“Who cares what the world thinks?” she snapped. “You’re letting him get away with a crime worse than murder!”
“I’m not letting him get away with anything, Christine—he’ll go to prison for this.”
“That isn’t good enough!”
“Then I’ll invent a few crimes to add to the severity of his sentence.”
“That’s still not good enough!”
“Do you really want to soil the pure white of your hands with his blood?” Erik asked. His disappointment pierced Christine like an icy dagger.
“Well…” She rubbed her arms. “No,” she said finally.
“Good. Then I will inform the police of the incident and have them send someone to arrest Buquet, and let Herr Blaise know this case holds my particular attention.”
“You know the Prevote de Police?”
“He is an acquaintance.”
She thought about it for a moment and recalled that it had been the Prevote who had handed her Erik’s note concerning Tannenbaum. She blushed as she remembered the incident and brushed it aside, returning her attention to Erik’s proposition. “Oh…well…okay,” she conceded at last, somewhat begrudgingly.
As Christine watched her masked rescuer secure Buquet’s hands and feet with the lasso and roll him into the obscurity of the shadows, she thoughtfully chafed her hands in an effort to warm them. She couldn’t be surprised that the gods had not saved her—they had foreseen that their intervention would be unnecessary, of course. What bothered her was that Raoul had not been her savior—a handsome knight who would prove his love in a show of valiant courage against a wicked foe, as she had heard in Mamma’s bedtime tales. What was worse was that she couldn’t tell herself that Raoul had been blocks away at his mansion, completely unable to rescue her, because she knew for a fact that he was here at this very moment: yesterday he had announced his intention to inspect the entire building from the lowest cellar floor to the statues gracing the roof terraces. He should have rescued her. And anyway, he told her he’d requested a list of all employees for inspection last week; why hadn’t he fired a man as worthless, drunken, and evil as Buquet?
Erik stepped closer. “Will you be all right now?”
Her breathing was still faster and shallower than usual, but she could feel the adrenaline starting to fade. “Yes.”
“Good. I’ll see you safely home before going to the station.”
“What if Buquet escapes?”
Erik glanced at the bound lump in the shadows. If the seriousness of his expression didn’t countermand it, she could have sworn she saw something akin to faint amusement glint in his eyes. “Even if he regains consciousness before the police arrive, I doubt very much that he’ll be able to free himself.”
“Oh—alright.”
The roaring fire of strength and fury in Erik’s eyes ebbed to a soft, almost wistful candlelight as he looked at her. Christine was surprised as the icy fear she associated with Erik’s hideousness could only offer a lukewarm revulsion, warmed by the light in his beautiful eyes. Slowly he reached up with one black gloved hand to touch her cheek; at the last moment he hesitated and withdrew it.
For a long moment she just stared up into those eyes, wondering what she thought of him. As she basked in the obvious love and concern he held for her, she decided that he wasn’t a troll or a goblin—he was a fellow human being. A gruesome, hideous one, certainly, but a human being nonetheless. She realized, with a mixture of emotions, that she didn’t fear him anymore—she could depend upon him to come to her aid no matter what.
Of course, that didn’t make him a match for Raoul by any means. And thinking about the face under that white mask still made her feel ill. But she felt that they could be friends for a while—she was a big enough person to put aside her disgust and be kind to him. Yes, they could be friends. Until she married Raoul.
“Bon jour, Monsieur le Vicomte!” greeted Richard the following day, shaking Raoul’s hand amiably. “Absolutely wonderful timing—Moncharmin and I were just engaged in a debate over box seating prices.”
“I’m afraid I know very little about economics, gentlemen,” replied the vicomte, with a genteel smile. “That would be one of my brother’s many fields of expertise.”
“Well then, we’ll simply have to call upon the comte.”
“Won’t you sit down, monsieur?” interposed Moncharmin, looking up from a mountain of interspersed letters and bills.
“I don’t believe I’ve met him but once,” Richard continued.
“He’s a bit of a recluse,” said Raoul apologetically, seating himself in the expensive rosewood chair in the forefront of the managers’ office. The whole office smelled of paper and ink, and piles of bills and letters towered precariously atop every piece of furniture and even the floor. In a quick glance he saw several complaint letters, one piece of paper with the letterhead of the Préfecture de Police (probably an excuse as to why they had not discovered the identity of the Phantom), an itemized list of the Garnier’s inventory, and numerous bills for cloth, lumber, furniture, arrangements of flowers, ballet shoes, and everything else imaginable.
“Is he still interested in patronage of the Garnier?”
“If you seem to recall, gentlemen, it is much more his patronage than mine.”
The two managers exchanged a rather surprised glance. It was Moncharmin who spoke first: “He seemed quite enthused about it when we met with him in September, but he has only attended one performance—just once during Faust, isn’t that right, Richard?—”
“I believe so.”
“—since our acquisition of the opera house.”
Raoul tapped the gold cap on the bottom of his cane against the floor, somewhat agitated, as always when making excuses for his misanthropic brother. He liked his brother well enough, certainly, but it was positively humiliating to have such a hermit in the family. Philippe was a fount of knowledge concerning mathematics, philosophy, science, finances, history, and even societal conventions, but everything he knew was purely theoretical—he never got a chance to practice even his strict adherence to traditional etiquette except with the servants, because he rarely suffered to go out. The man was so afraid of women that he could never marry, but he would never be able to enjoy the freedom and pleasures of bachelor status, either. It was pitiful.
“That is correct,” he said, placing a sharp, almost angry accent on the last T that conveyed much more of his impatience than he had intended.
Apparently Moncharmin thought a change in subject was in order, for he said, “You rushed out in quite a hurry yesterday during the inspection of the costumery.”
“I apologize heartily, messieurs—I suddenly remembered a pressing appointment.” An appointment named Margot, he thought with a small, satisfied smile. So beautiful, so brainless, so absolutely—
“You wired three days ago to tell us you had finished reviewing the list of employees, Monsieur le Vicomte.”
“Yes—I’m sorry I didn’t keep my appointment on Tuesday to discuss the list, but I had important matters to attend to.”
“You have no need to apologize to us,” Richard assured him. “There would be no Opera Garnier without your family’s generous support.”
“Yes. What was I saying?” Thought of the sumptuous Margot had erased all thought of business matters from his mind.
“You had reviewed the employee list.”
“Ah yes—or, rather, my brother has. He finds immense dissatisfaction with the stagehands, and frankly, so do I. I’ve talked to a few of the chorus girls, and they assert that the hands are, for the most part, sloven drunkards.”
“Yes, we’ve heard,” Moncharmin said, pressing his lips together unhappily. “But we looked into hiring more able men—”
“And found,” Richard finished, “that we can’t hire anyone more respectable without increasing their weekly wage by at least one-third again as many francs.”
“The ballet girls complain these men pursue them with ob
jectionable vulgarity, especially that Buquet fellow,” Raoul objected, feeling that his Chagny heritage required him to bring up this point.
“And the girls pursue the men with equal vigor,” said Richard dryly.
“You can at least dismiss Buquet.”
“No, monsieur, we really can’t—Buquet might be a heavy drinker, as we’ve heard, but he knows the sets and rigging better than any man living.”
Raoul shrugged. “Very well then, gentlemen—it doesn’t matter to me.” He stood and shook hands with both men. “Good day, messieurs.”
Christine was walking to practice when she ran into Raoul coming out of the managers’ office. “Bon jour, Christine!” He kissed her hand. “How is my ravishing rose today?”
“Terrible,” she snapped, removing her fingers from his grasp. “Where were you yesterday while I was being attacked?”
He gripped her shoulders, perfect azure eyes suddenly wide and frantic. “You were attacked? Mon Dieu, my darling, my precious, what happened? Are you all right?”
“No! Look at me!” She pointed at her face angrily. “I was so terrified that I’ve broken out! Look at these horrid pimples! How could you do this to me?!” Suddenly her eyes widened and she clapped her hands over her face to hide the disfiguring blemishes, as if they were visible through the vast amount of makeup she was wearing. “No wait, don’t look at me! Don’t look!”
“Who was it?!” Raoul demanded, not seeming to have heard her. “I’ll kill him, Christine, I swear I will!” He clapped a hand to his belt, grasping for a weapon that wasn’t there. “Damnation!—oh, sorry, my love, I didn’t mean to curse in your presence!—I’ll just have to fight him without my rapier!”
Without waiting for her to reply, he threw open the office door and shouted to the managers, “A scoundrel has attempted to attack Christine Daaé! Inform the police! Summon the army! I’m going on ahead to challenge him!” He turned back to Christine. “Where is he, mon precieuse? I’ll slaughter him for what he’s done to you!”
“No!” Christine wailed, tears of frustration coming to her eyes. “Why can’t you just listen to me?! It’s already been dealt with! While you were sitting in that office”—she jabbed an accusing finger towards the managers, who were staring at the scene from the other side of the doorway—“doing absolutely nothing!”
“I’m sorry, Christine, I didn’t know you were in danger, how could I?”
“Why didn’t you fire Buquet?” she whined, feeling the terror as Buquet held the broken bottle up to her face, the frustration as she realized that no one was coming to save her, the disappointment that Raoul had not been the one to rescue her—the emotions raged in her chest, mixing and fighting and augmenting into a rage so large that she felt her stomach threaten to revolt. “You knew that this would happen!”
“How the devil should I have known?” Raoul demanded, starting to get angry.
“Why didn’t you fire him like we asked you to?!”
“You didn’t say a word to me!”
“But the chorus girls did! I didn’t think you needed me to spell it out too!”
“I told the managers to fire him!”
“Now wait just a minute,” Richard interjected hotly. “You said—”
“Shut up!” roared Raoul.
“If you fired him, then why did he attack me yesterday?!” demanded Christine.
“Buquet attacked you?” the managers exclaimed in unison.
“Yes! And he would have cut up my face if Erik hadn’t saved me!”
“Erik?” said Moncharmin.
“Yes, Erik—” She cut off as she realized her mistake. She couldn’t admit that she was on first-name terms with the Phantom, bane of the managers’ existence. And what would Raoul do if he found out how much time she was spending with another man, even if it was just business? “Just one of the stagehands, messieurs, that’s all,” she said quickly.
“Where is Buquet now?” Raoul slammed his gold cane into the floor. “I’ll see that he is executed for this outrage!”
“He’s already been taken to the police,” she snapped.
“Oh.” Raoul was silent for a long moment, his anger draining. When he spoke again, he had regained his composure. “Thank God you’re all right, my darling. I’ll have to thank this—what was it? Erik—personally.” He turned to the managers. “Good day, messieurs.”
He closed the door and escorted Christine down the hall, holding her close, and murmured in her ear, “I’ll have this man Buquet’s head on a platter for you, if that is your desire.”
“Oh, yes, Raoul, that would be—” Suddenly her mind recalled Erik’s words: “Do you really want to soil the pure white of your hands?”
“Yes, my enticing enchantress?”
“That is—I did want—I don’t know,” she moaned, confused and uncertain of what she wanted. “He doesn’t deserve to live, not after what he tried to do, but…”
“But what, my blossom?”
“I—I don’t want to have his blood…on my hands.” The words sounded foreign to her, as if they had been spoken by someone else. “I don’t know what I want.”
“You won’t have any blood on your hands, my precious one—he deserves to die. You said it yourself. You would be in the right to demand his death.”
“But, after all, he didn’t even cut me—”
Raoul grabbed her shoulders, shaking his head emphatically. “It doesn’t matter! He fully intended to destroy your ethereal beauty, the most precious thing you or anyone can ever possess.”
“Yes, but—”
“Don’t worry, I’ll arrange everything. He’ll never bother you again!”
In a daze, Christine walked with Raoul to the west doors where his cabriolet was waiting, unsure of what she wanted. She felt giddy from the power Raoul offered her—she held a human life in her hands, and only she could decide if he lived or died…. She wanted to lash out in revenge against Buquet, a feeling heightened by Raoul’s insistence on the matter, but she could still feel Erik’s steadfast presence, calming the vengeful fire pounding in her chest.
“No,” she said finally. “It’s fine.”
He shrugged. “Well, if you’re certain.” He climbed into the coach.
“Can we go to dinner tonight?”
“No, my luminous lily, I have a prior engagement. But I am free tomorrow, and I shall pick you up here for lunch.”
He kissed her hand and rode off before she could ask him what exact time he had meant. “Yes, Raoul,” she called after him, but he was too far away to hear.
Chapitre Dix-Neuf: La Infidélité du Vicomte
Christine tapped the golden knocker against one of the enormous double doors. They’re large enough to be doors of Valhalla, she thought, admiring the intricate patterns carved into the wood. The gods must be very jealous of this mansion!
One of the doors opened to reveal an affluently dressed doorman, who bowed to Christine most gravely. “Good day, mademoiselle.”
“I’m here to see Raoul,” she said, striving to effect the powerful, condescending tone of a noblewoman.
The doorman blinked slowly, and Christine squirmed uncomfortably, self-conscious of her stage makeup, which she had palpably overdone in an effort to please her future husband. She could tell what he was thinking: Should I let this poorly-dressed girl who asks for my master—and so informally!—into his house?
“I mean, I wish to speak to Monsieur le Vicomte de Chagny,” she corrected, biting her lip. She shouldn’t have come. Raoul had told her to wait at the opera house. But she’d grown so tired of waiting, and it was only a short drive from the opera…. Oh dear, she should have been more patient; Raoul would have come! How would she explain to Mamma that she had spend the grocery money she had been entrusted with to get here?
The man continued to deliberate, and she considered leaving before Raoul found out that she hadn’t been patient enough to wait for him. But she had no money for a coach home, so now that she was here, she w
ould have to stay. “I am Christine Daaé,” she added tentatively. “Diva of the Opera Garnier.”
After a moment more of intense scrutiny, the man stood aside to allow her ingress. “Very good, mademoiselle,” in a voice that said just the opposite.
He led her into a heavily furnished sitting room, bedecked with ancient tapestries depicting the various conquests of the ancestors of the Chagny line. He motioned for her to sit. “If you will give me your card and kindly wait here a moment, I will see if the vicomte is at home.”
“My…card?” she repeated stupidly.
“Yes, mademoiselle.”
She blushed, unwilling to admit to this judgmental man that she was just a poor peasant girl who didn’t have use for expensive calling cards. Now that she was a diva, she would have to have some made. “He doesn’t need my card; he knows me quite well. And shouldn’t a servant know if his master is at home or not?” she added, a bit condescendingly.
The man bristled at her comment. “I am not just a servant, mademoiselle, I am the butler of the Chagny house. And when I say ‘if the vicomte is at home,’ I mean that I will see if he is receiving visitors at the present time.”
“Oh.” Christine looked away, trying to appear haughty and uncaring of her blunder; in truth, it hurt her to realize just how far behind Raoul’s social status she was, and not just in terms of money.
With a clap of his gloved hands, the butler summoned another flawlessly-dressed servant and whispered something in the his ear. Both pairs of eyes flickered towards Christine, with an insulting mixture of distrust and disdain. Then the butler departed, his uniform and formal stride reminding Christine of a toy soldier. She walked closer to the doorway to see him ascend the grand staircase and disappear through a doorway on the left. Slowly, she sat down again.
The other man had stayed, hands clasped stiffly in front of him. Christine leaned back into the couch, pondering as to the man’s intent. Suddenly it hit her, and she gasped in anger: this man was making sure she didn’t steal anything!
Costumes and Filigree: A Novel of the Phantom of the Opera Page 21