Much of the early troubles stemmed from the music itself. On hearing the score, I was inclined to think that Christine’s assessment of her teacher’s compositions had been entirely accurate. The odd melodies and unique harmonics first disturbed and then captivated me. It was as if the most elemental of human emotions—anguish, wrath, desire—had been distilled into their purest form and molded in sound, and to this day I have heard nothing more extraordinary or moving. But still, the writing was unlike anything the company had encountered, and as a result the first rehearsal was so catastrophic that many believed M. Reyer would quit his position before the week was out. But he did not—I think deep down, he welcomed the challenge.
Once most of the early confusion was ironed out and we began on the staging, another distraction began to present itself. Hardly a day went by when the gendarmes—often accompanied by one of the managers or yourself—didn’t disrupt the rehearsal by their constant examination of the auditorium and its environs. One would have to be either a great fool or blind not to know some stratagem was afoot…and Erik was neither. Although he never said as much to me, I’m certain it was all he could do to keep from laughing aloud.
I still maintained my duties as Erik’s intermediary, and I was compensated accordingly. But the affinity which had grown between us had vanished, leaving our meetings stiff and uncomfortable. We spoke only the barest of civilities to each other, knowing that anything greater would erupt into a confrontation more injurious than the one which had transpired after the masquerade. With my daughter showing hardly any cordiality to me and my beloved showing none at all, I grew waspish and despondent, and by the time the final dress rehearsal came about I was willing to welcome any end to the affair.
I would have welcomed death…
* * * * * * * * * *
"No, no, no!" Reyer cried out from the auditorium, silencing the orchestra and producing audible groans from the cast. I reflected on the old adage of a poor dress rehearsal heralding a good opening night which, if it held true, indicated that the imminent performance would be unparalleled in excellence. The director approached the stage, haggard from several hours of constant practice. Most of the company didn’t look much better—Christine in particular had the appearance of a sleepwalker. In one of her less churlish moments, Meg had told me that the final rehearsal coincided with the anniversary of Josef Daaé’s death (I cannot say for certain if this was a coincidence or not). No doubt the memory of the loss was contributing to Christine’s listless state, and it amazed me that she could summon the resolve to continue on with rehearsals as it was.
"Signor Piangi," Reyer continued in a weary tone, "the curtain will rise on this production in roughly fourteen hours. I trust you planned on learning this passage correctly sometime before then?"
"It is correct!" Piangi protested, looking anything but dashing in his Don Juan costume. The tenor had been a constant source of difficulty throughout the rehearsal process, exhibiting a petulant streak that alienated nearly everyone in the cast. A large portion of his behavior was no doubt due to Carlotta (who recognized the very meager role she’d been assigned as the insult it was), as many of his objections were directed at Christine’s performance. But even had Piangi made an attempt to be obliging, he would have created problems enough with his inability to grasp the unconventional structure of Erik’s music. While the rest of the cast had managed the piece with a token amount of trial and error, the leading man remained unwilling or unable to learn a tonality unlike anything in his previous experience.
"No, it’s not correct," Reyer explained with the exaggerated patience normally used when addressing a child. He entered the pit and displaced the exhausted musician at the piano. "This is what you were singing—" he hammered out the passage on the keyboard, "—and this is the correct phrase." He replayed the line correctly, stressing the individual notes. "Now, if you please—"
Piangi repeated the phrase, again incorrectly. His failure produced another round of moans from the cast, now joined by similar complaints from the occupants of the hot and stuffy pit.
"Oh, nobody will know the difference," Carlotta called from the chorus. Bereft of her cherished limelight, the diva had been compensating by drawing as much attention to herself as possible during rehearsals. "Besides, it’s not his fault this nonsense cannot be sung."
Wearied though I was, I couldn’t resist. "It is both inconsiderate and unwise to say such things in the hearing of the composer."
"Indeed?" Carlotta sniffed, directing her airs at me. "And how do you know the composer is listening?"
"I believe the question should be, how do you know he is not?" Carlotta went quiet at that; the memory of the toad still burned her.
"How many times do I have to explain this?" Reyer demanded, raking his fingers through what remained of his chestnut curls. The joke in the company was that Reyer’s baldness stemmed from tearing his hair out over a career’s worth of pressure, and it was easy to believe that night. "The—author—of this work has elected to employ a tonal structure different from the major and minor scales which have been in use for centuries. An interesting innovation," he added pedantically, "although whether or not it can rival the harmonies favored by Bach and Mozart is debatable. Nevertheless, it is what we’ve been given to work with. Now, Signor, once again…"
Piangi showed no improvement in this attempt, and as a result nearly threw the rehearsal into chaos.
"Oh, for Heaven’s sake—"
"Should have Jean-Marie do it, he had this part a week ago…"
"Been on my feet for two hours—"
"Madame, I’m tired—" this from one of my girls, who were serving as supernumeraries for the scene "—are we going to get to the Gypsy dance sometime tonight?"
M. Reyer quite effectively brought an end to all discussion by slamming down the piano keys in a fantastic discord. "Enough!" he shouted. "I don’t care how exhausted anyone is or about your opinions regarding this work or whatever those damned policemen hope to accomplish tomorrow! Right now my only interest is getting this blasted production into something resembling order before—what the hell do you want?"
M. André brought his entrance to a grinding halt. "I’ll come back later," he said, beating a hasty retreat out the door. I stifled a laugh.
Christine tentatively raised her hand. "M. Reyer," she ventured, "I don’t mean to interrupt, but…"
"What? Oh yes, your…other engagement." Reyer made a visible attempt to rein in his temper. "I usually don’t allow performers to leave midway through a dress rehearsal, but I think you have the part down very well…and we will all thank Signora Guidicelli for keeping her opinions on that subject to herself." Carlotta clamped her mouth shut. "Very well, Mlle. Daaé, you may leave," Reyer continued. "I think this is perhaps a good time for a brief recess. Not you, Signor Piangi, we’re going to work on this passage…and Mlle. du Bois, I need you to change costume and assume the role of Aminta for the remainder of the evening. The rest of you, fifteen minutes—and I mean fifteen minutes, not twenty…"
Later that evening—much later—I asked Meg what Christine had left the rehearsal for. "Why don’t you ask your omniscient friend?" she replied curtly, no less exhausted and out of sorts than I.
"Meg, that’s unkind. Besides," I added with bitterness, "I’ve hardly had two words together from him for the past several weeks."
Meg curbed her pettishness. "She’s going to visit her father’s grave," she said quietly. "I gather she does so every year on this date. I think…I think she still feels a bit lost without him."
"Now more so than ever," I agreed.
The majority of the evening we spent sitting in our parlor in an uneasy silence. Meg picked up a book, flipped through it disinterestedly, put it down, and paced the room while I attempted to concentrate on my sewing. But the steady rhythm of the needle did nothing to distract me from the ominous shadow of tomorrow’s performance. At length, I set aside the project and was about to announce my intentions to get some rest when a loud hammering echoed on our front door.
Meg jumped at the sound. "Who could that be at this hour?"
"I don’t know—stay back." I gripped a fire poker with one hand and approached the door with a great amount of caution. But my wariness proved unwarranted when I opened the door and a sobbing figure stumbled into my arms. "Christine! What is it? What’s wrong?"
"I’m sorry, I didn’t know where else to go—"
Another figure shouldered his way in behind her. "Are you certain we’ll be safe here?" he demanded hotly.
"As safe as you are anywhere else at this time, Monsieur le Vicomte," I replied. I ushered you both indoors and ventured to glance at the street outside. Nothing but darkness revealed itself to me, but I drew no comfort from the fact. I shut and bolted the door, instructing Meg to draw the curtains as I did. "Now, what has happened?" I inquired, turning my attention to the girl crying at my hearth.
"I’ll tell you what happened!" you shouted, your cheeks flushed with anger. "That creature you’ve got some form of sick loyalty to attacked us—and in a churchyard, no less!"
"Only because you let him goad you into it!" Christine’s words were strong and clear, though tears still streamed from her eyes. "What on earth possessed you to approach him? He wants you dead, Raoul, don’t you understand that?"
"Oh, I dare say he does," you hissed. "If his feelings for me are anything akin to my sentiments toward him, then he would love nothing better than to throttle the life out of me with his bare hands…" The declaration brought a fresh burst of sobs from Christine. "Darling, I’m sorry," you amended, your tone softening and your eyes contrite, "but I can’t bear to think of what he might have done—what he’s already done—to you. Do you think I could have stood idly by and watched him manipulate you like that?"
"You don’t understand…you don’t understand…" Christine shook her head, causing the firelight to play across her face.
"What? What don’t I understand? I just can’t see why you maintain this attachment to someone who uses you—"
"The way you intend to use me against him tomorrow?"
"It’s not the same—"
"Isn’t it?"
"Enough." I spoke firmly to silence the argument. "Right now, I think the best thing for you both would be to get some rest. Monsieur, I would offer my humble dwelling to you, but I’m afraid we only have room for one guest…besides, I think it would be a good idea for you to be where your servants can protect you."
"And Christine?"
"She will be safe with us."
You glared at me. "How do I know that?"
"I don’t suppose my word is good enough for you?" You had the decency to look ashamed. "We will watch over her until tomorrow evening. After that, the obligation lies with you."
"And I mean to fulfill it."
"I suppose you do," I sighed. "Meg, would you see the Vicomte to his carriage?" If Erik were indeed lurking outside, I hoped the presence of my young daughter might convince him to check his violent impulses.
Meg nodded curtly and followed you out the door, casting a worried glance to Christine as she did so.
"He wasn’t manipulating me." Christine’s eyes were numb and sad as she gazed into the hearth. "He came to me at my father’s grave, singing the way he used to…and I wanted to go with him. Or maybe he convinced me to believe I did—I don’t know. I can’t tell where he ends and I begin anymore." I knelt beside her, and her fingers clutched at my hand. "It’s just that…I thought we could go back, that things could be as they were before I saw his face and his temper…"
"But you cannot," I reminded. "And even if you could, what good would that do you? Do you really believe you could be happy with only half of him, knowing that some part would be hidden from you?" She considered, then shook her head. "I didn’t think so. And I think, deep down, neither could Erik." The fire crackled, a sad, despairing sound. "The Vicomte saw this exchange, I take it?"
She nodded. "I knew I had to get the two of them away from each other, I couldn’t allow them to fight. Dear God, the look in Erik’s eyes when I turned away from him—it was like a knife in my heart. I was certain one of them wouldn’t leave the churchyard alive…" She buried her head in my shoulder, her sobs sharp and lucid in the air. "Please, Madame, you must help me! I know I cannot depend on you to make this choice for me, but it’s so difficult, and I don’t even know where to begin…"
I watched the flames dance, the prick of sorrow in my throat. "Well, let’s take this one step at a time," I began quietly. "Do you love Raoul de Chagny?"
"I do," she replied. "He’s my oldest and dearest friend, and he’s doing his best to help me."
"Do you love Erik?"
"I don’t know!" she moaned. "I know he loves me so desperately, and when he’s with me I feel…like every part of me is waking up. And of course I feel sorry for him; how could one not? And yet, he frightens me…"
"Then let me rephrase the question," I said, turning to stare hard in her eyes. "Is there a chance—even in the slightest—that you can return the passion he feels for you? Think carefully, child. If you can only pity him, if you cannot love him as he loves you, then you must leave at once. To do anything else would only ruin him—and perhaps, yourself and Raoul as well. But if part of you believes, however little, that what you feel for him might be love, then you owe it to them both—and to yourself—to stay and perform tomorrow."
Christine was silent for a long time. Then she lifted her eyes and very quietly said, "I will stay."
I knew it then, though I think she did not. I knew she loved Erik, but the poor child lacked the courage to give him the devotion and discipline he needed. Yes, discipline, for as any mother will tell you sometimes love means standing in opposition, demanding one live up to your ideals for them. And I knew I had to take that task upon myself, before Erik in his desperation destroyed the love he could have if only he would find the strength and humility to risk his heart.
Meg returned as I was fastening my cloak. "Mama, where are you going?"
"To do what I must." I drank in the sight of my brave, beautiful daughter, memorizing every curl of her hair and every inch of complexion. "I’m very proud of you, my Marguerite," I whispered, "and I love you very much. Remember that."
"What do you mean—Mama? Mama!" But I dared not turn around; I feared the sight of her would break the resolve which threatened at every moment to abandon me.
You see, unlike Christine I held no hopes for a peaceful resolution. I knew that our plight could only end with more bloodshed.
And if I could stem the tide of violence with my life, I was prepared to offer it.
Go on to Chapter 25
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