The Angel of the Opera

by Sam Siciliano

  “Come away from here.”

  He slipped away from my grip, then shrugged. “Very well.”

  The sacristy door was clear of bones, and I noticed the beautiful carved design: long, straight tree trunks rose, their branches interweaving near the stone arch framing the top. “Look at this design, Sherlock. Those tree limbs are what you would expect of Celtic Druids, not Christians.”

  “The boundary between Druid and Christian is ephemeral in Brittany. Christianity rose out of the Celtic past, no doubt incorporating many of its traditions.”

  “I say–I’ve found it!” the Viscount cried. We walked through the snow to him. He pointed at a pathetically small tombstone. “It is the grave of Christine’s father.” Some red silk flowers had been placed there, the bright color jarring, vibrant, against the bleak whites, grays, blacks, and browns of the landscape.

  Holmes took out his watch. “It is nearly four-thirty. Henry and I shall hide behind the menhir. The air is quite still, the hill sheltering us from the wind off the sea. We should be able to easily hear you. See if you can discover anything about her teacher and her recent success. And, Monsieur de Chagny...”

  “Yes?”

  “Be gentle with the girl. Curb your emotions and listen to her with an open heart. Jealousy is the most unpleasant of sentiments.”

  The Viscount nodded, but his lips drew back petulantly. Again it was difficult to believe he was so old as twenty-one.

  We walked uphill, and Holmes and I stood behind the menhir. I stared up at the dark expanse set against the blue-white sky.

  “I suppose,” Sherlock said, “that as it has stood for a few thousand years, it will manage to stand for another hour or two.”

  I shivered and stamped my feet. “Did you really need to mention that? I wonder how many tons it weighs. Good Lord, it is cold. Once the sun is down...”

  “Raoul!” a voice exclaimed.

  Sherlock seized my arm and drew me back. “The lady is prompt,” he whispered.

  “Christine–ah, Christine!” The Viscount’s tenor voice was piercing; we should have no difficulty hearing him.

  “Are you waiting for the korrigans to come out? See where the last rays of the sun touch the water? It will not be long. Why did you come, Raoul? You should not have.”

  “You wished for me to come–admit you did. You sent me that note knowing full well that it would draw me to your side.”

  “I... I do not know what I meant. I remembered our childhood and our time together. I remembered... that we had been fond of one another.”

  “Then why did you send me away the night of the gala? Why have you refused to see me?”

  A long silence followed. Holmes peered out from behind the granite, and I stepped beside him. The Viscount and Christine were just below the summit of the hill, and she was staring down at the graveyard.

  “You do not answer me. Very well, I shall tell you why. You were hiding another man there! I heard you say, ‘Tonight I gave you my soul, and I am dead!’”

  “You heard that! You were listening at my door, Monsieur de Chagny? How dare you? How dare you!” Her voice rang with fury.

  “I dared because–because I love you! I love you, Christine, with all my heart. I heard him–I heard what he said.”

  Christine drew back. “You heard...? What did you hear?” She spoke softly, but the icy air was clear and still, a vast primeval silence all around us.

  “I heard him say, ‘Christine, you must love me!’”

  Her hand shot out and seized his arm. “You heard? You heard that?”

  “Yes!”

  “What else did you hear?” Her voice had grown strangely quiet.

  “I heard you say, ‘I sing for you alone.’ You alone.” De Chagny’s voice quavered.

  Sherlock gave his head a brisk shake, and I heard him mutter, “Fool.”

  “Then he said, ‘Your soul is a beautiful thing. The angels wept tonight.’”

  She turned away from him. Holmes and I darted back behind the menhir. “You heard that? You heard him speak? His words?”

  “Yes–yes!”

  Again silence, then the soft sound of the wind swelling. The sky was darker, the cold worse. I wiggled my toes inside my boots.

  “Very well, Monsieur. I shall tell you something very serious, but first I must have your promise you will never speak a word of this to anyone.”

  “You have my word of honor as a gentleman.”

  “Do you remember... the Angel of Music?”

  “The what?”

  “Surely you cannot have forgotten him? Remember the stories my dear father told us? Remember Little Lotte? ‘Little Lotte thought of everything and nothing. Her hair was gold like the sun, her soul as clear as her blue eyes. She was kind to her dolly, but most of all she loved, when she went to sleep, to hear the Angel of Music.’”

  “Christine, whatever has this to do with us–with our love?”

  “You cannot have forgotten the Angel of Music?”

  “No, of course not. I remember him well.” He was sarcastic.

  “All of father’s stories involved the Angel of Music. He chooses a few special people and whispers into their ears. He gives them his great gift, the gift of music. Only his chosen ones have that genius, that magnificent fire, which moves men’s souls, that fire which transforms and ennobles, making music divine–celestial.”

  “What on earth are you talking about? What is this nonsense?”

  Again her hand reached out to seize his arm. “Can you not understand? Must I spell out everything! I have heard him–the Angel, the Angel of Music.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me! The Angel has spoken to me–not once, but many times! He has taken me under his great golden wings and made me into what I am. Do you think that the poor little Christine Daaé you once knew could sing as I have sung? I have been melted away and re-forged in his sacred fire.”

  The Viscount appeared utterly perplexed. “Perhaps... You were inspired, Christine, your singing magnificent. Who... who else has heard him?”

  “Why, you did. That was his voice in my room.”

  De Chagny stepped back, then laughed weakly.

  “What are you laughing at! You thought... Now I begin to understand you, Monsieur le Vicomte, my old playmate, my father’s trusted friend! How you have changed! I do not shut myself into rooms with strange men. If you had opened the door, you would have found no one there!”

  He nodded. “That is true. After you left I searched, but no one was there.”

  “You searched? You went into my dressing room?”

  “Yes, but...”

  “So what now, Monsieur–what do you think of me now?”

  He hesitated. “I think someone is playing you for a fool.”

  She pulled her glove free and slapped him hard with her bare white hand. The impact of the blow broke the stillness, the silence of that snowy hillside near the sea. She turned and swept past him, her dark silhouette briefly showing at the hill top, minute beside that of the great oak, and then she was gone.

  “Christine,” the Viscount moaned. He touched his face where she had slapped him.

  Sherlock shook his head. “He is incorrigible, Henry. I wish we had not had to overhear this, although what she said was quite valuable. Come.”

  I was only too glad to be moving again. The snow had turned slightly crunchy under our feet. I stared out past the graveyard and the church at the bare, lonely fields in the distance. A huge full moon had just risen, the parting sun giving it an eerie yellow-orange hue.

  “You heard, Monsieur Holmes–you heard what she said? An Angel of Music. How am I to take such nonsense?”

  “Take it as you wish.” Holmes strode past him.

  The Viscount’s youthful face was totally confused, the imprint of Christine Daaé’s hand still a vivid red on his cheek. He was close to tears, and I actually felt sorry for him. “It was a very odd story,” I said. “Come, Monsieur le Vicomte, we will freez
e out here. I am ready for a hot supper and the fire.”

  However, when we returned to the inn, the Viscount would not join us for supper but stalked off to his room. He had missed lunch and breakfast as well. Sherlock had little to say as we ate stewed mutton and dark bread, peasant fare which tasted absolutely wonderful.

  “What did you make of her story about the Angel of Music?” I asked him.

  “She believes in him absolutely, and the appearances are on her side. How else can one explain her spectacular rise?”

  “Surely you do not believe in angels?”

  “I have met many an angel and a devil.”

  “You have?” I smiled. “You are speaking metaphorically.”

  “Perhaps.”

  He would comment no further. I left him sitting by the hearth watching the flames crackle about the pile of logs, his pipe in hand. He was ready for some serious thinking while I was ready for some serious sleeping. I lay down on the bed, still clothed, and fell asleep at once. The moon rose above a snowy graveyard, the wind howling in vain at the great black oak. Out over the waters, strange faery shapes gathered, their naked white limbs cold and faintly bluish. As the korrigans began to dance, a long row of yellow skulls leered at the show.

  Someone shook me. “Henry–Henry.”

  I opened my eyes and had to think before I could recall why Holmes’s face had a big mustache. He had on his overcoat, and behind him was the Viscount, pale and weary. “Christine Daaé has gone out, Henry. Do you wish to accompany us?”

  I sat up. “What an absurd question. What time is it, two or three in the morning?”

  “Eleven-thirty.”

  “I must have slept for an hour or two.” I sighed. “Well, as Watson would no doubt come, I must not be outdone by him.”

  Holmes smiled. “You are a worthy companion.” I put on my heavy coat and followed them. “I was sitting by the fire,” Holmes said, “and I noticed her slip out a few minutes ago.”

  No one else was up, and the main door was not locked. Bretons tended to be abed early. Outside the full moon was brilliant, the blue-white light bathing the snow and casting shadows. I had never seen so bright and clear a night, nor so cold a one. I gazed at the bareheaded Viscount. “Good Lord, man–get a hat.”

  “There is no time for that. Where can she have gone?”

  “To the graveyard, no doubt. Ah yes, here are her tracks.” Holmes pointed with his walking stick. “The earlier tracks are partly frozen over and obscured, but these are sharp and distinct. The pointed toes are characteristic of the fashionable Parisienne boots which no other women at the inn are wearing.”

  Even a novice consulting detective like myself could have followed Christine Daaé’s tracks that night. Their shape was unmistakable, and her feet were remarkably small. I had never much cared for fur coats, but by the time we reached the hill top with the black oak, I was wishing for one. Such clear cold weather was unusual here along the Breton coast, clouds, mist, and drizzle being the usual fare.

  We gathered near the tree, sheltering ourselves from the wind. The moon was higher now, and the church, the menhir, the tombstones and crosses cast sharp blue-black shadows. Below us, Christine Daaé stood with her hands folded, her head bowed, before a small headstone. De Chagny stepped forward, but Sherlock seized his arm. “No,” he whispered. “This is no affair of ours. We should leave her to her thoughts.”

  “But...” the Viscount began.

  Christine moved, turning. Sherlock pulled the Viscount back against the tree and put his hand over the youth’s mouth. I flattened myself against the rough bark. The wind moaned softly. The tree must have hidden us, for Christine turned away.

  Sherlock was several inches taller than the Viscount, and the way he held him, one hand over his mouth, reminded me of a father restraining a spiteful child. “Will you keep silent, Monsieur le Vicomte?”

  De Chagny’s eyes were angry, but he nodded. Holmes released him. From the village a mile or two away, we heard the dim chime of the clock tower twelve times. As the sound faded into nothingness, another began, almost growing out of the other–music, the most incredible music I have ever heard–a violin, the melody beginning softly, sadly, but swelling, its power and intensity apparent. The strain was sorrowful, but romantically so, its beauty almost painful. The Viscount sprang forward, but Holmes grabbed him and again clamped a hand over his mouth.

  The music lasted only a few minutes, but it seemed much longer, as if somehow time were frozen, as if the universe were centered on that moonlit graveyard and its magical harmony. Christine Daaé had sunk down onto her knees. Sherlock did not move. I could see that he was absolutely transfixed, his eyes revealing something of the passions at the core of him. Even the Viscount had stopped wriggling.

  The music faded, finally drifting away on a long shimmering note even as a soul passes from this world into the next, and then there was only the faint murmur of the wind and the blue-white light of the moon on the snow all around us. Christine Daaé sobbed and buried her face in her hands. The Viscount jerked forward, but Holmes had him in his iron grasp. We stared at each other, and although we were in the shadow of the tree, I thought I saw tears in my cousin’s eyes.

  Christine stood at last. “Merci,” she said, then made the sign of the cross. She turned away and walked slowly across the graveyard, back toward the path to the inn. Again the Viscount tried in vain to escape. When Christine Daaé had gone, Holmes released him.

  “This is outrageous, Monsieur Holmes–you will keep your hands off me or suffer the consequences!”

  Holmes was still under the hold of the music. He sagged back against the tree. “Perhaps... perhaps there is an Angel of Music.”

  “Here–he is here?–I shall deal with him.” De Chagny started down the hill.

  I took a step after him, but Holmes grasped my arm. “Let him be.”

  “What was that music?” I asked.

  “You felt it, too?”

  “Yes. How could anyone resist it?”

  “Ask the Viscount.”

  “Did you recognize the tune?”

  “Yes. It was a simple folk ballad, ‘The Resurrection of Lazarus.’ Someone must have played that music, but what a genius! I have never heard his equal. Sarasate is good, but this... I would give my soul to play like that. Henry, you did hear it?”

  “Of course I did.”

  “We had better follow the Viscount. Perhaps Paganini could have played that way, but he was full of tricks and mere virtuosity. Some did believe Paganini had sold his soul to the devil. It is, however, far harder to play a simple tune so expressively than some wild caprice.” We had passed the menhir, its black shape blotting out the starry night.

  “Come out and face me!” cried the Viscount. “I know you are there!” He stood in the shadow before the sacristy door and the heaps of bones. Something white flew at him. He shrieked and leapt, briefly dancing in the air. Another skull, and yet another flew at him, and then an entire pile of bones collapsed and tumbled toward him. A dark shape briefly showed itself, then vanished behind another pile of bones.

  “I have you now!” de Chagny shouted. He lunged forward. The sacristy door was open, and he snatched at the shadow, then vanished into the dark entrance.

  Holmes and I ran the last few feet. My boot struck a skull and kicked it aside as if it were a ball. A high shrill scream tore open the night’s calm surface. I recognized the Viscount’s voice.

  Because my lungs were unsullied by tobacco smoke, I reached the arch of the stone doorway before Holmes. Inside, the moonlight came through a big stained glass window, flooding the dark granite altar with shards of strange light, ghostly hues which all tended toward gray, parodies only of color. The Viscount was on his knees. The black shape darted among the shadows at the far end of the church, then the front door opened, a brief burst of moonlight showing.

  De Chagny stood and swayed wildly. I grabbed his shoulders with my hands. Mottled light from the window blotched his face
, but I could see his terror. “He was dead–dead–his face a death’s head!” He collapsed, slipping free of my hands.

  I knelt on the cold ground. Like many old churches, this one had no real floor, only the dark Breton soil stamped smooth and hard by many feet. The Viscount’s eyes were closed, his face and hands nearly as chill as the earth. Holmes stood beside me, a tall silent presence.

  “He has fainted, and no wonder!” I said. “He has had nothing to eat the entire day, and it is very cold and late. He seems determined to contract pneumonia. He did have something of a shock. I wonder... Would you care to follow whoever went out the front of the church?”

  “No, Henry.”

  “I cannot say I blame you. Something gave our friend here a good scare, and although I am not particularly superstitious, I would not relish chasing some dead fellow through the night.”

  “I am not afraid. I only... He gave us the gift of his music, something which I shall always treasure. I shall not go chasing after him as if he were some common thief. Besides, do you intend to carry the Viscount back by yourself?”

  “He appears rather light.”

  Holmes laughed. “Come, Henry. You take his shoulders and stay to the rear while I grab his feet.” We hoisted him up, Sherlock grasping his ankles on either side, the Viscount’s legs straddling him from behind. “Let us proceed via the sacristy door.” He swung about that way and I followed.

  The moonlight was so bright that I blinked my eyes as we walked through the dazzling white snow between the granite tombstones. It was quiet now, the graveyard still and silent, the only sounds that of the snow crunching underfoot and of our labored breathing.

  “You might have caught him, Sherlock–the Angel, that is–the Angel of Music with the death’s head.”

  “I know, Henry. Another time I may be sorry for it, but tonight I am not. Not here, not now.”

  His voice was sad, and I shared his sadness. The music had been such a wonder, such a mystery, the night entirely transformed, but now all that was finished. We came to the end of the tombstones and left the graveyard behind us. The music and the moment were gone, only a dim echo of its beauty remaining in my mind, an echo which would grow fainter and fainter. I might hear that music again in my dreams, but during my waking hours it would only be a feeble memory of a beauty that could never be reclaimed.