Through Phantom Eyes: Volume Five - Christine

by Theodora Bruns

  Also, with new managers on the premises, I prepared for another battle to begin. During the night of the gala, I planned to welcome them by allowing them to become a part of a very important experiment. To prepare for that experiment, I made an appointment to see a doctor about a prosthetic nose. I never thought I would do such a thing, but, as I was learning, love can make a man do things he never imagined possible.

  Most days, I tried to keep her in her dressing room for as long as I could. If we weren’t rehearsing, then we would talk, usually about her childhood. It was during that time that I learned her mother had died when she was six; consequently, she had little recollection of her.

  “All I remember is that she was kind, and I liked to feel her hair. It was so silky. She was very beautiful,” she said, while dreamily fondling her locket.

  “I can attest to her beauty. You look just like her,” I replied softly.

  She scrunched her face. “Really?” Then, as her face returned to normal, she added to her thought. “That makes me feel warm inside.”

  When I thought about my own childhood, I offered another comment. “Not having a mother had to be difficult for you.”

  “Yes,” she said, as she looked down at the locket. “But I did have Madame Valerius. She was much older, more like a grandmother, but I called her Mummy anyway. She seemed to like it, and it made me feel good. She was good friends with my father, and she let us stay in her home in Perros when we were there.”

  She stopped talking but still looked as if she wanted to say more, so I encouraged her. “Was there something else you wanted to share with me?”

  She looked down at her hands in her lap. “Perhaps, but I don’t want to anger you.”

  “You can’t anger me by talking about your childhood. Feel free to tell me anything you want,” I assured her, since I wanted to know all I could about her.

  She hesitated before she went on with her story. “It was during one of those visits that I met Raoul, the friend I told you about. He and his governess were on the beach, and my father called him over to listen to one of his stories. My father loved telling dark stories about the North and to play his violin for anyone who would listen. Raoul and I became friends and did many things together.”

  “What type of things?” my curiosity questioned.

  “Well, for one thing, my father gave both of us violin lessons, and I sang for both of them. I loved to sing. I would set all my dolls in a row and sing for them and Raoul. There was another fun thing we did together,” she added with a relaxed smile. “We’d go to all the doors in the village and ask if anyone there knew of any stories about the North. We both loved them. Usually someone who lived there would tell us a story, and I would sing for them as payment.”

  She had a wonderful, childlike way of expressing herself, and it made my heart happy, so I would try to keep her talking for as long as possible.

  “I don’t believe I’ve ever heard any stories about the North. What are they like?”

  “One of my favorites was about Little Lotte, a little girl who loved music and stories. Raoul called me Little Lotte often, because I loved the same things as she did.”

  She giggled and glanced at her reflection in her mirror. Then her smile vanished, and her fingers again felt the locket around her neck.

  “But those stories aren’t real life. This is real life,” she said as she looked around her room. “I stopped believing in those stories of the North when my father died. This is real life. People die and it hurts.”

  I responded reflectively, “I know, my child. I know it hurts.” There was a long pause before I asked another question. “Without your parents, where did you live? Were you put into an orphanage?”

  “No, thankfully, I wasn’t put in an orphanage. Mummy took me into her home and treated me as a daughter. She saw to it that I got a good education, and she was the one responsible for getting me into the conservatory of music here in Paris. She still takes care of my needs. I live with her, and she is so kind.”

  Those conversations were enjoyable, and they helped me to understand her better. However, I couldn’t keep her in her dressing room all the time, but I could keep her in my sights nearly all the time. Consequently, my obsession over her grew beyond madness, even by my standards.

  I watched her with the intensity of a cat focused on a mouse hole. I needed to see if she would stay true to her word and not see that young man, that presumptuous boy. Then, if she did, I needed to see my competition. But, more importantly, with my memories of Vashti and my fear that something unthinkable would happen to Christine, I needed to stay near her to protect her.

  It wasn’t until much later that I realized how foolish I was. My love for her had blinded me to the biggest danger lying in her path—me. So, like the uncontrolled and unthinking fool I was, I followed her day and night.

  I watched her as she rehearsed, as she talked to the stagehands, as she questioned the carpenters, as she studied the seamstresses, and as she giggled with Meg. From the catwalks above her, I watched her face closely during the performances, waiting for her eyes to disclose the location of her young suitor.

  At the end of the day, I stood in the shadows and watched as she entered a carriage. Then, I was right behind her in another carriage as she traveled to Madame Valerius’ home. After all the lights went out, I went back to the opera house and worked on my preparations for the gala and her future beyond it. In addition, I continued to search for more information about her friend. On occasion, I made a quick appearance at Oded’s, just to keep him from looking for me.

  Before the sun came up, I would be back at Madame Valerius’ home, waiting for the lights to come on, and then I would follow her back to the opera house. Needless to say, during those weeks, I seldom slept and never ate a good meal, only a bite of cheese or bread on occasion. In time, my lack of personal care almost cost me my life.

  Six

  I was fascinated by the activities Christine found interesting, endearing her to me on a much different level. As a result, my love for her grew significantly, more than I’d ever imagined.

  There were days when she didn’t obey my instructions, but I couldn’t be angry with her. On those beautiful sun-lit days, she’d walk home and would usually stroll through the marketplace along the way. I’m sure it warmed both our hearts when she smelled the newly-cut flowers or freshly-baked bread, and even more so when she showed true interest in the shopkeepers. On those days, she always purchased something to take home to Madame Valerius.

  About halfway between the market and the elder lady’s home was an antique shop. Often Christine would enter and wander around, running her fingers across the old furniture, sculpted picture frames, and porcelain figurines. There was one piece of furniture, a dressing table, that she showed special interest in and always stopped at. Most of the time, she even sat in its chair while letting her mind journey to some unknown destination and her fingers journey across its dark mahogany. It was from the Louis-Philippe period and, unknown to me at that time, would play an important role in my future plans for Christine.

  While in the opera house, if she wasn’t in her dressing room or rehearsing or chatting with Meg about simple girlish things, she would wander off by herself and enter her own little make-believe world. It was during those times that her true identity emerged, the Christine I grew to cherish.

  She regularly spent time meandering through the sets in the third cellar, running her fingers over set pieces, candelabras, paintings, or masks with tender affection. While doing so, she’d hum or softly sing parts of the opera they belonged to.

  Watching her helped me to understand how important music was to her. Her eyes expressed the love she had for the theatre and everything that went along with it. Whether she was in front of the audience or all alone with nothing more than a prop in her hands, her devotion couldn’t be denied. She reminded me of myself during the days when I could meander through my opera house without the constant fear of being seen. T
hose were the days before Joseph Buquet arrived.

  But the part of her wanderings that endeared her to me the most was when she had contact with others in the house—first of all, the horses. Nearly every day she went to the stable and ran her hands over their faces or laid her head on one of theirs and talked softly to them. Quite often, she’d kiss them on the nose, just as I so often did. To her, it didn’t matter if their noses were green with alfalfa or wet with water or both. It never failed to put a smile on my lips when she snuck them sweets. After making certain no one was watching, she’d feed them a cube of sugar and tell them it had to be their little secret.

  When she showed César attention, oh, how my heart throbbed. I wanted so badly to whisk her away on him and leave everyone and everything behind. But I could only stand in the shadows and smile, while my heart cried out to her between each beat.

  There were times when her actions showed me her true worth, and each time it brought tears to my eyes. On the days when her schedule wasn’t too tight, she’d visit different people inside the opera house, like the cobblers, painters, seamstresses, cleaners, and carpenters. She’d talk to them, asking them about their lives, how they’d learned their trade, where they were from, if they had families, what they did when they weren’t working, and anything else that popped into her inquisitive head. But it was more than curiosity that motivated her; she had a genuine interest in each of them.

  Her conversations with them were always about them and never about her, which was so contrary to the personalities of most of the performers I’d seen. Even among the gypsies, while they cared for all in their group, when it came to other people, they had no interest in them, only in their money. But Christine was so different. She was truly an angel, and, as I listened in on her conversations, my love for her swelled in my heart.

  I was quite mesmerized by her and often had to remind myself why I was following her. It wasn’t merely for my enjoyment; it was to find out about her childhood friend. I wanted to make certain she followed my instructions precisely and didn’t go back on her promise. But I never saw her with any young men.

  My stalking periods were like a two-edged sword. They made me feel glad and bad at the same time. I was spying on her privacy with an obsession that would frighten her terribly if I were discovered. In fact, my desperate need to be close to her and protect her even frightened me, but not enough to prevent me from continuing in my pursuit.

  I made certain I was at every performance and in a good position to watch her face closely, just in case she spotted her friend again. Doing so put me in various positions on the cat walks above the stage. Then, one night it happened. It was during the ballet of the second act when her eyes betrayed her and told me he was in the house, her friend and what I feared was going to be my lethal enemy.

  From the direction of her glance, it appeared the object of her attention was in one of the boxes in the grand tier, perhaps across from my Box Five. I moved through the maze of ropes swiftly, heading for my box to get a closer look at this presumptuous intruder. Once there, I searched, trying to locate which box he was in, but it wasn’t until the closing bows that I spotted it. It was directly across from mine. My eyes narrowed, and I focused harder on the two men who were on their feet and applauding.

  One I recognized as Comte Philippe de Chagny. I knew him well by reputation and knew he clung closely to his proper aristocratic upbringing. His family name and wealth dated back to the fourteenth century. Normally, his noble birth and present station would automatically put him on my black list, but he did appear to have a good heart, an unimpeachable history, and flawless manners. Therefore, I rationalized, he would never let his interest in someone like Christine become public.

  However, I’d heard it rumored that he spent time with one of the principal dancers, Sorelli. If that were true, then his proper upbringing wouldn’t prevent him from giving attention to a woman of a lower station, such as Christine. But then, I recalled Christine’s story about her friend having a governess, which would make the man I was focused on too old to fit her description. Therefore, it wasn’t the Comte I needed to worry about. It had to be the other man, whom I didn’t recognize.

  I studied him closely. He was much younger, probably just barely 20, with fair hair and a small mustache. As I looked closer, I could tell it was he who was returning Christine’s smile and eye contact. So this is her young friend, I fumed. So this is my rival. At that moment, I felt, as never before, the breath in my chest turn hot with jealousy. That whelp was instantly put in hatred’s path, and I pressed my teeth together, allowing my low growl to mix with the roar of the audience.

  “You fool! Leave my house at once!”

  What I felt right then was so much more volatile than what I’d felt when I first learned about him. It was instant and murderous hatred I felt pulsing through my body with every beat of my jealous heart. Yet I knew absolutely nothing about him, other than that he had Christine’s interest. But it wouldn’t take me long to find out all I needed to know. From that moment on, I didn’t need to follow Christine as closely, since my attention shifted to the young fair-haired boy instead.

  As soon as the curtain closed, the young man rushed out of the box, and so did I. I headed for the catwalks above where I knew Christine would be, and I imagined my rival was also heading for her. I spotted her talking with several other ballerinas on the stage, and then I saw him, trying to make his way through the crowded stage toward her. As I maneuvered into a position to watch her expressions, I felt my jaws tighten and my nails press into my palms.

  With an extremely large and over-confident smile, he approached her and tapped her on the back of her shoulder. When she turned to face him, his chest rose in a deep breath, and he held out a large bouquet toward her. If possible, his smile broadened even more.

  “Christine, your performance was beautiful.”

  I held my breath, waiting for her response.

  At first her eyes widened, but then she simply smiled, took the bouquet from his hands, and said, “Thank you, Monsieur, for the compliment and the flowers. They’re lovely.”

  To my delight, without another word, she turned and headed quickly for her dressing room. I lingered on the catwalk only long enough to witness his stunned reaction. He lost his boyish smile, spread his arms out from his sides, and looked completely confused. I almost laughed at his inability to accept her cool reaction.

  I took off running toward her room and was barely behind the mirror when her door closed. I was extremely angry because of that arrogant fool and, naturally, jealous, but I couldn’t let her know how I felt. Frantically, my mind raced, trying to find the right words to speak.

  Before I could find them, she lit her lamp and asked, “Are you here tonight, my Angel?”

  I was struggling to control my tone, and, as the light came up, I could see in an instant that she was also trying to hide her feelings. Her cheeks were flushed, almost as red as the roses in her arms. She was completely out of breath, and it appeared she’d just run a foot race. Since I needed time to absorb what had happened before I said something hurtful again, I spoke little.

  “Your performance was flawless, but you look extremely tired. I think it’s best if we don’t visit tonight. You need to go home and rest.”

  “Yes. I believe you’re right. I’ll change and go straight away,” she replied, with a noticeable sigh of relief.

  Adhering to my normal procedure, I followed her to the side steps where he was once more waiting for her. He ran up to her with his large boyish grin and began walking beside her. She barely glanced up at him when he opened the carriage door and helped her inside. I believe she thanked him with a polite smile, but then she dismissed him with a wave of her hand, and the carriage moved away.

  She was doing exactly what I’d told her to do, and yet, the situation unnerved me. But I didn’t contemplate her actions for too long, since I wanted to find out all I could about that new intruder into my private world. That unin
vited guest had something that I didn’t have and never would have, a history of a relationship with Christine during her happy childhood.

  That alone gave him an advantage that increased my apprehension and began to tear down my confidence. I felt threatened in an unfamiliar way, which angered me. Since I knew that type of thinking was bad for my focus, I concentrated on learning more about that insolent boy.

  Within a short time, I discovered he was the Vicomte Raoul de Chagny, the younger brother of Comte Philippe de Chagny. Raoul’s mother had died giving birth to him, and his father had died when he was 12, which left Raoul in the custody of his older brother Philippe. At the present, he was 21 and had a commission in the Royal Navy. He was in Paris on a six-month furlough, but the disappearance of a ship, the D’Artois, had called him back into service prematurely. He was to board the Reckon soon and organize an expedition to search for survivors in the Arctic Circle.

  I was partially relieved by that information. Not only would he be leaving Paris soon but also his brother, the Comte, was extremely protective of him. Since Philippe had almost raised Raoul, he scrutinized his acquaintances closely. He did, however, bring Raoul to the foyer of the ballet where they socialized with the performers. But I reasoned he would never allow Raoul to become romantically involved with any of the chorus girls, or, at least, that’s what I was counting on.

  But, in either case, it made me realize I wasn’t alone in my attraction to Christine, and I couldn’t afford to be complacent about our peculiar relationship. I had to let her know just who I was and what my intentions were toward her. She had to know me, the man, before that handsome young boy could fulfill what I saw in his eyes when he looked at her. He wouldn’t be the first prominent and wealthy man to have his way with the feminine gender on the dark side of their gaily-lit world. When I looked at him and believed that was his aim, I hated him even more. I couldn’t allow anyone, and especially not a pompous aristocrat, to harm my Christine.