobeyed him.
She sighed; she’d always had too much to do at the Garnier. Between practices and lessons, she’d barely had any time for herself. But having nothing to do—absolutely nothing—and with no purpose to guide the long hours, she felt drowsy and pointless.
Thinking of the Garnier made her think of Erik, and though she quickly pushed him out of her mind, it left her with an idea: she would go downstairs to the piano in the parlor, find some sheet music, and create her own singing lesson. She wouldn’t learn anything, and there wasn’t any point in keeping up her vocal talent now that she was a vicomtess (or going to be, at any rate), but at least she’d have something to do. It was a marvelous idea.
She was on her way down the stairs (she was beginning to learn her way around ever since Philippe had kindly furnished her with a rudimentary map) when she saw Raoul headed down a hallway. “Raoul,” she called, “come back!”
“I’m rather busy, my blossom.”
“I won’t keep you—but would you come get me when Mamma comes? I’ll be in the parlor.”
Raoul appeared from around the corner. “Don’t wait around for her, precieuse—I already sent her away.”
“You—you what? But why?!”
“Her visit was unnecessary.”
“But I wanted to see her! I even invited her!”
Raoul frowned. “How did you do that?”
“I asked Philippe to have a letter sent—”
“Philippe,” muttered Raoul disgustedly.
“—and you had her sent away! Who gave you the authority to—”
“My darling, my darling,” interrupted Raoul, the endearments carrying none of their usual adoration, “don’t be so flustered.” He seemed almost annoyed, but as he drew near, raising a hand to touch her face, he smiled. “I love you so much, I can’t bear to let anyone else even see you. Now be a good girl and I’ll send the chef up with some pastries.” He turned to walk away, but Christine, refusing to be bribed, spoke again:
“But—”
“No buts,” he said, his authoritative tone returning. “I have a lot on my mind right now—you wouldn’t want to burden me with unnecessary complaints, would you?”
“No, but—”
“Good. Now go back up to your room like a good girl.”
Before she could decide what to do, he had left the foyer. She bit her lip and walked unhappily back up the stairs.
Chapitre Trente-Quatre: Idomeneo
Philippe buttoned his overcoat, grimacing into the mirror by the front doors and wishing he were a little more calm. It wasn’t as if he were actually taking the Comtess de la Musardiere to Idomeneo; they were just sharing the same box, that was all. It wasn’t anything to get flustered about. Still, he’d never escorted a lady to an opera before—what would he say? What topics of conversation were proper? It wasn’t as black and white as interaction between a gentleman and his soon-to-be sister-in-law; Raoul, though he had yet to break the engagement, seemed adamantly against going through
with the wedding. What was worse, Philippe couldn’t decide which choice was more awful—Raoul breaking his word and hurting the comtess, or keeping it and marrying her. It was a terrible thought, this hope that Raoul wouldn’t go through with his marriage, but he had become so strange, so violent, so obsessed with Mademoiselle Daaé, that Philippe feared his brother would explode; and he didn’t want the comtess or the sweet mademoiselle hurt.
The change in Raoul had been slow in coming, but it was so salient now that it was undeniable. As if it hadn’t been bad enough at the beginning—what with his horrible plans to use the innocent girl and then discard her—it was much, much worse now. He was obsessed, consumed by the thought of owning her completely, keeping her locked away—a madman with a captive love.
Philippe rested his hands on the foyer table and sighed, wishing there were a way he could help his brother, and Mademoiselle Daaé, who needed his help even more. Raoul was keeping her completely sequestered now, refusing to let anyone see her, even his own brother, who surely harbored no intentions towards her—so great was his jealousy. Every time he had tried to broach the subject, Raoul had become furious and refused to speak to him.
As if summoned by the comte’s thoughts, Raoul appeared in the foyer. “Have a good time,” he offered, though his voice was neither pleasant nor genial. He looked rather unkempt, and Philippe wondered if the stress was getting to him. However, he did seem slightly more placid than usual, for which Philippe was glad.
“I’ll try. I hope the comtess understands my nervousness.”
Raoul, who had been on his way out, halted. “You’re taking Veronique?”
“Not taking her—the managers accidentally sold her box to a Madame la Trémoille, who was so excited to get to attend the performance that the comtess couldn’t demand her seats back. So I—I offered her the extra seat in our box, since you weren’t going.” He wrung his hands and checked his appearance in the mirror, wondering if his hair was damp from all the sweat he imagined it had sustained. “I don’t know what I’ll say to her.”
To Philippe’s surprise, Raoul actually laughed—it was merely a shadow of the warm, duendous man he used to be, but it filled the comte with hope. “Relax, Philippe—she talks incessantly. All you have to do is sit back and pretend to listen. Knowing you, you’ll actually listen and understand whatever she’s blathering on about.”
Philippe was so distraught that he let his brother’s unfair words pass without comment. “Mon Dieu, I can’t do this—I haven’t escorted a lady anywhere in ten years, my palms are sweating, my mind’s a farrago—”
“See, there you go—talk to her about whatever that word means.”
“I-it means a confused mixture—it’s Latin for a blend of different grains—it originated around sixteen-thirty—”
“There you go,” Raoul said again, quite drily. “She’ll be impressed.”
Philippe smiled fondly and laid a hand on Raoul’s shoulder, every good memory between them coming to his mind at once. They had been good friends over the years, despite the difference in their ages and personalities. He prayed that this obsession would pass, and his brother would be restored to his old self.
“Thank you for your encouragement,” he said. “But why don’t you come? What will you do here all night?”
Raoul faltered, and for an instant Philippe saw the calm congeniality slip, replaced by a burning light the likes of which the comte had never expected to see in his brother’s eyes.
“Oh, just sit around, I expect,” he said finally, reviving his serene smile.
“Perhaps I should stay—”
“No,” said Raoul, with firmness bordering on a command. Then he added, in a more agreeable tone, “I mean, you should enjoy yourself once in a while. It’s a great opera, I’m sure. And the centennial performance, and everything.”
“Yes, you’re right,” said Philippe, rather reluctantly. It probably wasn’t anything. And he couldn’t be policing his brother’s every move—Raoul probably needed some time by himself to think things out.
Raoul followed Philippe to the door. “Goodnight.”
Philippe accepted the hat his brother was offering and stepped out the door. “Goodnight,” he said hurriedly, before Raoul shut the door behind him. He checked his pocket watch and hurried out to the cabriolet; he didn’t want to be late to pick up the comtess. But as he reached to open the carriage door, he glanced back at the house, and wondered if he was making a terrible mistake.
Raoul stood at the door for a long moment after his brother had left. He’d feared that Philippe would never leave. Another few moments and he might have—well, it didn’t matter. Philippe was out of the house, and the servants had been well-paid to take the night off; the time had finally come to satiate the hellish, burning drive that had consumed him for so long.
At first it had just been a pleasant sensation, like the warm air from a fireplace, but now it was as if his body were encased in a torturer’s device of white-hot metal, burning ever hotter, with never a moment’s relief, screaming for him to give in—and tonight was that night.
Ever since he had seen Christine on that stage, singing the part of Marguerite, an apparition of the devil trying to ensnare Faust’s soul—Raoul couldn’t help but smile at the irony—he knew he would never be satisfied until he had possessed that beautiful, beautiful body. The desire was so powerful now—like its own entity, sentient, a starving beast howling for meat—that he hadn’t been able to do a single thing for the past two days, waiting, endlessly waiting, for the house to be empty…so he could finally quench the pain of that burning fire.
He glanced up the stairs towards her room, and he felt a feverish shiver race across his flesh as he contemplated what the night would hold.
Christine sat on her bed, aimlessly turning the pages of the Bible in her lap, trying to keep herself from glancing at the balcony doors. She should be at the Garnier right now, running over last-minute lines, putting on her costume, sneaking a look at the audience through the curtains, thanking Erik for slaving to make her a diva. But she had something better; she had to remember that.
She picked up a massive gold brooch from the jewelry box on her nightstand and rubbed it between her fingers; though its circumference was easily the size of an orange, and its weight hinted at an unspeakable price, she couldn’t conjure up any of the happiness she had always associated with such exquisite wealth.
Unable to console herself, she kept hold of the brooch and chose a page at random, holding the Bible up to her eyes to block the Garnier from sight and trying to focus all her attention on the words:
“Being filled with all unrighteousness, fornication, wickedness, covetousness, maliciousness; full of envy, murder, debate, deceit, malignity…”
She blinked, surprised at the length of the list. Usually such a long sentence, especially in the Bible with its confusing language, would bore her, but strangely, she had turned to a passage that made sense.
“…whisperers, backbiters, haters of God…
“…despiteful, proud, boasters…
“…inventors of evil things, disobedient to parents…”
She stopped, unable to go on. Every word seemed to leap out at her, cold and biting, accusing her of every single transgression. She had disobeyed her father, she had coveted luxury, she had participated in envy, deceit, pride, boastfulness, and everything else. Even the ones she had not committed seemed to twist into some shameful action she was guilty of: she had never hated God, but she had blamed him for her own stupid choices; she had never committed murder, but she might as well have driven a dagger through Erik’s heart for every cruel thing she had done to him.
She did not want to read the rest, but she seemed to hear the remaining words in her mind, in a deep, cold voice so loud she clapped hands to her ears to keep her eardrums from bursting.
“WITHOUT UNDERSTANDING,” the Bible accused her, each word seeming to swell on the page larger than the one before it.
“COVENANT-BREAKERS,” the voice proclaimed, and she screamed in agony. “WITHOUT NATURAL AFFECTION.”
She felt shame and guilt twist in her gut, and as tears sprang to her eyes, she turned her head so she wouldn’t see any more. But she couldn’t block out the voice:
“IMPLACABLE,
“UNMERCIFUL!”
Suddenly she couldn’t hold the tears back, and they soaked the condemning words and blurred the ink until it was unreadable; but she could still see the letters staring up at her, knowing, accusing, reviling.
“I know, I know,” she sobbed, covering the page with her hand. “I’m worthless and stupid and don’t understand anything—I lie and steal, I’ve been the most unmerciful person on earth, and I’ve thrown away Erik’s love for—for—this!” she screamed, flinging the brooch at the beautiful vase she had admired so much.
As it shattered, she leapt out from under the suffocating covers and ripped the jewelry from her ears and fingers. Her choker exploded as it hit the floor, sending luminous pearls flying in every direction.
She grabbed a coat from the foot of the bed and strode towards the door, gripping the Bible to her heart. She couldn’t stay here a moment longer!
She raced through the hallways and down stairs until she reached the grand staircase. Without glancing around, without even recognizing the magnificence of that beautiful foyer, she flew down the steps, eyes locked on the front doors.
Her fingers were mere inches from the knob when an arm appeared out of nowhere to block her path.
“Where are you going, my sweetling?”
There was something odd in Raoul’s voice, but she didn’t stop to think about it. She tried to pry his arm away from the door, tears blurring her vision. “I can’t stay here any longer!” she cried.
“Why not, my pet? Haven’t I given you everything you’ve always wanted?”
“Yes, but I don’t love you anymore, I love Erik!”
The declaration reverberated off the walls with unexpected force and hung on the air between them. The power of the statement surprised Christine, but she refused to back down.
She started to thank Raoul for everything he’d done and apologize for the engagement she was about to break when she caught sight of his eyes—cold and sharp like ice, glittering with a maniacal hardness bordering on insanity that froze her insides. She couldn’t force her mouth to form any words, or even coerce her lungs to exhale the stale air.
Costumes and Filigree: A Novel of the Phantom of the Opera Page 38
