“Would she but deign to hear me
And with one smile to cheer me ...”
“The little baggage!” growled the count.
And he wondered what she wanted. What she was hoping for ... She was a virtuous girl, she was said to have no friend, no protector of any sort ... That angel from the North must be very artful!
Raoul, behind the curtain of his hands that veiled his boyish tears, thought only of the letter which he received on his return to Paris, where Christine, fleeing from Perros like a thief in the night, had arrived before him:
My Dear Little Playfellow:
You must have the courage not to see me again, not to speak of me again. If you love me just a little, do this for me, for me who will never forget you, my dear Raoul. My life depends upon it. Your life depends upon it.
Your Little Christine
Thunders of applause. Carlotta made her entrance.
“I wish I could but know who was he
That addressed me,
If he was noble, or, at least, what his name is ...”
When Margarita had finished the ballad of the King of Thule; she was loudly cheered and again when she came to the end of the jewel song:
“Ah, the joy of past compare
These jewels bright to wear! ...”
Thenceforth, certain of herself, certain of her friends in the house, certain of her voice and her success, fearing nothing, Carlotta flung herself into her part without restraint of modesty ... She was no longer Margarita, she was Carmen.h She was applauded all the more; and her debut with Faust seemed about to bring her a new success, when suddenly ... a terrible thing happened.
Faust had knelt on one knee:
“Let me gaze on the form below me,
While from yonder ether blue
Look how the star of eve, bright and tender,
lingers o’er me,
To love thy beauty too!”
And Margarita replied:
“Oh, how strange!
Like a spell does the evening bind me!
And a deep languid charm
I feel without alarm
With its melody enwind me
And all my heart subdue.”
At that moment, at that identical moment, the terrible thing happened ... Carlotta croaked like a toad:
“Co-ack!”
There was consternation on Carlotta’s face and consternation on the faces of all the audience. The two managers in their box could not suppress an exclamation of horror. Every one felt that the thing was not natural, that there was witchcraft behind it. That toad smelt of brimstone. Poor, wretched, despairing, crushed Carlotta!
The uproar in the house was indescribable. If the thing had happened to any one but Carlotta, she would have been hooted. But everybody knew how perfect an instrument her voice was; and there was no display of anger, but only of horror and dismay, the sort of dismay which men would have felt if they had witnessed the catastrophe that broke the arms of the Venus de Milo.... And even then they would have seen ... and understood ...
But here that toad was incomprehensible! So much so that, after some seconds spent in asking herself if she had really heard that note, that sound, that infernal noise issue from her throat, she tried to persuade herself that it was not so, that she was the victim of an illusion, an illusion of the ear, and not of an act of treachery on the part of her voice ...
Meanwhile, in Box Five, Moncharmin and Richard had turned very pale. This extraordinary and inexplicable incident filled them with a dread which was the more mysterious inasmuch as for some little while, they had fallen within the direct influence of the ghost. They had felt his breath. Moncharmin’s hair stood on end. Richard wiped the perspiration from his forehead. Yes, the ghost was there, around them, behind them, beside them; they felt his presence without seeing him, they heard his breath, close, close, close to them! ... They were sure that there were three people in the box ... They trembled ... They thought of running away.... They dared not ... They dared not make a movement or exchange a word that would have told the ghost that they knew that he was there! ... What was going to happen?
This happened.
“Co-ack!”
Their joint exclamation of horror was heard all over the house. They felt that they were smarting under the ghost’s attacks. Leaning over the ledge of their box, they stared at Carlotta as though they did not recognize her. That infernal girl must have given the signal for some catastrophe. Ah, they were waiting for the catastrophe! The ghost had told them it would come! The house had a curse upon it! The two managers gasped and panted under the weight of the catastrophe. Richard’s stifled voice was heard calling to Carlotta:
“Well, go on!”
No, Carlotta did not go on ... Bravely, heroically, she started afresh on the fatal line at the end of which the toad had appeared.
An awful silence succeeded the uproar. Carlotta’s voice alone once more filled the resounding house:
“I feel without alarm ...”
The audience also felt, but not without alarm ...
“I feel without alarm ...
I feel without alarm—co—ack!
With its melody enwind me—co-ack!
And all my heart sub—co-ack!”
The toad also had started afresh!
The house broke into a wild tumult. The two managers collapsed in their chairs and dared not even turn round; they had not the strength; the ghost was chuckling behind their backs! And, at last, they distinctly heard his voice in their right ears, the impossible voice, the mouthless voice, saying:
“She is singing tonight to bring the chandelier down!”
With one accord, they raised their eyes to the ceiling and uttered a terrible cry. The chandelier, the immense mass of the chandelier was slipping down, coming towards them, at the call of that fiendish voice. Released from its hook, it plunged from the ceiling and came smashing into the middle of the stalls, amid a thousand shouts of terror. A wild rush for the doors followed.
The immense mass of the chandelier was slipping down, coming towards them, at the call of that fiendish voice.
The papers of the day state that there were numbers wounded and one killed.6 The chandelier had crashed down upon the head of the wretched woman who had come to the Opera for the first time in her life, the one whom M. Richard had appointed to succeed Mame Giry, the ghost’s box-keeper, in her functions! She died on the spot and, the next morning, a newspaper appeared with this heading:
TWO HUNDRED KILOS
ON THE HEAD OF A CONCIERGE
That was her sole epitaph!
8
THE MYSTERIOUS BROUGHAMi
That tragic evening was bad for everybody. Carlotta fell ill. As for Christine Daaé, she disappeared after the performance. A fortnight elapsed during which she was seen neither at the Opera nor outside.
Raoul, of course, was the first to be astonished at the prima donna’s absence. He wrote to her at Mme. Valérius’ flat and received no reply. His grief increased and he ended by being seriously alarmed at never seeing her name on the programme. Faust was played without her.
One afternoon he went to the managers’ office to ask the reason of Christine’s disappearance. He found them both looking extremely worried. Their own friends did not recognize them: they had lost all their gaiety and spirits. They were seen crossing the stage with hanging heads, care-worn brows, pale cheeks, as though pursued by some abominable thought or a prey to some persistent sport of fate.
The fall of the chandelier had involved them in no little responsibility; but it was difficult to make them speak about it. The inquest had ended in a verdict of accidental death, caused by the wear and tear of the chains by which the chandelier was hung from the ceiling; but it was the duty of both the old and the new managers to have discovered this wear and tear and to have remedied it in time. And I feel bound to say that MM. Richard and Moncharmin at this time appeared so changed, so absent-minded, so mysterious, so incomprehensible t
hat many of the subscribers thought that some event even more horrible than the fall of the chandelier must have affected their state of mind.
In their daily intercourse, they showed themselves very impatient,except with Mme. Giry, who had been reinstated in her functions. And their reception of the Vicomte de Chagny, when he came to ask about Christine, was anything but cordial. They merely told him that she was taking a holiday. He asked how long the holiday was for, and they replied curtly that it was for an unlimited period, as Mlle. Daaé had requested leave of absence for reasons of health.
“Then she is ill!” he cried. “What is the matter with her?”
“We don’t know.”
“Didn’t you send the doctor of the Opera to see her?”
“No, she did not ask for him; and, as we trust her, we took her word.”
Raoul left the building a prey to the gloomiest thoughts. He resolved, come what might, to go and inquire of Mamma Valérius. He remembered the strong phrases in Christine’s letter, forbidding him to make any attempt to see her. But what he had seen at Perros, what he had heard behind the dressing-room door, his conversation with Christine at the edge of the moor made him suspect some machination which, devilish though it might be, was none the less human. The girl’s highly strung imagination, her affectionate and credulous mind, the primitive education which had surrounded her childhood with a circle of legends, the constant brooding over her dead father and, above all, the state of sublime ecstasy into which music threw her from the moment that this art was made manifest to her in certain exceptional conditions, as in the churchyard at Perros; all this seemed to him to constitute a moral ground only too favourable for the malevolent designs of some mysterious and unscrupulous person. Of whom was Christine Daaé the victim? This was the very reasonable question which Raoul put to himself as he hurried off to Mamma Valérius.
He trembled as he rang at a little flat in the Rue Notre-Dame-des-Victoires. 1 The door was opened by the maid whom he had seen coming out of Christine’s dressing-room one evening. He asked if he could speak to Mme. Valérius. He was told that she was ill in bed and was not receiving visitors.
“Take in my card, please,” he said.
The maid soon returned and showed him into a small and scantily furnished drawing-room, in which portraits of Professor Valérius and old Daaé hung on opposite walls.
“Madame begs monsieur le vicomte to excuse her,” said the servant. “She can only see him in her bedroom, because she can no longer stand on her poor legs.”
Five minutes later, Raoul was ushered into an ill-lit room where he at once recognized the good, kind face of Christine’s benefactress in the semi-darkness of an alcove. Mamma Valérius’ hair was now quite white, but her eyes had grown no older; never, on the contrary, had their expression been so bright, so pure, so child-like.
“M. de Chagny!” she cried gaily, putting out both her hands to her visitor. “Ah, it’s heaven that sends you here! ... We can talk of her.”
This last sentence sounded very gloomily in the young man’s ears. He at once asked:
“Madame ... where is Christine?”
And the old lady replied calmly:
“She is with her good genius!”
“What good genius?” exclaimed poor Raoul.
“Why, the Angel of Music!”
The viscount dropped into a chair. Really? Christine was with the Angel of Music? And there lay Mamma Valérius in bed, smiling to him and putting her finger to her lips, to warn him to be silent! and she added:
“You must not tell anyone!”
“You can rely on me,” said Raoul.
He hardly knew what he was saying, for his ideas about Christine, already greatly confused, were becoming more and more entangled; and it seemed as if everything was beginning to turn around him, around the room, around that extraordinary good lady with the white hair and forget-me-not eyes.
“I know! I know I can!” she said, with a happy laugh. “But why don’t you come near me, as you used to do when you were a little boy? Give me your hands, as when you brought me the story of little Lotte, which Daddy Daaé had told you. I am very fond of you, M. Raoul, you know. And so is Christine too!”
“She is fond of me!” sighed the young man. He found a difficulty in collecting his thoughts and bringing them to bear on Mamma Valérius’ “good genius,” on the Angel of Music of whom Christine had spoken to him so strangely, on the death’s head which he had seen in a sort of nightmare on the high altar at Perros and also on the Opera ghost, whose fame had come to his ears one evening when he was standing behind the scenes, within hearing of a group of scene-shifters who were repeating the ghastly description which the hanged man, Joseph Buquet, had given of the ghost before his mysterious death.
He asked in a low voice: “What makes you think that Christine is fond of me, madame?”
“She used to speak of you every day.”
“Really? ... And what did she tell you?”
“She told me that you had made her a proposal!”
And the good old lady began laughing whole-heartedly. Raoul sprang from his chair, flushing to the temples, suffering agonies.
“What’s this? Where are you going? ... Sit down again at once, will you? ... Do you think I will let you go like that? ... If you’re angry with me for laughing, I beg your pardon ... After all, what has happened isn’t your fault ... Didn’t you know? ... Did you think that Christine was free? ...”
“Is Christine engaged to be married?” the wretched Raoul asked, in a choking voice.
“Why no! Why no! ... You know as well as I do that Christine couldn’t marry, even if she wanted to! ...”
“But I don’t know anything about it! ... And why can’t Christine marry?”
“Because of the Angel of Music, of course! ...”
“I don’t follow ...”
“Yes, he forbids her to! ...”
“He forbids her! ... The Angel of Music forbids her to marry! ...”
“Oh, he forbids her ... without forbidding her. It’s like this: he tells her that, if she got married, she would never hear him again. That’s all! ... And that he would go away for ever! ... So, you understand, she can’t let the Angel of Music go. It’s quite natural.”
“Yes, yes,” echoed Raoul submissively, “it’s quite natural.”
“Besides, I thought Christine had told you all that, when she met you at Perros, where she went with her good genius.”
“Oh, she went to Perros with her good genius, did she?”
“That is to say, he arranged to meet her down there, in Perros churchyard, at Daaé’s grave. He promised to play her The Resurrection of Lazarus on her father’s violin!”
Raoul de Chagny rose and, with a very authoritative air, pronounced these peremptory words:
“Madame, you will have the goodness to tell me where that genius lives.”
The old lady did not seem surprised at this indiscreet command. She raised her eyes and said:
“In Heaven!”
Such simplicity baffled him. He did not know what to say in the presence of this candid and perfect faith in a genius who came down nightly from Heaven to haunt the dressing-rooms at the Opera.
He now realized the possible state of mind of a girl brought up between a superstitious fiddler and a visionary old lady and he shuddered when he thought of the consequences of it all.
“Is Christine still a good girl?” he asked suddenly, in spite of himself.
“I swear it, as I hope to be saved!” exclaimed the old woman, who, this time, seemed to be incensed. “And, if you doubt it, sir, I don’t know what you are here for!”
Raoul tore at his gloves.
“How long has she known this ‘genius?’ ”
“About three months ... Yes, it’s quite three months since he began to give her lessons.”
The viscount threw up his arms with a gesture of despair.
“The genius gives her lessons! ... And where, pray?”
> “Now that she has gone away with him, I can’t say; but, up to a fortnight ago, it was in Christine’s dressing-room. It would be impossible in this little flat. The whole house would hear them. Whereas, at the Opera, at eight o’clock in the morning, there is no one about, do you see!”
“Yes, I see! I see!” cried the viscount.
And he hurriedly took leave of Mme. Valérius, who asked herself if the young nobleman was not a little off his head.
He walked home to his brother’s house in a pitiful state. He could have struck himself, banged his head against the walls! To think that he had believed in her innocence, in her purity! The Angel of Music! He knew him now! He saw him! It was beyond a doubt some unspeakable tenor, a good-looking jackanapes, who mouthed and simpered as he sang! He thought himself as absurd and as wretched as could be. Oh, what a miserable, little, insignificant, silly young man was M. le Vicomte de Chagny! thought Raoul furiously. And she, what a bold and damnable sly creature!
His brother was waiting for him and Raoul fell into his arms, like a child. The count consoled him, without asking for explanations; and Raoul would certainly have long hesitated before telling him the story of the Angel of Music. His brother suggested taking him out to dinner. Overcome as he was with despair, Raoul would probably have refused any invitation that evening, if the count had not, as an inducement, told him that the lady of his thoughts had been seen, the night before, in company of the other sex in the Bois.j At first, the viscount refused to believe; but he received such exact details that he ceased protesting. She had been seen, it appeared, driving in a brougham, with the window down. She seemed to be slowly taking in the icy night air. There was a glorious moon shining. She was recognized beyond a doubt. As for her companion, only his shadowy outline was distinguished leaning back in the dark. The carriage was going at a walking pace in a lonely drive behind the grand stand at Longchamp.
Raoul dressed in frantic haste, prepared to forget his distress by flinging himself, as people say, into “the vortex of pleasure.” Alas, he was a very sorry guest and, leaving his brother early, found himself, by ten o’clock in the evening, in a cab, behind the Longchamp race-course.
Phantom of the Opera (Barnes & Noble Classics Series) Page 11
