She lifted her eyeliner pencil to her eyes, then considered it for a moment and put it back in the drawer. She had always wanted to make herself as beautiful as she could manage, but thinking about Erik—growing warm and giddy as she thought of his unconditional love—she knew she didn’t have to wear makeup for him.
As she mildly observed her reflection, which smiled back at her dreamily, a voice behind her queried, “How did it go?”
Christine turned to find that the trick mirror had been pushed back, and Erik was leaning against the frame. She hadn’t even heard him approach. His relaxed posture would have gone unnoticed by anyone besides Christine, who perceived this slight change in his usually tense personality. Both sides of his face were visible, relaxed in a sort of peaceful contentment the likes of which Christine had never seen. She couldn’t help but smile at him—for no reason other than she was happy to see him—despite the seriousness of the subject.
“The entire cemetery was filled with people,” she told him. “Mostly noblemen. I felt a bit out of place—no one said anything but I could feel their eyes boring into me. It was horrible. They were all whispering, and I’m sure they were saying, ‘Look, there’s his mistress, the one who made him kill himself.’ Isn’t that horrible? How dare anyone think that I had anything to do with it! And the managers were there. I don’t know what they’re going to do now that they’ve lost their patron. Oh no, that’s not right; they’re patron is the comte—”
“And what about the comte?” Erik pressed, stepping into the room. “Does he suspect anything about his brother’s death?”
She shook her head. “I made sure to talk to him, as you suggested. I waited until after the funeral was over, and most of the people had left. Philippe just stood there, in front of the mausoleum doors, and for the longest time I couldn’t bring myself to speak to him. But when I finally did, he didn’t blame me for Raoul’s death. He said, ‘I’m sorry that you’re being subjected to the cruelty of the gossips’ stories, mademoiselle, and to the irrationality of my poor brother. Take comfort in the fact that their attention, however painful, will pass.’
“And I felt so terrible—he really did love his brother—but I couldn’t think of anything to say. In fact, I almost confessed the whole thing to him, so he wouldn’t feel so bad. I started to, actually—but he began to speak, so I stopped. Anyway, he asked me if I was going to stay at the Garnier, and I said yes. Then he introduced me to the very pretty lady standing next to him; she was Veronique de la—what was her name again…. You know, Raoul’s fiancée. Anyway, she was grasping his hand, and I could tell it was giving him all the support he needed, so I felt less guilty about leaving.”
Erik nodded pensively, lines creasing his brow in thought. “It would seem that the comte, like the Préfet de Police, has come to the conclusion that his brother's death was a suicide. A plausible explanation, I suppose, considering the extent of his brother's actions, especially since they found Marquis D’Aubigne’s body and pieced the evidence together.”
A moment of silence passed, in which neither of them could think of anything to say. Christine abruptly stood and blurted out, “I wish you could have seen Raoul when he and I were children—he was wonderful back then, not at all like he ended up. He was brave, and gallant, and kind….” She trailed off for a moment before bringing herself to finish. “I don’t know what happened to him; he grew jealous, and hateful, and frightening…. But he wasn’t always like that,” she pleaded.
“I don’t blame the vicomte,” Erik said softly. “He couldn’t help being in love with you.”
Neither of them spoke. Though it was only for a moment, it felt to Christine like an eternity. Then Erik continued, as if he had never paused, “Now, about Otello—you’ll be wonderful as Desdemona no matter what, of course, but I wouldn’t want your reign as diva of the Opera Garnier to start on a bad note because of an inexperienced counterpart. Jerome Routhier will be a good Otello—he has a strong, commanding voice—but he gets very flustered when he hits an incorrect note and refuses to continue. Many of your arias are duets, so make sure to keep singing as if nothing has gone wrong. But if the man doesn’t improve, I’ll intercede and get you a different partner.”
She smiled affectionately, thinking of how annoyed the managers would be if the Phantom ordered them to get a different Otello. “I’m pretty sure I can handle it,” she assured him. She couldn’t believe she had ever considered giving up her singing career; her reasons had been poor before, but now she couldn’t imagine quitting the practices, the bustle and chaos, and especially sharing a love of music with Erik. She had been forced to beg and plead with the managers to take her back on as diva—a blow to her pride that she would not have been able to contemplate a month ago—but, having taken into consideration the vast improvement of her voice and devotion to the position of opera diva, Richard and Moncharmin had finally agreed to accept her back on a probationary basis. She still wondered if Erik had something to do with it, but he maintained that he had played no part in re-securing her career.
“But it’s really not fair,” she said. “We’re still performing Idomeneo. I shouldn’t have to start on another opera—I can’t keep two sets of lines memorized at once.”
“You won’t be expected to have anything memorized for a few weeks. Knowing Richard and Moncharmin, they’ll probably decide to switch to a different opera after problems start surfacing.”
She started to reply, then decided against it. The managers had been so kind to take her back, despite her disappearance, that the least she could do was try. With Erik’s help, she was sure she could manage holding down two parts.
She was about to ask if the managers had accepted the changes Erik had suggested for the accompaniment when a knock came at the door.
“Mademoiselle Daaé,” a voice called, “you’re wanted on the stage in five minutes for a run-through of the first act.”
“I’m coming!” replied Christine hurriedly, turning towards the door. She started to walk towards it, but Erik caught her hand.
Then, before either of them could think, their lips met. Christine’s hands twined themselves around Erik’s neck, while his held her waist. Raoul’s demise slowly faded from their thoughts as they looked into each other’s eyes.
Christine was reminded of how lacking Raoul’s kisses had seemed to her, in comparison to the reassurance and warmth that filled Erik’s. And then, in that moment, Christine understood what it meant to fall in love completely.
She loved Erik, and the knowledge that Erik loved her back was enough.
The voice returned though the door, “Mademoiselle Daaé! The run-through begins in three minutes!”
Christine told him to tell the managers that she was on her way. She and Erik shared a brief kiss, and, after a brief farewell, Erik passed through the mirror. Christine stood for a moment, smiling, but an insistent knocking upon her door reminded her to pick up her skirts and head to the stage.
La Fin
Costumes and Filigree: A Novel of the Phantom of the Opera Page 41
