by Heather Webb
He balled his fists at his sides. “Marc never made it back to the barracks. He was knifed outside the tavern in the alley. As you can imagine”—his voice cracked—“I was devastated. Had I been with him, we could have taken the ruffians, or maybe dodged them altogether.”
He paused for a moment to contain his emotions. “I’ve known Marc since I was a boy. His health was always fragile, but he insisted on joining the navy. I had promised his mother I would look after him. Telling her what happened . . . I will never forgive myself.”
I clasped my hands to keep from smoothing the wavy locks on his forehead, from soothing his pain. I reminded myself I was angry with him—where he went from there did not concern me. He had someone else to care for him now.
“Over the next several days, I drank myself into oblivion.” He looked over my head, his mind in the past. “A fellow mate tried to shake me out of my stupor. He knew I loved the opera, so he insisted we see a local star. She’d gone on to be a lead diva in Paris, but had returned for a brief visit.”
“Here we are,” Claudette said brightly.
We moved to the sofa in the salon. I busied my hands with handing Raoul a glass of brandy, willing them not to shake.
“After the show, Carlotta and the cast joined us at a tavern. We started talking. She was away from Paris on vacation for a few weeks. She had agreed to sing that night as a favor for a friend. We had many drinks. The night wore on. Christine, I was in a bad way.”
“She comforted you,” I said, my voice soft.
“In a way, I suppose.” His face was drawn. “I followed one horrible mistake with another. We all went back to her friend’s house—he was the theater’s owner—and I found myself alone with her, but it isn’t what you think. We talked more about what had happened with Marc, and then I passed out on the sofa in her room. That’s all that happened. I swear it, Christine. She tried, by God, but it didn’t happen. Now I know why she wanted to seduce me. She wants a rich husband and a title.” He scowled. “I’ve spoken to her about giving the child to a loving home, or allowing me to pay for its expenses, even though it’s impossible that it’s mine. She won’t agree, but I know she cares nothing for the baby.”
He studied my face, searching for a sign of acceptance.
“You wouldn’t leave her and the child to fend for themselves.” I set down my glass. “That’s not the kind of man you are. Even if it’s not yours.”
He nodded, hope filling his eyes. “So you understand?”
“I do, yes. The only way to not look like a cad, and to protect your family honor, is to marry her.” Pain tore at me. He was a good man, and now he would never be mine. I closed my eyes to hold myself together. His regret was real, yet there was nothing to be done. She would ruin him, one way or the other.
“I’m so sorry I hurt you, mon amour. The night of the ball, I was going to explain. I didn’t want there to be secrets between us. I couldn’t ask”—his voice became soft—“I couldn’t ask you to be my wife without you knowing the truth, yet it was so cold and we lost ourselves in passion . . . Christine, I do not love her. I never have and certainly never will. And I am not the father of her child. It isn’t even possible. I have—I have never touched her.”
Tears pricked my eyes. We would have been happy. But now, I could never accept him—not unless Carlotta released him. Even then, I couldn’t banish a child to a life without a father.
I sniffed and forced myself to stand. “I’m afraid this doesn’t change anything, Raoul. The fact is, you’re going to marry Carlotta.”
He took my hand without hesitation, and cradled it in his palm. “I love you. I’ve loved you since the day I met you all those years ago in Normandy. Your sweet nature, your cleverness. Your kind heart. All of the games we played . . . You were magical then, and you still are. I love you fiercely, Christine Daaé, even as you shun me now.”
Unable to hold back the flood any longer, tears slipped down my cheeks. I would never experience that love. It was all so unfair, so cruel.
“You’re crying.” His face crumpled. He pulled a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and dabbed my cheeks gently. “You love me, too.”
“So much.” I choked on my tears. “But we can’t be together and you must go. Go, and leave me alone.”
“My darling,” he whispered, determination brimming in his eyes, “I will find a way for us to be together. I won’t be trapped by Carlotta.”
“I’m the one who feels trapped, Monsieur le Vicomte.” I pulled away to avoid his touch. “I have my own life, my own dreams. Please, you must go.”
“I’ll find a way to make this right. I can’t accept giving you up, Christine. I won’t.”
I held open the front door for him. “Goodbye, Raoul.”
He gave me a last mournful gaze and turned to go.
When he’d gone, I sank to the floor and wept.
The following evening I scampered up the drive to the Duchess of Zurich’s home. She had been kind to me in the past, and generous, so when I approached her about hosting me at her salon, she seemed delighted—until I mentioned my illusions. She agreed to them only if I sang a concert first, an easy term to accept.
“Good evening, Duchess.”
“How lovely it is to see you again, Mademoiselle.” She kissed each of my cheeks.
I smiled, but nerves fluttered in my stomach. “May I present Claudette? She is my assistant.”
Claudette’s eyes grew round as she took in the woman’s home. She hadn’t worked for anyone but Madame Valerius, and likely had never set foot inside a house so grand.
“How do you do?”
“Very well, ma’am, thank you.” Claudette curtsied.
The duchess smiled. “You two may begin when you wish. We love entertainment.”
“Thank you,” I said, returning her smile. “We’ll prepare now.”
I led Claudette to the curtain behind the stage area. The salon was as I remembered, filled with expensive furnishings, generous refreshments, and a pianoforte in the front of the room. The instrument might be in the way for our show, but Claudette and I would work around it. We rushed about, setting up a small table and positioning the few props we needed.
My heart beat wildly as more people filed into the room and began to seat themselves. We were really going to do this!
Claudette fumbled with the scarves, and nearly knocked over the small table.
I looped my arm through hers and pulled her behind the piano. “You can’t twitch during the show. I’m nervous, too, but we have to appear calm or they will sense our discomfort. They have to believe what we’re selling them, or our illusions will fall flat. They’ll laugh at us.”
She glanced at the growing audience. “I’m sorry. I’ve never been in front of people before. They’re all staring at us. Gives me the jumps.”
I squeezed her hands in mine. “Don’t make eye contact. If we blunder, we try again, all right? It won’t be so bad, I promise.”
“Well, there are worse things,” she said, her face expressionless. “Like kissing Albert.”
We both giggled at the thought of puckering up to the footman.
“Ready, then?”
She nodded. “Mind if I have a drink first?”
“As long as it doesn’t make you sloppy.”
“It’ll help.”
“Very well, but not too much.”
She scurried off to the refreshment table and came back with a whiskey. In seconds, she gulped down the entire thing.
“I thought you were going to take it easy!” I glanced at the almost-filled set of chairs.
“You forget I was raised by an Irishman. An evening isn’t set to rights without whiskey.”
“Right.” We both knew she hadn’t had whiskey in ages. “Well, why don’t you stand behind the piano until we begin.”
I turned to the crowd and pasted a smile on my face, knees quaking. We had practiced the routine so many times I had dreamed about it. But what if I made a fool o
f myself? I glanced over my shoulder to seek reassurance in Claudette’s casual smile, but her back faced me. Swiftly, she tipped her head back and downed another whiskey.
“Claudette,” I hissed.
She spun around, but rather than guilt, her eyes shined and a smile lit her face. She had managed to kill the nerves, all right. I drew a finger across my neck and mouthed the words “no more.” She scuttled back to her spot behind the piano.
If she messed this up, I would strangle her.
The Duchess of Zurich joined me at the front of the room. “Please welcome Christine Daaé, diva from the Opéra de Paris. From what I’ve been told, she has more for us this evening after her concert. She is an illusionist as well.”
Several in the audience emitted cries of delight, some nodded, a few smiled. No one could resist an illusionist—unless they were terrible. I gulped. I could not be terrible.
I sang the first song, and when finished, I looked out at the sea of faces. Not a dry eye remained; they were enraptured by the music, by my voice. It was then, that it struck me. I must use both of my talents together. There was no reason why I should give up one for the other. My voice could be a part of my illusionist persona and my show. It would be my mark, what set me apart from the others! Joy rushed through my veins. I could honor both Papa’s wishes and my own, together.
When I finished my final song, I bowed at the hearty applause, a gleeful smile on my face.
The duchess stood again and said, “Messieurs, Mesdames, thank you for coming this evening. Now, may I present to you—well, once again I give you the Great Christine Daaé.”
Though I cringed at the introduction—I needed a stage name—the crowd clapped again, many with doubtful expressions on their faces.
Claudette joined me, and I performed my easiest illusions first: sleight of hand with a ball, then with cards, and then another illusion in which I made flowers appear in an empty vase with the help of a hat.
When the vase wobbled and began to tip, Claudette’s hand shot out to steady it.
The crowd tittered with laughter.
I blushed and my voice wavered as I began the next illusion.
We performed four small acts, and all were successful—mostly. The last illusion we bungled completely. I tripped over the edge of the table, knocking over a stand holding a “false” wooden egg.
“Slippery little guy,” Claudette said, snatching it up before it reached the audience.
They howled with laughter.
I burned with embarrassment until a smattering of applause broke out, followed by cheers.
Claudette winked at me.
They loved us! What could have been a disaster turned out both entertaining and humorous, because of Claudette. I broke into a smile as another realization dawned on me. Claudette couldn’t be stiff or mysterious. That wasn’t who she was. Why force her into that role? Her contribution to our show was humor and cheer, and the crowds would love her. Together, we would make an excellent team.
At the end of the act, we curtsied. Our presentation needed work, but we’d survived our first show.
Claudette squeezed me with all her might. “We did it!”
I laughed at her enthusiasm, but I beamed with joy as well. “Indeed we did.”
As the audience dissipated, we packed up our things. Everyone moved to another part of the house for refreshments—all but one man, who remained in the final row.
When I caught his eye, he clapped again, slowly.
My heart stopped.
Monsieur Delacroix winked and a sardonic grin stamped his face. “Bravo, Mademoiselle Daaé. So you’re an illusionist now. Bravo.”
24
"Are you friends with the duchess or did you follow me here?” I began packing the props into our bags at once. I couldn’t get out of there fast enough.
“I know all of the places you go.” His smile sent a shiver over my skin. “You’ve been busy with your illusions. Having costumes made, buying your props. Practicing at all hours.”
The lacy collar at my neck tightened as the air grew thick and hard to breathe. Delacroix had been spying on me, stalking me, just as Erik had. Were they so different, these men who sought to control me?
“What do you want, Delacroix?”
He grinned again. “Now, now. There’s no reason to be rude to the man who has made your life possible.”
“Don’t you mean the man who ruined my life?” I snapped, surprised by the strength I felt.
“Do you think you would have been chosen for a role at the opera house had I not intervened? You have a lovely voice, it’s true, but the choral director had no use for an inexperienced girl on his stage. Look at you now. You’re the main event.”
“You paid for my position,” I said, incredulous at his assertion. “Why did you do it?”
“Two reasons. I owed it to you after the loss you suffered in that fire. And also, I wanted to lure the Master Conjurer out of hiding. I had had no luck tracking him myself, but you were the key.”
“Why me? You could have asked Carlotta to lure him out.”
He snickered. “You never knew, did you?”
“Knew what?” I demanded, growing impatient with his game.
“His stage assistant was blond and blue-eyed, just like you. Beautiful and devoted, like you. A lovely singer, but truly a magician, just like you. One could say you were as alike as . . . mother and daughter.”
My body went cold. It couldn’t be—Mother had died of some illness. “No.” I shook my head vehemently. “Mother died.”
“Mother and daughter,” he emphasized the words. “The sad tale of the Daaés. Nanette met the conjurer at a show in Sweden. Oh, the Master Conjurer was always a frightening man to behold, but that didn’t scare her. She fell in love with his magic and his passionate demeanor, so unlike your father’s reserved nature. She left for Paris within a fortnight of meeting the illusionist. Your father loved her so much, he let her go—provided she agreed to leave you behind. He couldn’t bear to part with you. She resumed the use of her maiden name—Mademoiselle Cartelle—and joined Erik’s act. They traveled together and became inseparable, until the night of the fire. She perished there, just as your father did. Rather ironic, don’t you think?”
My head reeled. I leaned against a column for support. Was this true? I closed my eyes, searching my memory for clues. That night of the fire, the assistant wore a beaded costume. A glittering mask covered much of her face, but her blond hair shone like a halo in the dim stage lighting.
The room began to spin, my breath shortened. Mother had betrayed Papa, and left me behind. Papa had let me believe—made me believe—she was dead, to protect me. I couldn’t . . . I couldn’t fathom . . .
Erik had rescued me. He had called me Nanette! All along, he knew.
I stared at Delacroix, unable to speak, barely able to breathe.
Alarm in her eyes, Claudette tucked her hand under my elbow to steady me.
Erik’s obsession made sense at last—his need to be near me, his longing for me to love him. The many times he had snapped out of some almost-trance, looking at me as if he didn’t really know me. And he didn’t. He knew her, my mother—he wanted only her. Relief and pain and disgust folded together and I doubled over with the force of it.
The few memories of Mother that remained suddenly twisted and changed. The small illusions and sleights of hand, the way she encouraged my sense of wonder, and yet, she thought so little of me and of Papa, she abandoned us both. This mother, I did not long for. This mother made me ashamed I had ever belonged to her, that I was like her.
Delacroix folded his hands. “When the opera ghost saw you, another angel with a heavenly voice to match, I knew he would be instantly besotted. I daresay, he’s even more taken with you, my dear Christine, than he ever was with your mother.”
“Shut up!” I said through clenched teeth. “Stop talking! You didn’t know her.” My voice faltered. Neither had I.
He chuckled at my v
ehemence.
Claudette squeezed my hand. “Let’s get home. Madame will worry.” I heard the veiled panic in her voice.
He gripped my shoulders. “No need to worry about Madame Valerius. She’s safe at my house. For now.”
My fury gave way to a fear so potent, I thought I might retch. “What do you mean?”
“She’ll be staying with me until I get what I want.”
“What do you want?” I whispered, blood draining to my toes. “I’ve protected your secrets, though I have every reason to expose you.”
“And you’ll continue to protect me, or you’ll regret you ever crossed me. Do we understand each other?” I tried to pull free of his grip, but his fingers tightened. “You’ll go to your Angel of Music.” He smirked. “Steal his precious notes on raising the dead and bring them to me.”
I glowered at him. “Why do you need them? It’s not as if you believe in spirits anyway.”
“What I do with the information is none of your concern.”
“It won’t give you prestige. Your colleagues will laugh at your obsession.”
His grip on my shoulders tightened. “I suggest you hold your tongue.”
“You’re hurting me!”
And I will hurt your dear Madame, should you not do what I ask.”
“You wouldn’t,” I said, my voice hoarse. “She’s your friend.”
“Her husband was my friend. She’s just an unfortunate little old woman, who will not know what hit her. Perhaps that would be better, don’t you think? She can’t walk. Her health declines by the day.”
Delacroix wanted to frighten me. He wanted me to bend to his will. I wouldn’t. Not this time.
I met his gaze. “If you harm her in any way, I will see to it that you never work again.”
He laughed until tears gathered in his eyes. When he stopped, his expression grew fierce, his lips thin against his bared teeth. “I am surprised at your bravado, Christine. Don’t you remember the night your precious papa lay dying in your arms? How you almost perished yourself? I’m not afraid to do what I must.”