by Heather Webb
“Where are you going?” I rubbed my arms to ward off the chill in the drafty room.
“I’ll just be a few minutes.” He flashed a bulky envelope at me, closed the door behind him, and his footsteps fell away.
Too curious to uphold my manners, I traversed the room at once to look at the photographs. I’d never seen so many in one place before. They were costly to make and develop, from what I understood. I bent over them—and jumped back. In one, a man faced the camera and a spirit drifted over his head, its hands resting on the man’s shoulders. Another displayed a group sitting at a table tournante as a bright cylinder of light lingered above them. Still another, showed a woman at her sewing table as a spirit in a full-length white veil hovered before her, unseen. I shivered and rubbed my arms again. Many of the photographs were of the dead; though their spirits had left the bodies, often the souls remained on earth. At least, that is what Papa would have said. I was beginning to believe he was right.
I straightened, suddenly realizing I had never seen a photograph of Mother. Why hadn’t Papa had her picture done? If only I could ask him. I moved to the section of the corkboard covered with newspaper clippings. Many of the articles announced conjurers coming to town, or causing disturbances in Paris and abroad, their spirit cabinets and apparitions in tow. I paused to read a piece of newspaper in the center of the board. Its headline read:
CONJURERS CONTACT THE DEAD, CAUSE SUICIDE
Dread swam in my stomach. Beneath the title, the author had drawn a caricature of a young man with a thin face and sunken eyes, almost skeletal in appearance, standing with an older gentleman. They were both decked in capes and top hats with evil, slanted eyes. A specter of a woman floated between them. In the front row of the audience, a man’s eyes were round, too large for his head, and his mouth hung open. I leaned in closer to read.
Crespin le Grand premiered his latest act last night at the Theatre Margot in the ninth arrondissement. Audiences have come to expect his shocking performances, but Saturday evening’s show reached new levels when he introduced his young apprentice, the Master Conjurer. The young illusionist called upon an audience member in the front row to volunteer the name of a passed loved one, after which, the illusionist called upon the spirit. It appeared in a faint wisp of smoke. Many altercations broke out in the crowd until local authorities arrived. Monsieur Jerôme Delacroix, the audience member who supplied the illusionist with the name of his deceased wife, refused to comment.
I stumbled backward a step. It was Delacroix’s father and the Master Conjurer! My mind tumbled with the new information. Suddenly it made sense why the professor sought to disprove spiritisme so desperately. His father’s obsession with his dead wife—Delacroix’s mother—had only been stoked by the performance. I wondered about the timing. Perhaps his father had taken his life shortly after?
Heart racing, I scoured the rest of the board for clues but found none. Unperturbed, I bent over his desk and thumbed through a few of his papers. They were covered in figures and equations. I’d never find anything there, at least not quickly. I straightened the stack and peered at the dusty spines of his books, finding one scientific manual after another: books on geology, exotic birds or species in the Orient, methodologies and theories of experimentation, dissections. Scrunching my nose in disgust, I moved to another bookshelf and ran my finger over the tomes. The subject matter shifted. Not only were there books on spiritualism, but also on illusions. I paused on a copy of The Sharper Detected and Exposed, the same book Raoul had gifted me. Continuing on, I scanned the titles quickly until I reached Elliott’s Mysteries, or Glimpses of the Supernatural. I pulled the book from the shelf. As I flipped it open, a sheaf of paper fluttered to the floor. Recognizing Delacroix’s handwriting, I picked it up and read his notes.
Signs of the Supernatural include but are not limited to lights without a source, particularly those which pulse, objects moving of their own accord, cool breezes in an otherwise warm space, raspy whispers or the sound of garbled voices, the outline of a human form in freestanding space, and unexplained noises that appear to communicate with the living.
Seen: two, rest yet to prove
The night I sang in the courtyard a few months ago, there had been an unusual cool breeze. That wasn’t atypical in the evening, even in the summer, but it had persisted. It was very odd, I must admit, and I had run indoors. I shook my head. It was purely coincidental. I hadn’t seen anything else outside of the séance.
Delacroix’s voice echoed from the marble floors in the corridor. Heart thumping, I stashed the paper back inside the book and shoved it back into place on the shelf. Disturbed by the photographs, the frigid office, and the talk of spirits, I lunged for the door handle—but paused at the sound of his voice.
“You said it would be enough.” His voice was angry.
I strained to hear the other voice, but couldn’t make out the murmuring.
“I deserve this,” Delacroix went on. “You know that as well as I do. I shouldn’t have to pay anyone off to begin with.”
Paying someone off? I turned the handle and carefully opened the door, peeking around the edge. Delcroix’s back was turned to me; he faced another man, who wore an immense top hat.
“We have company,” the man said in a low grumble.
Delacroix whipped around and I stepped into the hall, pasting a smile on my face. “Are we ready, Monsieur? It’s quite chilly in your office.”
“Yes.” He strode toward me, anger flashing in his eyes.
“Is everything all right?” I asked, taken aback by his expression.
The other man tucked the mysterious envelope inside his jacket and skulked off in the opposite direction.
“It is now.” He brushed my cheek with his lips in friendly affection. “Let’s be off, shall we?”
Within minutes, we made our way to our destination and were seated instantly at a table already filled with other people. After a brandy, Delacroix’s brooding expression lifted. He seemed to cheer at the possibility of taking home his award, and I did my best to free my mind of everything but where I was at this moment: in the company of a friend, with fine food, and in a lovely dress. Without luck. My mind stirred with the images of the dead on the professor’s wall, preened and photographed for eternity, and more disturbing, the news of his father and the Masked Conjurer. I should think the professor would feel some relief with the magician dead and gone. I glanced at Delacroix’s dear face: his angular features, peppered hair, and piercing but lovely eyes. I knew why he didn’t feel relief. There wasn’t any when a parent died so unexpectedly. I understood this well. Still, it seemed unusually coincidental that both of us suffered because of the same magician.
I peered over the rim of my wineglass at the other professors seated around the table. They resembled each other with their uniform morning coats, pince-nez, and sober expressions. The professors’ wives chattered while their husbands tended to their brandy glasses. I was virtually invisible, even in a gown the happy blue of a summer sky that was so different from the browns and rich burgundies scattered throughout the hall. I had hoped the color would brighten my mood.
“You must have a very good chance of winning,” I said to Delacroix. “You’re so diligent in your work.” I thought of the large stacks of papers on his desk, the rows of scientific volumes.
“I hope so,” he replied. “I’ve published five essays this year alone, helped rewrite the program of studies, and launched an investigative research campaign on spiritualism. Even Charles Paget can’t boast a list so accomplished.”
“Who else was nominated?” I asked.
Monsieur Delacroix smirked. With thinly veiled disdain, he said, “Paget is my competition, the professor with the bow tie and wrinkled coat, two tables over.”
Professor Paget was opposite Delacroix in looks and stature, with disheveled hair, a full beard, and hunched shoulders. He embodied what I envisioned an intellectual to look like: as if it were a struggle to remember to groom h
imself, organize his papers, and keep a clean home.
“He’s accomplished in the natural sciences?” I watched the man ignore those around him and, instead, scribble something in a notebook.
“Quite,” he said through clenched teeth. “In fact, he seeks to disprove spiritualism as I do. He has just written an article about essence versus being. It’s all over the papers.”
I nodded slowly, grasping why he seemed so irritable. Delacroix saw the man as a threat to his own prestige, possibly even to his livelihood.
“I’m sure you’ll write something better.” I patted his forearm.
He relaxed some and smiled. “If the lovely Christine Daaé says it will be so, it will be!” He chuckled, his self-assurance returning.
“What is the award for, exactly?”
“It’s a certificate that recognizes exceptional study in different branches of science. Four awards will be given tonight. I’ve been nominated for the Grande Médaille.”
We finished a leisurely dinner of creamed vegetable soup, roasted hen, and pralines and meringues. Then a man stepped up to the podium at last, the speaker launched into a dry introduction to the history of the awards, past winners, and the honor of being associated with the Académie. The speaker’s voice droned like a cello stuck on the same note.
I was going to need another glass of wine if the banquet continued like that. I glanced back at Professor Paget, who continued to scribble in his notebook. I wished I had brought my own. A new illusion niggled at the back of my brain: a trick of light, a large mirror, a projector . . .
My mind drifted and I lost myself in the new idea.
“And the award goes to”—the speaker paused for effect—“Professor Charles Paget.”
Applause followed, snapping me out of my reverie. Delacroix’s eyebrows shot up and he clenched his brandy glass. Shock registered plainly on his features and he didn’t bother to hide it. He’d been passed over, humiliated.
Professor Paget wormed his way through the sea of tables to the stand, accepted his award, and returned to his seat. He picked up his pen immediately and continued to write as if nothing had happened. Neither happiness, nor pride radiated from him. I glanced at Delacroix again, afraid to see how Paget’s unaffected acceptance bothered him.
“He shouldn’t have won. I was assured—” Delacroix clamped his lips closed, aware he was about to say something he should not.
My eyebrows shot up. Had this been what the payoff was about at the school? Delacroix must have done something he shouldn’t in the name of competition.
His face burned red and a vein on his neck pulsed just above his collar. “I think we are finished here.” He stood, tossing his napkin on the table. “Come, Christine. This is an insult.”
He pulled me through the room, and once outside, jumped into his waiting carriage.
Stunned, I climbed in behind him. Surely, he knew he looked ungracious to storm out in front of a slew of his colleagues. At the very least, I wished he would consider how he made me look: like his young mistress, tagging along after him.
“You can’t be serious,” I said, taking the seat across from him. “We’re going to leave, just like that? What will the others think?”
“I don’t give a damn about the others. If they can’t see how ridiculous that decision was, they’re idiots.” He gripped my hand a bit too tight. “But this means I’ll need to rely on you to make my project a success.”
“Rely on me?”
“Contact the opera ghost. I know you’ve spoken with him, or perhaps have even seen him. Your name is all over the notes he keeps sending to the other players. I don’t understand why you’ve lied to me to protect him, but enough is enough, Christine. You need to be honest with me. I need your help.”
My hand flew to my throat in alarm. I wondered how much he knew. He knew enough to realize I had covered for the Angel, at the expense of our relationship. Now what could I say? I couldn’t jeopardize our relationship any further. He had been nothing but kind to Madame Valerius and me, only to be betrayed by my lies. Regret crashed over me.
I cast my eyes to the floor, thoughts tumbling like mad.
His jaw set in a hard line. “Meet me in your dressing room tomorrow during the performance. We’ll summon him. If he doesn’t show, we’re going underground.”
15
I couldn’t refuse Delacroix, and I couldn’t warn the Angel—he might try to hurt the professor—so I decided to flee Paris to gather my courage, and make some decisions. The directors agreed to a fortnight away, since Carlotta’s triumphant return to the stage rendered me almost useless anyway. I scratched out a quick note in my dressing room to the Angel explaining Madame’s need for vacation and my own, knowing full well how furious he would be that I had left while we practiced his opera. For once, I didn’t care. I had to get away. I considered writing Raoul as well, but abandoned the idea. It was better to just disappear. He would get the message that way best of all.
Madame’s wealthy brother agreed to pay for the cost of the trip for both of us as well as Claudette; he knew as well as I that it might be Madame’s last. Grateful for his kindness, I promised to secure him free tickets to the opera. We took the afternoon train northward the following day to Bretagne, debarked at the station, and hailed a coach to the Auberge Soleil-Couchant in the Bay of Perros. Madame’s friends owned the inn where we stayed and lavished us with extra comforts. Once settled, we dined on a hearty seafood stew with champignons and cream sauce. After, we sat by the fire in the hotel’s great room and enjoyed Calvados, the local apple brandy. Already I felt a bit lighter—safe from the haunted passageways of the opera house, and far from the unsettling effect of Carlotta’s sneer. Tomorrow I would visit the beach to invigorate me, despite the raw winds. And Papa’s grave.
The flames of the fire receded as the tinder burned away.
“I’ve something to tell you, Christine.” Claudette cradled a teacup in her hands. “You won’t like it.”
I raised an eyebrow, but said nothing.
“I knew you wouldn’t do it, so I did it for you.”
“Do what, Claudette?” My tone grew impatient.
“I sent it. Your letter to the Vicomte de Chagny.” Anxious, she stared at her cup. “I knew you wanted to send it.”
A stone sank in my stomach. I thought of the wastebasket in the study stuffed with discarded letters. All except one. I had abandoned it on the desktop yesterday when dissonant squawking drifted from the salon. I’d rushed from Madame’s desk to check on my canaries. Somehow, a tomcat had wandered in from outside, perhaps when Alfred had gone outdoors to beat a broom. The mangy animal batted the cage with its paw and slammed its body against it, rattling the perches and bells inside. My birds screeched and fluttered, hovering as far from the cat’s swooping paws as possible. I shooed the offender outdoors and soothed my pets with a song, stroking their soft chests to calm them. Berlioz’s little heart beat rapidly against my thumb for some time.
After that disturbance, I had forgotten the final letter, assuming I had tossed it. I explained my gratitude for Raoul’s friendship, and insisted that we end it. Not only was it unfair to Mademoiselle DuClos, whom he intended to marry, but the Angel forbade it. In closing the letter, I had mentioned our intended holiday in Bretagne.
At least now Raoul knew, and I wouldn’t have to explain when our paths crossed again. After I realized this, relief flowed through me. Raoul knew everything now, and I didn’t have to confront him again. I thought of his face, the way he had beamed at me in the Grand Foyer. It was best I avoided him anyway.
“I saw the heap of crumpled paper in the wastebasket, but there was one note left on the desk. His name was printed at the top.” She reached out to squeeze my knee. “I hope you aren’t angry with me.”
“I’m not angry, but don’t do that again.”
“I’ll never meddle again. Promise.” She held up her hands. “I had no right. I’m sorry. I just—I just knew you wanted to and couldn’t
.”
Madame remained silent through the entire exchange, but glared at her empty brandy glass. To break the tension, Claudette retrieved the empty glass and within moments, she returned with a fresh pour.
I sighed. How could I be angry with Claudette? She was right. “I suppose he didn’t write a response,” I murmured.
“Perhaps he did,” she said. “I posted it only yesterday.”
If he replied, I would have to wait until I returned to Paris. And what if he didn’t? My stomach flipped at the thought.
Claudette kneeled beside me. “It’s clear he cares for you, no matter what else is going on. Why else would he visit your dressing room, or give you the book? Why would he come to the house?”
I dropped my face into my hands. “He does care for me. As a friend.” The word tasted bitter on my tongue. “He said so himself.”
“Being friends is never a bad place to start.” She wrapped her arm around my shoulder.
“There’s another woman, too. He left the gala the other night to have dinner with her and the others, and he bought her a huge bouquet of flowers.”
“They are engaged then?”
My throat filled with cotton at the word. “Not that I am aware of.”
When had I grown to care so deeply for Raoul? We hadn’t spent much time together, yet here I was. Something about him held my heart captive, ever since we were children.
Claudette leaned closer, her cloud of red curls bouncing around her face. “Never mind the situation. As long, as you don’t know his stance with this woman—from his mouth—you have a chance to win him.”
I shook my head. “I’m not a desperate stage girl.” Fatigue settled over me like a thick blanket; my bones ached with its weight. I wouldn’t grovel, manipulate him, or ruin my reputation. If he wanted someone else, so be it. I’d have to find a way to move on.
“Well”—I set down my brandy glass—“I’m off to bed now, but I’ll be going for a long walk in the morning. Would you like to join me?”