"It’s just so marvelous!" she confessed giddily, examining herself from every possible angle. It was a fine costume, I must admit. She perfectly captured the goddess of the spring in her early innocence: a flowing white dress leaving her arms enticingly bare to the shoulders, flowers braided in her upswept hair and molded in the gold belt around her waist, the mask on her face smiling with a blithe dream. "I think I could fool anyone tonight."
"You could never fool me, no matter how hard you tried." I stepped behind her and took in the effect of my own raiment. While Meg embodied Persephone in the time before her abduction by Hades, I portrayed her mother in its aftermath: robed in a gown of black with sober, flowing sleeves, a veil of the same color draped over a gold crown fashioned like entwined strands of wheat, and the sorrowing mask of tragedy which I held before my face on a handle like a lorgnette. The somber image felt apt to the misery that had encompassed me for the past several months.
"Oh really?" The merry mask seemed to laugh at me. "You truly think you’d know me in any disguise?"
"Some things about you cannot be concealed by any mask or costume," I said fondly. "The way you move, the shape of your hands, your laugh…there are a thousand ways I would know you without ever laying eyes on your face." I tilted the mask away from my face and lay a kiss on the papier-mâché which covered her own. "Shall we go?"
We arrived at the Opera fashionably late, so a prodigious din had been achieved by the time we stepped into the gilded hall. The crowd was magnified by the mirrors which lined the walls, twirling and seething in a restless cauldron of life. The air was acrid with the smells of champagne and perspiration, and the lively airs of the musicians mingled with the animated blur of conversation in a delightful cacophony.
"Welcome, oh flowers of Olympus!" I recognized M. André’s voice and extravagant tongue. I started when I saw his attire; he had come disguised as a skeleton, one in an outrageously elaborate opera cloak and hat. "Blessed are we to have the goddesses of old grace our revels," he continued, bowing in a clumsy manner that betrayed the amount of alcohol he’d already consumed. "Come, share a cup with the poor mortals of this sphere!"
Meg giggled at this ridiculous display, and my mask hid a smile. Surely André’s greeting would not have been so warm if he knew to whom he spoke…
A gallant knight soon swept my daughter off into the dance, and I watched her go with a mixture of fondness and apprehension. There was always a great deal of reprehensible behavior at these masques, but Meg was at the age where I would have to learn to trust her own judgment. I skirted the edge of the hall, taking in the sight before me. Many of the costumes were so cleverly constructed I could not guess at the wearer’s name, but I recognized more than a few people…
The glitter of a paste tiara caught my eye, and my eyes followed it to the sight of a couple who might have stepped out of an illustration from Grimm’s Fairy Tales. The woman in the silvery-white gown was a picture of ethereal beauty even with her mask, and her partner cut a fine figure in his royal uniform and blonde hair which shone like Phoebus’ rays. I drew closer to them, but in the noise of the crowd could not hear whatever endearments they whispered into each other’s ears. I waited at a distance until the prince left his companion with a courtly kiss on the hand, then approached the girl, ostensibly seeking a glass of champagne from a nearby steward. "Your costume is resplendent, Christine," I remarked.
She gasped when I said her name. I drew my mask to aside briefly, allowing her to glimpse my face. "Mme. Giry," she breathed with obvious relief. "I didn’t recognize you—"
"That’s the idea." I took in the effect of the waterfall of silk and lace which cascaded around her in graceful curves, and the enticing yet moderate cut of the neckline…and noticed the ring which she wore on a thick chain around her neck. "A gift from the holidays?" I inquired, taking it in my hand for closer examination. The gold band was rich with diamonds and emerald, and I understood the purpose attached to it. "It seems you have decided to accept your prince’s favor after all."
"We’re keeping it a secret," she said. The mask ended just above her cheek, and I could see her blush.
A man in a black domino and white mask strode past us at that point, and his presence caused Christine to jump, her eyes both frightened and hopeful. The moment lasted only a second before she realized the mistake, but I had seen enough. "No, not him," I dismissed, confirming her second glance. "Not tall enough, and the shoulders are too broad." I examined her carefully, thankful of the mask which concealed my every expression. "Take great care, child. It is a dangerous thing to set your feet on a course if you aren’t certain you mean to complete it."
"Come, my dear, I must have a waltz with you." Christine’s prince returned to claim her hand, which was given with a genuine smile. He cast a cursory glance at me, not guessing my identity until I spoke.
"Good evening, Monsieur le Vicomte." On another occasion I might have appreciated your startled reaction, but I turned away without delighting in it. I had a sudden, desperate need for a drink…
I drank a bit more than I was accustomed to that night, and so by the time Meg found me again I was in a hazily genial mood. "I can’t remember when I’ve had so much fun!" she declared breathlessly, her neck flushed with excitement. "Have you seen anyone you recognize?"
"Several, in fact. Christine is dancing with the Vicomte de Chagny over there." I nodded to the fairy-tale couple gliding across the floor.
"So that is her—I wasn’t certain," she said. "With Raoul de Chagny, hmm? Can’t say that surprises me; they do seem rather fond of each other. Although sometimes I have the impression that Christine’s mind is elsewhere…"
"I dare say it is." An uncomfortable silence fell between us.
Meg cleared her throat delicately, returning to the subject of the various guises. "Both Firmin and André are dressed as the Opera Ghost, I noticed. Isn’t that a little vulgar, after everything that’s happened?"
"Nobody ever accused the management of decorum," I replied with a sniff.
"That’s God’s own truth," she agreed. "Lisbet’s the shepherdess, and Natasha’s the one in the Egyptian costume…haven’t spotted Carlotta yet…"
"Over there, near the staircase," I said. "The one dressed as a swan."
"A swan indeed! Peacock would have been more appropriate," she giggled.
A broad man in evening clothes, with the visage of a lion, approached us in a grandiose manner. "Fair daughter of Demeter, would you care to dance with this poor beast?" he declaimed in a voice that could only belong to an operatic baritone. Meg glanced at me as if for approval.
"Go, child," I said, smiling under my tragic mask. "I think I can trust him not to devour you."
"Indeed you can!" the lion vowed. "And I shall return her to you well before the winter’s ended. Come, Earth Mother, why the sad countenance? This is a day of celebration, a day to leave the past behind us!" He laughed and bore Meg into the dance.
"Leave the past…why not?" I murmured to myself, gazing mistily into the empty flute I held. After all, it was a new year, a fine time for a new beginning…
True to his word, Meg’s partner delivered her to my side just as fresh champagne was being passed around in preparation for the midnight toast. The giddy conversation subdued as MM. Firmin and André took positions on the musician’s platform located opposite the Grand Stair.
"Dear friends, cherished colleagues, and valued patrons," André began, and I groaned inwardly at the anticipation of a windy address. "It is our joy upon this most festive of occasions to look forward to a promising—"
A knot of disorder erupted at the top of the stair and blossomed outward with amazing speed, sending the entire assembly into turmoil—followed by tense silence, as the crowd parted in the desire to distance itself from the crimson figure which had appeared without anyone knowing how.
Oh, I knew who it was, long before he spoke. The way that red cloak draped over his Elizabethan costume, his gracefully feral manner as he descended the stair, that undeniable presence which held every person in that room captivated and made me suddenly and acutely sober…some things can never be disguised.
"Please, my dear André," Erik’s voice was made even more resonant by the death’s head mask he wore, "don’t dispose with your oration on my account. Only do try to be succinct for once—you have this irritating habit towards loquaciousness, and I have business here."
Meg gasped and clutched my sleeve. "Is that—"
"Shh…yes, it is," I said. "Stay where you are—and don’t remove your mask." I glanced up the hall to where Christine stood, but I could make out nothing save the hand which clutched her partner’s shoulder and the pallor of her skin.
"You—" Firmin blustered, and I realized how ridiculous he looked in his costume, like a monkey mimicking a king.
"Come now," Erik replied urbanely, "did you really believe I would abandon my opera house so easily? I have merely been…occupied with more pressing matters." The cloak slipped to one side, allowing me my first glimpse of the thick manuscript he carried in his right hand.
"What do you want?" André demanded in what was a pitiful attempt to sound courageous.
"So you’ve decided to be accommodating? It’s about time, I was beginning to despair of you ever acquiring some sense." Erik held up the manuscript, drawing his hand across it in a manner that stole my breath. "This," he continued, his voice warm with passion, "is an opera. My opera, the work of my life…Don Juan Triumphant." Now at the base of the stair, he hurled the score across the hall, where Firmin caught it clumsily. "I think, gentlemen, that I do not need to elaborate further. Even your dense minds should be able to comprehend my desires."
Poor Firmin made one last, dismal attempt at bravado. "And what if we refuse?"
The Red Death did not answer, but instead cast his glance to one of the chandeliers above the hall—smaller and less ornate than the one which had caused so much havoc six months ago, but the inference was not lost on the crowd. The assembly crushed against itself in an attempt to get as far from the center of the room as possible.
"No." Christine’s voice was calm as she stepped forward to defy the threat, though she trembled so that even I could see it. The tension in the hall took on an entirely different timbre as the Red Death approached the maiden princess, the air pulsing with naked sensuality. Once again I became keenly aware of the silent communion between them, that unspoken bond which I could never fathom, never share…
Erik’s fingers reached out to trace the air around Christine’s cheek before they folded around her "secret" engagement ring. Then he ripped the chain from her neck, snapping the metal links with such ease that even I gasped. I didn’t hear what words he spoke to her, only the tone of his voice, which was fierce and melodic and sent shivers of blissful torment all along my skin.
All the yearning and anguish and hopeless despair which I had dismissed from my mind only an hour ago returned in force, and I bolted in their presence. I was vaguely aware of Meg’s voice calling out to me but I didn’t care, I had to get away from them, away from the sight of that unspoken rapport and the maelstrom of emotion which it inspired…
When my flight ceased I found myself the cool dark of the wings, not far from the place where Buquet had threatened me. With massive effort, I caught my breath and forced my heart to resume its normal pace.
Soft footsteps echoed behind me. "Mme. Giry…"
I knew who spoke, and I knew why he had sought me out. "I know nothing, Monsieur le Vicomte," I sighed wearily. "Nothing."
"Then what makes you so certain of my reason for approaching you?" The footsteps drew nearer but I did not turn, afraid that my eyes would betray what my mask concealed.
"You think you are the first? There have been others like you—people who believed that because I carry the Opera Ghost’s letters I know his ways, his secrets…you are mistaken. He keeps his mysteries, and I have the sense not to attempt to uncover them."
"I dare say he does." In your voice I heard contempt and…something else. Was it fear, perhaps, or confusion? "But you know something, don’t you?"
"No—I cannot…" The memory of those silver eyes, pinning me to the wall of Box Five, filled my mind. "It is too dangerous…"
"As opposed to what?" A hand gripped my arm and I was forced to face its owner. You had removed your mask, and on your naked face I saw desperation and concern, the vast need to protect your beloved from something you could not see. "Please, Madame, for all our sakes…for her sake….You care for Christine, or at least she thinks you do. Show me that it’s true…"
My throat went dry as I became conscious of my impossible position. Your pleas had indeed touched me at the core, and yet the echo of that voice could not be ignored: if you ever breathe a word to anyone of what you have seen today, or anything you may see from now on…
But perhaps there was a way. Of the Opera and that which had occurred there I could not speak…but I could mention another time, another place where I had seen him. I needn’t disclose anything outside that long forgotten fair; I could let you draw your own conclusion…
So I told you of that. And you now know, monsieur, that I told you as little as I possibly could. Forgive me, but you must believe me when I say my life truly depended on that—and your own as well. If I had told you everything I knew then, do you believe you could have restrained yourself from seeking him out that very moment—and knowing what you know now, do you believe that you could have survived such a confrontation?
My confession barely appeased you as it was. "There’s more…there must be." Your eyes burned with a violent hunger which I had never seen in them before, but which I recognized from another source. "Where is he? How do I find him?" You drew very close. "How do I kill him?"
The air felt thick and heavy around me, as if it meant to crush me. "No, no more," I said hastily, pulling away. "I have said too much already…"
"Mme. Giry…"
"No, I cannot….I cannot risk another accident…" I knew you would chase me as I fled, and took a route through the scenery which would be impossible to trace. After a minute I stopped, confident that I had lost my pursuer. I knew my way backstage as well as anyone…well, almost anyone.
"I must say, I am impressed." The voice was silken, bewitching, and entirely too close behind me. "You told the boy what he wished to hear without telling him anything of great significance. Perhaps you should have chosen the lawyer’s bar instead of the dancer’s."
I turned to face Erik with a great amount of feigned calm, recalling as I did Poe’s story of the Red Death, who visited retribution on the proud and complacent…but in the back of my mind, I knew that if he meant to punish me for my circumvention of his orders, I would not be standing there. "Consider it a gesture in the interest of fair play," I replied, the breath hot and sticky against the inside of my mask.
Erik’s derisive snort echoed dully within his skull-like visor. "You believe it is Raoul de Chagny who has the disadvantage in this matter?" He drew closer, the shadows turning his attire the color of dried blood.
Since he could not see it, I smiled with pity. "Not knowing the nature of the game one is involved in is always a disadvantage, regardless of one’s assets," I replied, refusing to let him intimidate me.
"Indeed…but all the world’s wisdom cannot save one who is out of his depth." There was no mistaking that murderous accent.
"If that is the case, I would have to wonder why the game has not ended already," I challenged.
He bowed his head, the brim of his plumed hat shadowing his eyes. "You wrong me, Madame," he said. "I too, have an interest in fair play." For a moment there was no sound but the steady hiss of our breaths. "If I were a normal man like the Vicomte, I would court her as he does…with fine words and tender affections. But I am not a normal man," he continued, his wistful tone hardening, "and such niceties would be futile for me. And still I have a man’s needs, a man’s desires…and I have a man’s right to seek their fulfillment. I cannot woo Christine in the manner that she deserves, so I must woo her in the only way I am allowed…and I will win her, though it cost me my soul."
I was not prepared for this candid and fervent confession, and I found myself both touched and unnerved by it. "And do you expect me to help you?" I demanded, hoping the words did not sound as half-hearted as they felt.
He drew a note from underneath his cloak, letting it flutter to the ground between us. "I expect you to do your job…and to keep out of affairs that no longer concern you."
I knelt to retrieve the letter, taking care to keep my mask before me. Any fear I felt was dissipating in the face of ashamed anger. "My concerns are not for you to define," I rebuked. "Take heed, Erik. I have been your ally for several years now…and, I hope, your friend. I would hate to have to become your enemy."
His shoulders tightened. "Do you think you would survive standing in opposition to me?" he warned.
"Do you think any threat of yours will turn me from a course I’m determined to take?" I replied simply.
He was silent for a time, then, as if he decided this confrontation was not worth the effort, bowed with ironic courtesy and slipped into the darkness surrounding us.
Only when he was gone did I draw the mask from my face. Gazing at it in the dimness I noticed, almost detachedly, that the inside of the visor was damp with my tears.
Go on to Chapter 23
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