"You must be joking!" Meg’s voice hissed behind me.
"I heard M. Firmin myself," Lisbet answered. "There is no mistake."
"Heard what?" I inquired, turning over my shoulder to look at them.
"They have sold Box Five," Lisbet announced gravely.
"And not to just anyone," Meg added, "the Vicomte de Chagny!"
"What?" Abandoning the customary stage etiquette, I pulled aside the curtain a hairsbreadth and peered into the auditorium. Sure enough, a blonde-haired figure sat defiant as you please near the edge of the box, his mere presence in the forbidden region speaking volumes. I didn’t have any hope for a peaceful night before, but catastrophe seemed even more certain now.
Not that it appeared so from the first. The opening scene passed without incident, with the chorus lively as ever, and I had the leisure to reflect on the folly inherent in trouser roles. I’d never seen an actress who could make a convincing show of masculinity in such a part. Christine did try her best, but despite Carlotta’s scorn no amount of swaggering could conceal that natural daintiness.
But as the curtains closed again and stagehands swarmed to construct the Countess’ bedchamber, I felt the apprehension return in force. Carlotta’s first aria was approaching, and I again had the sense of that tense, heavy calm before a storm breaks…
The diva took the stage to thunderous applause, relishing the acclaim before she allowed the scene to proceed. Ostensibly her Countess was supposed to flirt with Seraphimo—now disguised as a maid—while trying to avoid the attentions of her old husband, but it was clear that the woman onstage cared for nothing save showing off her costume and voice. The display of narcissism only made me impatient, and by the time Carlotta entered the recitative prior to her aria my attention had wandered from the scene.
Sciocco, lo rido di, otherwise known as "The Laughter Song," is one of those arias that become the measure of every soprano, filled with long, difficult runs and a range that tests even the most talented voice. As such, Carlotta considered it one of the highlights of her repertoire. If I had been paying proper attention, I think I would have discerned what was to come, but I was caught off guard when real laughter—rich, mocking, and sensual—interrupted the finely constructed music, silencing Carlotta and sending everyone in the wings into confusion.
I dared to glance into the auditorium again. The audience was gazing in confusion at Box Five, which seemed to be the source of the ghostly sound, but the only visible occupant was clearly as bewildered as everyone else. He rose up, as if to exonerate himself from the disturbance. "What is the meaning of this?"
"I might ask you the same thing," Erik’s voice replied silkily, "since you’re intruding on my box." Even at the distance, I saw you go pale at that and glance behind you in terror. No, I don’t think you were in any real danger at that moment—indeed, I highly doubt that Erik was anywhere near the box at the time. He had a talent for ventriloquy, you see, which he used to very good effect that night.
"Dear God…dear God…" Christine’s voice was soft but audible, and her cheeks were the color of snow.
At that point, Carlotta made the worst mistake possible. She whirled on Christine and struck the girl on the cheek, the high crack echoing through the house. "You keep your mouth shut, you miserable toad!"
"Be careful, Signora," Erik said with terrible serenity. "Words such as those can come back to haunt you."
Carlotta shot a look of pure murder towards Box Five, puffing like a bellows. Then, with massive effort, she reined in her temper and addressed Louis. "Maestro, da capo prego…don’t gape at me, you idiot, do it!" The baffled conductor flipped hastily through his score and signaled the opening chord of the aria. Carlotta began again, clearly determined to continue through any further disruptions…never suspecting the next one would come from her own mouth.
CROAK.
The house went silent. Carlotta froze, her mouth still half-open as if it refused to believe such a sound had issued from it; for once in her life, the prima donna actually looked embarrassed. She tried to recover and continue the passage—but the toad sounded again, and again, until Carlotta clapped one hand over her mouth and fled the stage in shame, pursued by that resonant, scornful laugh.
The curtains dropped quickly, like a woman trying to cover her immodesty. The backstage susurrations returned, some voices raised in shock, while others—victims of Carlotta’s vanity—giggled maliciously. Through the disorder M. Firmin strode, manhandling a protesting Christine beside him.
"Don’t argue, just change your damn costume and get on with it! You—no, not you, the British girl, what’s your name? Elizabeth? Get out of that dress, you’ll be taking over Seraphimo…Mme. Giry! Get those rats of yours out on stage, we’ll give them the ballet while we sort this out…and wipe that smug look off your face! This isn’t funny!"
"Of course it isn’t," I said, hiding a smile behind my hand.
The dancers were not easy to get together—word of Carlotta’s humiliation had spread with amazing speed, and many girls were still trying to ferret out the truth when I pulled them from their gossip. But at last, a full troupe of country nymphs were springing and twirling across the stage, and I left them to pursue a familiar path through the dressing-room corridors.
I knocked on the door to Christine’s room and entered at once. She was in full costume as the Countess now, and would have looked exquisite if it weren’t for the miserable shame in her eyes. "I thought you might like some company," I said quietly.
She hesitated, her eyes flying to the mirror. "No, I don’t think he’s here," I continued in response to the unspoken question. "Erik may have a few tricks, but he’s yet to master being in two places at once."
"I can’t do it, Madame," Christine blurted out. "I can’t go out there…I won’t…."
"You must," I replied with gentle patience. "The show can’t continue without you."
"Only because he’s forcing them too! I don’t want it to be like this; it isn’t right…"
"Is it any more right that M. André had you cast as Seraphimo to placate Carlotta’s ego?"
"What?"
"Christine, why do you think you were given a silent role so soon after your triumph? Did you honestly believe anyone, even a pair of fools like Firmin and André, could be disappointed in you?" She blushed, and I realized this had been the case. "My dear, your talent is matchless," I pressed, taking her pale, wing-like hands in my own, "and because of that, Carlotta both hates and fears you. She knows that if you were given further opportunity to prove yourself, the sun would quickly set on her already-fading career. And she means to use every bit of influence she’s amassed to prevent that as long as possible."
She gnawed on her lip, eyes cast to the floor. "But if Erik hadn’t—"
"If he hadn’t humiliated Carlotta…well, the Vicomte de Chagny might have withdrawn his patronage—don’t blush, he was quite irritated with some of Carlotta’s remarks regarding you. Or perhaps another company would have offered you a better contract. Carlotta’s comeuppance would have come some way or another, and I must say I’m glad it came sooner rather than later."
"But that still doesn’t make it right!" she insisted.
I sighed. "You’re right, it doesn’t. I wish I could say things were fair, Christine; I wish I could tell you that everyone in the opera world would recognize your beautiful voice and natural kindness and love you for them. But that would be a lie. This is a harsh, ruthless business, and there will always be people who will do anything to hinder you, sometimes for no reason other than spite. But there will always be others who are willing to fight for you and with you, who will admire you for your talent and your integrity. That’s just how it is." I smiled wickedly. "Besides, I shall never forget the look on Carlotta’s face…"
A guilty laugh escaped Christine’s lips, and she covered her mouth in surprise. "I know it’s horrible, but I did feel a little smug when it happened…especially since she struck me. But still…"
"You felt sorry for her." She nodded. "I’m not saying you must become callous and deliberately cruel like Carlotta—indeed, I should not like you half so well if you did. But you must be aware of the machinations of this profession…and you must try to guard yourself as best you can." I glanced at my watch. "They’ll be needing you soon…shall I walk you to the stage?"
She nodded gravely, neither eager nor reluctant. Our stroll passed in silence, but before we entered the wings the sound of screams emerged from them, and a panicked crowd swallowed us as they fled the stage.
"What’s going on?" Christine pleaded, but I did not answer her. One of the voices raised in terror was entirely too familiar.
"Oh God—Meg!" And I was pushing and crushing against the mob in a desperate fight to get to the stage, my mind wiped clean of every thought save the need to find my daughter. Once in the wings, I paused only a second to register the garroted figure hanging from the catwalk before renewing my search with doubled terror, not resting until a trembling figure flung herself into my arms.
"My darling…thank the Lord…" I whispered into the dark mass of her wig. The other dancers were crowding around us like frightened chicks, crying out in distress. I forced my voice to remain even. "Come, girls, come with me…no, don’t look up…it’s all right, just stay close…don’t look…"
They obeyed without question, clinging together in pairs and groups, trying to comfort each other in feeble accents. As I herded them from the stage, I glanced over my shoulder at the corpse which seemed to overshadow the entire space, my heart leaden in my chest. Buquet, you damn fool, I warned you…Erik, what have you done?
I led the corps to the mirrored dance hall, and we huddled together in there like refugees in a foreign land. I tried to glean some knowledge of what had occurred from them, but no two girls could agree on what exactly happened. One said a great shadow swallowed the stage, leaving the body in its wake; another swore she’d seen Buquet wrestling with a man in evening clothes before becoming entangled in one of the ropes used to hoist the scenery. But the outcome was incontestable, and the sudden loss of a colleague—even one who some of them viewed with abhorrence—had left them shaken and alarmed. I went among the clusters of girls, offering reassuring words or a shoulder to cry upon. To them I was their bastion of strength, a rock to hold fast to in their uncertainty, and none of them new my heart was ripped and bruised inside me. My Erik had killed again, his beautiful, elegant hands stained with blood. I had known what he was capable of, I had always known…and yet in the aftermath of that terror I realized that some part of me had hoped he had renounced his violent nature. Now that hope was crushed, leaving me without the courage even to pray…
The knock on the door sounded like gunfire; everyone started and more than one voice lifted in alarm. I approached the door carefully, but my caution was proved needless by the sight of M. Firmin in the hallway.
"Ah, Mme. Giry," he said, his face ashen but his jaw set, "Is Mlle. Daaé with you by any chance?"
"No, I—oh dear…" Guiltily, I remembered that I had abandoned Christine when fear for my daughter’s safety consumed me. "I’m sorry, I haven’t seen her since…"
"No matter," he dismissed. "If she comes here, let her know that we’ll be proceeding with the performance once the company is gathered together."
"What?" Behind me, the dancers were expressing similar shock and dismay. "You can’t be serious!"
"I assure you, Madame, I am in earnest," he replied coldly.
"These girls are in no condition to perform after what they’ve just witnessed!" I raged, my misery igniting into fury.
"Then they damn well better get into condition! We have a business to run, Madame, and we’re not about to cancel the performance for a minor setback."
"Minor setback?" I echoed in disgust. "For God’s sake, a man is dead! Continuing the performance tonight would be an insult not only to his memory but to every other member of the company as well!"
"I won’t be lectured by a half-mad busybody!" Firmin roared, the veins of his neck standing in sharp relief. "Particularly one who does the bidding of the very lunatic determined to sabotage us!"
"You are a fool." My voice was icily calm, though I gripped my staff so tightly my knuckles turned white. "Canceling tonight’s performance has nothing to do with the Opera Ghost, and everything to do with common decency and courtesy. If you had any thought in your head beside the risk of a few refunds, you would realize that."
"Arrogant, meddlesome woman!" he puffed. "You should be thankful M. Avenaut was so adamant to have you act in his stead, as it’s the only thing preventing me from sacking you this instant. Good day!" He muttered under his breath all the way down the corridor.
"He can’t mean it," Lisbet said when Firmin had gone. "He can’t expect us to…"
"I’m afraid he does," I replied sadly, gazing tenderly over my girls. "The damn fool is so out of his mind with the thought of losing any money he’s blinded to everything else." I paused to collect myself. "It is one of the truths of our art that we must perform under all circumstances, joy and sorrow, friendship and enmity. But I understand that there are limits to what one can endure. I won’t lie to you—if you choose not to go on tonight, it’s almost certain that decision will bring an end to your career at the Palais Garnier. However…should you decide that you cannot or will not work under these conditions, then you may go with my blessing and my promise to do what I can for you."
In the end, all but two dancers chose to remain—the deserters were fired by Firmin, of course, but it was an empty gesture on his part and both found new positions within a few months. The rest did their best to collect themselves, putting on brave faces and bold postures to conceal their misery and fear. As they were making ready, a commotion arose outside the studio doors. "What now?" Meg wondered, her voice quavering.
"Wait here," I told them. "Someone will come for you when it’s time to go on."
There was a small crowd in the hallway near one of the staircases; above their heads I could see Christine’s face, and beside it your own. "Of course," she was saying, her words steady, "I shall be ready as soon as you require me."
"Excellent!" André’s voice declared from the throng. "Then we’ll start as soon as everyone’s gathered together. Monsieur le Vicomte…under the circumstances, perhaps it would be best if you viewed the remainder of the performance from our box…"
"Certainly." Your voice was surprisingly cheerful, and I drew closer, taking care to remain undiscovered. I watched as you murmured something to Christine, then bent to kiss her hand. I saw her smile at you, her eyes shining with affection if not necessarily passion. And a vast terror consumed me, filling my existence. I’ve never believed in clairvoyance, save perhaps in the prophets of old, and you know that any ability of omniscience I might have displayed was pure artifice. Yet the sight of Christine and yourself together in tender, innocent adoration struck me as an omen of doom, making me aware of a portent so great and dark it could neither be hidden nor ignored. I closed my eyes on that scene, unable to watch for anger and apprehension, then retreated to my office like a dying animal returning to its lair.
Alone in the dark of that musty room I brooded over a mixture of anguish, bitterness, and concern for a long time, ignorant of the continued performance above me. And so, I did not see when it happened. But I heard—heard the splintering crash of wood, metal, and glass; heard the thunder of terrified flight and the wordless wail of hundreds of voices that drew me to the stage to gaze at Christine’s swooning form, the grotesque mask of terror on every face….And finally, the broken tangle of metalwork that had once been the chandelier, lying like Icarus in the crater of the stalls, the floor strewn with shattered crystal…then my legs failed me and I fell against the portcullis, my sobs joining the chorus of sorrow.
There were tears enough that night, but while most wept in pain or terror or distress I wept for him: for the brilliant and remarkable man lost to his own grief and hatred, for a soul which had been driven one step too far and now might never return from that inner darkness.
I wept because I realized—far too late—that I loved him.
Go on to Chapter 21
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