Philippe spoiled Raoul. In the first place, he was very proud of his younger brother and happily predicted a great future for him in the navy in which one of their forebears, the celebrated Chagny de La Roche, had held the rank of Admiral. He used Raoul’s leave to show him the sights of Paris, because Raoul knew almost nothing about what the capital had to offer in the way of fine living and artistic pleasures.
The Count took the view that at Raoul’s age, being a goody-goody wasn’t altogether a good thing. He himself was level-headed, took his pleasures as soberly as he approached his work, always behaved impeccably, and was incapable of setting his brother a bad example. He took him everywhere, even to the foyer of the corps de ballet. I know of course that people said the Count was ‘very close’ to La Sorelli. But surely no one would criticize a gentleman who was single and therefore had lots of leisure time on his hands, especially now that his sisters had been suitably provided for, and begrudge him the right to spend a few hours, after dinner, in the company of a dancer who might not be particularly clever but had the prettiest eyes imaginable? Besides, there are places where a true Parisian, when he holds the rank of Count de Chagny, must be seen, and in those days the foyer of the corps de ballet was one of them.*
But maybe Philippe would not have taken his brother backstage at the National Academy of Music if Raoul had not been first, and more than once, to suggest it with a gentle insistence which the Count would subsequently remember.
The night of the concert, after cheering Christine Daaé, Philippe had turned to Raoul and was shocked to see how pale he looked.
‘Can’t you see?’ Raoul had said. ‘She’s been taken ill!’
It was true. On stage, Christine had to be supported.
‘You’re the one who looks as if you’re about to faint,’ said the Count, turning to Raoul. ‘What’s wrong with you?’
But Raoul was already on his feet.
‘Come on,’ he said. His voice shook.
‘Where are you going, Raoul?’ said the Count, surprised by the emotion that had gripped his brother.
‘Let’s go and see what the matter is! She’s never sung like that before!’
The Count stared at his brother and then his mouth relaxed into a faint, amused smile.
‘Very well,’ he said, adding: ‘Come on then!’
He looked delighted.
Moments later they were at the entrance reserved for the season-ticket holders. It was crammed. As he waited to get through to the stage, Raoul absently worried at his gloves. Philippe, who had a kind heart, did not make jokes about his impatience. But now he knew. He knew why Raoul’s mind seemed elsewhere whenever he spoke to him and also why he seemed so keen to bring every topic of conversation back to the Opera.
They stepped on to the stage.
A crush of men in evening dress pushed their way towards the foyer of the corps de ballet or made for the performers’ dressing rooms. The shouts of the scene-shifters mingled with the orders barked by their gaffers. The hustle and bustle of the stage between acts—extras from the end-of-half finale troop off, small-part dancers barge past you, a flat is moved, a backcloth descends from the flies, a scenery door is hammered into shape, the never-ending ‘mind your backs!’ rings in your ears bringing an imminent threat of disaster to your topper or a solid dig in the small of the back—it’s uproar and it never fails to disconcert novices like the man with the small, blond moustache, blue eyes and girlish complexion as he fought his way as fast as he could through the traffic jam and across the stage on which Christine Daaé had just scored a triumph and beneath which Joseph Buquet had just died.
That night, the chaos had never been so complete, but Raoul had never been less shy. Using his solid shoulder, he brushed aside anybody and anything that got in his way, paying no attention to the comments people made around him, and not even trying to understand what the flustered stagehands were saying. All he wanted was to see the woman whose magical voice had pierced his heart. Yes, he had the feeling that his poor, untried heart no longer belonged to him. He had tried, truly he had, to keep up his defences from the first moment Christine, whom he had known since she was a little girl, had come back into his life. In her presence he had felt sweet emotions which he had thought about and tried to chase away, for his self-respect and his religious upbringing had made him swear to love no woman except the one who would become his wife, and naturally there was no question that he should ever think of marrying a singer. But then those sweet emotions had been followed by a terrible sensation. Was it a sensation or was it a feeling? It was half physical, half emotion. He had an ache in his chest, as though someone had cut it open and removed his heart. It felt hollow, as if it were an empty space which could never be filled except by another heart. These are psychological symptoms of a particular kind which are said to be comprehensible only to those who have been similarly smitten and been struck by that strange lightning bolt called in common parlance: love at first sight.
Count Philippe had difficulty keeping up with him. The smile was still on his face.
Backstage, as Raoul walked through the double-door which opens on to both the stairs that lead to the foyer and the steps to the orchestra boxes on the left of the stage, he was forced to give way to a covey of small-part dancers who had just swooped down from their dressing room high in the attics and were blocking his path. Saucy remarks were directed at him by painted mouths, but he paid no attention. Eventually, he was able to go on his way and proceeded down a dark corridor which rang with the cries of enthusiastic admirers. One name rose above all the rest: Daaé! Daaé! The Count, who had now caught up, muttered: ‘The young devil! He knows the way!’ and wondered how he’d managed it. He’d never taken Raoul to see Christine in her dressing room. So presumably he’d been there by himself while the Count was in the foyer chatting as usual with La Sorelli. She often got him to stay by her side until the moment she made her entrance and sometimes she made him hold the little leggings she wore on her way down the stairs from her dressing room to make sure that her satin dancing shoes stayed shiny and her flesh-coloured tights did not get dirty. La Sorelli always had a good excuse: she had no mother to do it for her.
Temporarily putting off the time when he was due to see La Sorelli, the Count made his way down the gallery that led to Christine Daaé’s dressing room. He’d never seen the corridor as full of people as it was on that evening when the whole theatre seemed as overwhelmed by the soprano’s success as they were shocked by her collapse. Indeed, she had yet to come round. Meantime the house doctor, who had been sent for, now arrived, pushing his way through the crowd with Raoul hard on his heels.
The doctor and the lover reached Christine’s side at the same moment, so that she was treated by the former and opened her eyes in the arms of the latter. The Count remained by the door with all the others.
‘Doctor, don’t you think it would be an idea if these gentlemen moved back and cleared the lady’s dressing room?’ asked Raoul, with surprising boldness. ‘There’s no air in here.’
‘You are absolutely right,’ agreed the doctor, and he shooed everyone away except for Raoul and the maid.
The maid stared at Raoul with an expression of total bewilderment. She had never set eyes on him before.
But she did not dare ask him who he was and what he was doing there.
The doctor simply assumed that if the young man behaved the way he did it was because he was perfectly entitled to. And so Raoul was able to stay on in Christine’s dressing room and watch her regain consciousness while the two directors, Messrs Debienne and Poligny, who had come to offer their congratulations, were kept waiting outside in the corridor with the rest of the gentlemen in evening clothes. The Count de Chagny, who had been banished to the corridor with the rest, laughed uproariously.
‘Of all the cunning… The foxy devil!’ he said, adding in an undertone: ‘You can’t trust these callow youths who come over all innocent any further than you can throw’em!’
> He beamed and delivered his verdict: ‘He’s a true Chagny!’ and headed off towards La Sorelli’s dressing room. But at that moment the ballerina was leading her trembling flock down the stairs. It was then that the Count met her on his way up, as we already know.
Meanwhile, in her dressing room, Christine Daaé gave a deep sigh which was immediately answered by a soft moan. She turned her head, saw Raoul and started. She looked at the doctor and smiled at him, then at her maid and then at Raoul again.
‘Oh!’ she said to him in a voice that was little more than a whisper, ‘who are you?’
‘I, Mademoiselle,’ answered Raoul putting one knee on the floor and dropping an ardent kiss on the diva’s hand, ‘I am the little boy who once ran into the sea to rescue your scarf.’
Christine looked at the doctor and again at her maid and all three burst out laughing. Raoul stood up, blushing.
‘Since you seem set on not recognizing me, I would like to say something to you in private. It’s very important.’
‘Perhaps when I’m feeling a little better, if that’s all right with you,’ she said in a voice that shook. ‘You are very kind.’
‘But you must go now,’ added the doctor with his most twinkling smile. ‘Leave me to look after the patient.’
‘I’m not ill,’ Christine broke in suddenly with a vivacity as strange as it was unexpected.
And with a rapid movement of one hand over her eyes, she got to her feet.
‘Thank you, doctor… I would like to be alone… I want you all to go away, please… Leave me… I’m feeling very tense this evening.’
The doctor tried to object for a moment but given the patient’s agitated mood he reckoned the best treatment for her state was not to cross her. He left with Raoul who, outside in the corridor, felt very much at a loss.
‘I hardly recognized her tonight…’ said the doctor, ‘she’s normally such a sweet-tempered young woman…’
And off he went, leaving Raoul alone in a part of the theatre which was now completely deserted.
By now, everyone should be making their way to the leaving ceremony in the foyer of the corps de ballet. Raoul thought that perhaps La Daaé would be going too, so he waited in the empty, silent corridor. He backed into the shadow of a convenient doorway. He could still feel that aching emptiness where his heart should have been. That was what he wanted to talk to La Daaé about, urgently. Suddenly her dressing-room door opened and he saw the maid emerge alone with a number of bundles. He stopped her as she passed and asked for news of her mistress. She laughed and said her mistress was quite well, thank you, but she wasn’t to be disturbed because she wanted to be left on her own. Then she ran off. An idea flashed into Raoul’s fevered brain. It was obvious: La Daaé wanted to be alone for him! Hadn’t he said he particularly wanted a word in private and didn’t that explain why she’d ordered everybody away? Hardly daring to breathe, he crept towards her dressing room, put one ear against the door so that he would hear her reply and was about to knock… But he let his hand fall. He had just made out, inside the room, the voice of a man, a commanding voice, and it was saying:
‘Christine, you must love me!’
Then Christine’s pained voice—you could hear the tears in it—said tremblingly:
‘How can you say that? I sing only for you!’
Cut to the quick, Raoul leaned against the door panel for support. His heart, which he’d thought was gone for good, was suddenly back in his chest and beating loudly in his ears. The whole corridor pulsated with it and his ears were almost deafened by the sound. If his heart went on making such a racket surely someone would hear, open the door and he would be ignominiously sent packing. How mortifying for a Chagny! Caught listening at keyholes! He squeezed his chest with both hands to silence his heart. But a heart isn’t the same as the jaws of a dog, though even when you’ve got a dog’s jaws in both hands—a dog that just won’t stop barking—you can still hear it growling.
The man’s voice resumed:
‘You must be exhausted.’
‘Tonight I gave you my soul and I am dead.’
‘You have a beautiful soul, my dear,’ went on the deep voice, ‘and I thank you for it. No emperor was ever given so great a gift! Tonight the angels wept!’
After those words: Tonight the angels wept! Raoul heard no more.
But he did not leave. Instead, as if he feared detection, he went back to his shadowy doorway determined to stay there until the man left Christine’s dressing room. In a single moment he had just learned the meaning of both love and hate. He knew he was in love. He now wanted to know who he hated. To his astonishment, the door opened and Christine appeared, wrapped in furs and her face hidden by a veil. She was alone. She closed the door behind her but Raoul observed that she did not lock it. She walked past him. He did not watch her go but kept his eyes fixed on the door which stayed shut. When the corridor was empty once more, he moved down it. He opened the dressing-room door and closed it behind him. He found himself in total darkness. The gaslight had been extinguished.
‘I know you’re in here,’ said Raoul resolutely. ‘Why are you hiding?’
He spoke the words keeping his back pressed hard against the door.
Darkness and silence. All Raoul could hear was the sound of his own breathing. He was quite oblivious of the fact that his behaviour was far more reckless than anyone would believe possible.
‘You will leave here only when I say so!’ he cried. ‘If you don’t answer, then you are a coward! But I’ll see your face!’
And he struck a match. The flame illuminated the room. There was no one there! Taking good care to lock the door, he lit the gaslights and the oil lamps. He looked in the inside closet, opened cupboards, searched everywhere, felt the walls with clammy hands. He found nothing!
‘It can’t be!’ he said aloud, ‘am I going out of my mind?’
He stayed as he was for ten minutes, listening to the hissing of the gas in the quiet of the deserted dressing room. He was in love, yet it never occurred to him to purloin a ribbon which would enable him to take the fragrance of the woman he loved away with him. Finally he left, not knowing what he was doing or where he was going. There came a point in his mindless wandering when he felt an icy blast strike his face. He was at the bottom of a narrow staircase. Behind him a number of workmen were struggling down the stairs carrying a stretcher of sorts covered with a white sheet.
‘Could you tell me which is the way out, please?’ he said to one of the men.
‘Just there, squire! Across the way from where you are,’ was the answer. ‘The door’s open. But make way now…’
Gesturing towards the stretcher, Raoul asked without thinking:
‘What have you got there?’
‘That there’, the workman replied, ‘is Joseph Buquet. He was found hanging by his neck three levels down, between a flat and a backdrop from Le Roi de Lahore.’
Raoul stepped back to make way for the procession, nodded his respects and left.
CHAPTER 3
In which Messrs Debienne and Poligny, for the first time, secretly make the Opera’s new Directors, Messrs Armand Moncharmin and Firmin Richard, party to their real, hidden reason for resigning from the National Academy of Music
MEANTIME, the farewell ceremony was under way.
As I have explained, the evening’s magnificent concert had been arranged by Messrs Debienne and Poligny to mark their departure from the Opera. They wanted what we would now call a ‘first-class send-off’.
In choosing the ideal valedictory programme they had been advised by everybody who was someone in the world of society and the arts who had now foregathered in the foyer of the corps de ballet. La Sorelli, a glass of champagne in her hand and the little speech she had prepared on the tip of her tongue, was waiting for the outgoing Directors to arrive. Behind her, the senior and junior girls of the corps de ballet were huddled in a group, some talking in whispers about the day’s events and the rest winking and wa
ving covertly to their friends who had begun to congregate in a chattering crowd around the buffet supper which had been set up on the sloping floor between the War Dance and the Country Dance, both by M. Boulanger.*
A few of the dancers had already changed into their everyday clothes, most were still wearing their gauzy net skirts, but all had decided they should behave in a manner suitable to the occasion. Only little Jammes, full of her fifteen carefree summers—Oh happy days!—seemed to have forgotten all about the ghost and the death of Joseph Buquet and went on prattling, chattering, fidgeting and playing the fool to such a degree that when Messrs Debienne and Poligny finally appeared on the foyer steps, she was told to behave herself in no uncertain terms by La Sorelli who finally lost patience.
Everyone noticed how cheerful the outgoing Directors looked. Now, in the provinces, this would have seemed not at all appropriate. But in Paris it was considered to be in the best possible taste. No one can become properly Parisian until he or she has learned to put a happy face on their troubles and erect a façade of misery, worry and indifference to mask inner happiness. If you know that one of your friends has problems, don’t try to comfort him, he’ll only tell you there’s no need. But if something good happens to him, never congratulate him; he is so convinced his good luck is his due that he’s surprised anyone should bother even to mention it. Paris is one huge masked ball and people as much ‘in the swim’ as Messrs Debienne and Poligny were not likely to choose the foyer of the corps de ballet to display their worries which were real enough. They were already grinning far too broadly at La Sorelli who had just begun her little speech when a cry from that minx, the irrepressible Jammes, wiped the smiles off the faces of both Directors so suddenly that the utter dismay and panic which they concealed were brutally exposed for all to see:
‘The Ghost!’
Jammes had spoken the words in a tone of unutterable horror. Her finger pointed into the crowd of men in evening clothes and picked out a face so pale, so grim, so repulsive, with black holes set so deeply in the hollow eye sockets, that what looked like a death’s head became an instant, overwhelming success.
The Phantom of the Opera (Oxford World's Classics) Page 6
