Costumes and Filigree: A Novel of the Phantom of the Opera

by Dayna Stevenson

  Ah, he knew what it was—she must think that, as a vicomte and the patron of the opera house, he would be far too busy to accompany her to Perros. She was correct, of course, but surely everything could wait if it meant furthering himself in the eyes of his temptress.

  She could have at least told him of her plans—even if he couldn’t have gone personally, he could’ve sent a trustworthy guard to keep her safe. With her out in the middle of the country, it would be easy for someone to—

  Egad! Why hadn’t he realized it sooner? She had been attacked by scum before, and in the middle of a bustling city—damn that Buquet! There was no scum greater than the stagehand, he was convinced, and they all most certainly knew where she was going. Imagine what a scoundrel could get away with no one around to hear her scream!

  Oblivious to the managers’ startled exclamations, Raoul leapt to his feet and raced out of the office. As he hurriedly located his coach and steered the horses towards the street, his mind filled with terrible thoughts of what a savage stagehand could do to the poor girl out there in the middle of a deserted cemetery. After yelling at his coachman that he was fired, Raoul whipped the horses to a gallop, and as they raced down the cobblestone street, he prayed that he wouldn’t be too late.

  Erik and Christine spoke very little on the way to Perros. Christine stared aimlessly out at the passing scenery, doubtlessly thinking of her father. Erik, wanting to respect her wishes, did not break the silence. It was just as well; driving was easy along the deserted roadway, and there was nothing to distract him from the pressing problem of the vicomte. He wasn’t certain what would happen if the dimwitted aristocrat decided to tail them to the cemetery; he had no problem fighting the vicomte, of course, but what about Christine? Today was supposed to be about her—giving her time to grieve, away from the troubles of the opera house. He supposed if the vicomte were to show up, he would just have to try to handle the situation without Christine learning of it.

  However, it was not just the present situation concerning the vicomte that he thought about. He could handle today’s problem, but what about the future? Christine had always lived in poverty, and an ostentatious life in a mansion as a vicomtess would certainly seem attractive to her. But surely Christine could see that the vicomte only wanted her because of her beauty. Just something to enjoy for a short while, like a cut lily meant to grace a vase for a week, then thrown out to make room for the next pretty flower.

  He worried a great deal about how much the vicomte could hurt her, and as much as it dominated his thoughts concerning the blasted aristocrat, it couldn’t completely obscure the sharp, throbbing pain he felt when he compared the vicomte’s handsome countenance and wealth to his own hideousness and modest means. But what could he do? He had tried several times to warn her about the man, but she refused to listen; the most he could hope for was that his words would sink in eventually. Anything more than that—threats, intimidation, kidnapping, murder—the violence, lust and hatred that had raged in his heart throughout his life—Christine had cleansed it all from his soul with those beautiful, beautiful words in the darkness of his caverns, as tears had coursed down her face: “I can accept you.” He couldn’t be that cold, hateful man anymore; but this conviction put him at a terrible disadvantage against the vicomte.

  Still, she had not asked the vicomte to come, she had asked him. Surely that was indicative of her feeling towards them both?

  So caught up in these thoughts was he that he didn’t even notice the town of Perros until it was right upon them. “Oh, look,” Christine exclaimed, tugging on the sleeve of his shirt like a child and pointing towards a shabby, leaning house they were passing. “That’s where Father and I used to live.” Her sad, contemplative demeanor was still oppressively present, but Erik was glad just the same that she could smile, if even for a moment.

  “He would sit and play the violin for hours,” she said slowly, glancing around at all the passing buildings as if they held many distant memories for her. “People would come from miles away to hear him play. He would never accept any money, though; he felt that, because he had never been visited by the Angel, he did not deserve their appreciation.”

  Erik felt a stab of anger twist in his gut, and he gripped the reins more tightly, willing himself to keep silent. How dare Gustave Daaé deprive his daughter of a decent life, just because of a blasted superstition? How dare he claim that he loved her, when he wouldn’t even accept money to feed his child? It had affected Christine terribly, he knew—he had seen the way her eyes shone when she was wearing one of the sumptuous costumes of the Opera, the way her beautiful face slackened in hopeless longing as she watched a noblewoman pass by. Wealth meant more to her than anything in the world. And as if it were not a terrible thing by itself, it was playing her right into the vicomte’s hands—the detestable fop could win her heart just with his riches alone.

  You don’t give her enough credit, the voice inside his head told him reproachfully. She does like ostentation, that is true, but if she desired it beyond all else, then why is she with you instead of with him?

  Before he could decide whether or not to believe the voice, Christine tugged on his sleeve again, more insistently this time. “Aren’t you listening to me?” she demanded. “I said, ‘Isn’t it beautiful?’”

  Realizing guiltily that he had missed the last few sentences of her causerie, he hurriedly regained his composure and replied, “Yes, it most certainly is,” though he had not the slightest clue what he was agreeing to.

  “It belongs to Raoul’s great-aunt,” she continued, staring past him at the object of her conversation.

  In confusion he turned to see what she was staring at. When he realized what it was, he shook his head disgustedly. To the east of the town was a large hill, at the crest of which rested a large semi-derelict castle from the days of the Dark Ages. It annoyed him somewhat that, though the vicomte was not tangibly with them, he was still present in their conversation.

  Oblivious to these unpleasant thoughts, Christine kept on talking. “His ancestors defended that castle from waves of English invaders over the centuries, he told me, so the family has never remodeled it—historical preservation is very important to them.”

  It seemed to Erik that living in a drafty castle, impossible to heat in the winter, was a foolish idea, no matter how proud one was of one’s ancestors. But if talking got Christine’s mind off of her grief, he supposed he could endure hearing about the vicomte. “Is that so,” he said stolidly, unable to think of anything more pleasant to say.

  “It was part of the Battle of Agin-bort, I think it was. Raoul told me.”

  “How…interesting.”

  They travelled in silence again, this time for only a few minutes, and Erik could see Christine grow more and more depressed as her thoughts returned to her father.

  Erik debated over whether or not to bring up a more cheerful subject, uncertain if she would appreciate the distraction, but before he could decide, she blurted out, “If it weren’t for the Chagnys’ valiant defense from the endless waves of British attackers, France would’ve been overrun!”

  The vicomte certainly must not think much of her, Erik thought furiously, if he expects her to believe that disgusting perversion of history. Of course, if he told Christine the truth—that the French had lost the Battle of Agincourt, and that it had not even been in a fifty mile radius of the Chagnys’ castle—she wouldn’t believe him. “That’s Agincourt,” he said.

  “Yes, that was it.” She was again silent for a time, until she again spoke to distract herself from her sorrow: “I met him not far from here, in Trouville-sur-Mer,” she said, watching the town’s citizens go about their daily business. Fortunately not many of the people were staring at them. Erik had purposely taken a back road to avoid being noticed, but they couldn’t avoid it altogether. He adjusted his mask, wondering distractedly if any of them recognized her.

  “I was walking along the beach and my scarf got lost in the sea—and
he rescued it for me.”

  Erik silently drove on, not trusting himself to speak. She was trying so hard to be cheerful…. He didn’t want to make it any harder for her. Thankfully the cemetery was not far from town, located on a precarious cliff overlooking the ocean. Tumultuous waves crashed against the rocks far below, and the salty air had escalated into a chilling wind around them. The sun was not far from setting, but it was so veiled by dark, impenetrable clouds that it could hardly be discerned from the endless mass of grey. It was snowing moderately now. The cemetery itself stood out from its dreary surroundings like a ghostly beacon, its white marble seeming to shine amidst the darkness from behind the groves of pine trees and jagged iron bars that enclosed it.

  Christine watched in surprise as he drove past the main gate and proceeded to steer the cabriolet around to the back. “What are you doing?”

  “I—I don’t want the coach to be stolen while we’re away,” Erik lied. In actuality, he was more concerned that the blasted vicomte would see it and know that Christine had not come alone. It would do his cause no good to alert the enemy to his presence. But there was no need to worry Christine about such things.

  “That’s a good idea,” she agreed. “You think of everything.”

  He stopped the coach by the rear entrance of the cemetery, where it was obscured from sight by a small grove of stunted elm trees. Casting a quick glance around to make sure the vicomte was nowhere in sight, Erik helped Christine out of the cabriolet and proceeded to inspect the wheels, one of which he feared had been damaged by a particularly large rock when they had turned off the main road. By the time he had secured the horses and started towards the gate, Christine had already entered and was walking slowly through the headstones, as if in a trance.

  Christine slowly approached the small, broken headstone, having completely forgotten about Erik, lost in thoughts of the past. The ethereal white edges of the stone slab were blurred in her tear-filled vision, and time seemed to slow to a crawl as she walked past dozens of neglected headstones. Marking the graves of the more distinguished personages were statues that seemed to stare at her, their blank, stone eyes mournful and yet coldly removed from humanly grief. She could vaguely feel the weeds poking up among the broken cobblestones through her worn slippers, but the sharp pricks barely penetrated her trance. She could not even feel the chilling wind, though her patched shawl was no match for its icy gusts.

  The grave was located near the back, a ways behind the tiny chapel that marked the center of the ancient churchyard. Because his grave was a more recent addition to the somber place, it had but a few graves nearby. As she drew near, she saw nothing but the cold, chiseled letters in the cheap stone: Gustave Daaé. She had come to Perros trying to keep gladness in her heart, wanting only to tell her father of her happiness—but now that she was here, standing above his grave, all joy was forgotten as her clouded vision flashed with a thousand memories, each poignant with the loss and grief of the knowledge that her father was gone forever. Her legs shook, unable to bear her weight any longer; she fell in front of the tombstone, trembling with exhaustion brought about by the well of emotion locked within her.

  As she wept in the rift of snow that had built up at the foot of the grave, she heard the sweet strains of a violin over the howling wind; she cried harder as she recognized the familiar melody of “The Resurrection of Lazarus.” Despair pierced her heart with the cold, and for an eternity she could not move, nor speak, nor even summon a conscious thought. As the melody crescendoed to its height, she found words etched on the tombstone pouring unbidden from her lips:

  “Jesus saith unto her, Thy brother shall rise again…I—I am the resurrection, a-and the life: he th-that believeth in me, though h-he were dead; yet shall he live… A-and when he thus h-had spoken, he cried with a loud voice, Lazarus—” Her voice broke as she crumpled in a torrent of sobs. “Lazarus, c-come forth! A-and he that…was…dead…” She trailed off, her heart sinking as realized that the last part of the verse, preserved in cheap stone, had crumbled away. “H-he that was dead…”

  Filled with the heartbreaking memory of her father relating this story to her, Christine could not recall the ending. It was all she could do to keep from collapsing completely into the freezing snow that sapped her strength as surely as her terrible grief. She could not find the faint rays of hope that Christ had promised, that the dead would live again. She could see nothing but a cold, despondent tunnel, bereft of all hope and light.

  Images of the underworld of Niflheim flashed before her eyes, cold and filled with veils of icy mist that obscured the dark realm. She saw Hel, the goddess of the damned, seated on her throne of bleached bones. The corpse-woman opened her arms wide, and Christine clapped hands over her ears to block out the terrible, terrible sound of wailing spirits, pleading, suffering—

  Suddenly she felt Erik’s presence behind her, and a comforting hand squeeze her shoulder. Then, as warmth flooded her, she saw the darkness melt away, replaced by a gentle light, and she remembered the final words:

  “And he that was dead came forth, bound hand and foot with graveclothes…Lazarus…raised…from the dead.”

  Chapitre Vingt-Cinq: Un Conversion et un Contusion

  Christine blew out the burning match and stepped back. The candlelight was not very strong, and much of the small chapel was left in shadow. It did, however, make the picture of her father upon the stone memorial glow with an almost heavenly light. “Father,” she murmured, bowing her head. The silence was broken only by the crashing of the waves below, which somehow soothed her grief. Erik stood unobtrusively in a far corner, unspeaking, but strengthening her; when he had helped her to her feet in front of her father’s grave, she had clung to him for a long time, his presence giving her the will to stop crying.

  She turned, feeling a sudden compulsion to confide in him. She had always kept her innermost grief to herself, not sharing it with anyone, not even Mamma. It had consumed her for years, and she had done nothing except mourn her father and her own misfortune; she had done absolutely nothing worthwhile. And yet, now that she had met Erik…she had done something. She had become a diva of the greatest opera house in Europe. But he had helped her accomplish something much more important; it was the least she could do to let him know how much he had helped her.

  “Erik?”

  He stepped forward, looking very somber. “Yes, Christine?”

  Christine, unsure of how to begin, crossed to one of the windows and raised her eyes to the grey, dreary sky. The stained glass in the other five windows had long since been broken and swept away; only this one remained. It was wrought in a likeness of Gabriel, the great archangel. The soft moonlight, partially obscured by a thin veneer of clouds, gave the colors of the glass a glowing, ethereal quality that made the angel seem to radiate the light of heaven itself. The light cast a veil of subdued blue from the angel’s wings to Christine’s pale face as she gazed at its beautiful, heavenly image. Somehow, it made her very happy that this one window had survived.

  “My father…he told me a great many stories,” she began, not taking her eyes from Gabriel’s divine face. “The same night he would tell me about the theft of Freya’s golden necklace, he would tell me about how God saved Daniel from the lions by sending angels to close their mouths.” She smiled mirthlessly. “Christianity and the Norse gods became very confused in my mind. Since his death, I…I’ve always believed more in the Northern gods than in the Christian one. I couldn’t bring myself to abandon all the things he believed in so dearly….

  “But Niflheim…I couldn’t bear to believe that he was in such a terrible place…. That I might…might never find him again….”

  Erik said nothing; he did not move, did not even seem to breathe in the chapel’s dim light. She knew he did not yet understand what she was trying to say, but he did not interrupt or try to hurry her to the point. It was a small thing, but she appreciated it more than she could possibly say.

  “I wanted to bel
ieve in Christianity, that one’s soul rises into the sky and lives forever in happiness. But I could never make myself believe it. It was just wishful thinking that I would see Father again. But…being with you…I…I think I finally know the truth.”

  She turned suddenly to face him, ignoring the tears spilling down her cheeks; oddly, though, the tears did not feel the same as they always had. Instead of being hot and shameful, and clouding her sight to the point of blindness, they were cool, and her sight perfectly clear; it was as if, as they flowed, a great weight was falling from her shoulders. “For the first time in my life, I can let go of the stories my father implanted in me. I didn’t fully realize it until just now, but…I don’t believe in the Angel of Music anymore.”

  For the space of an instant Erik’s expression changed, but returned so quickly to its original neutral state that she could have imagined it. But she thought she saw, in that instant, a strange conglomeration of confusion, guilt, and, oddly, hope. She couldn’t fathom it.

  Uncertain of how to continue, she returned to staring through the window. The dark clouds were visible even through the glorious colors of the undimmed glass. “Because of you…when you played ‘The Resurrection’ just now, I think I could finally see the truth.”

  There was a long, strange silence. Erik blinked slowly, and said at last, “Christine, I cannot tell you how happy I am for you, but I didn’t play it. My violin is in its case in the carriage.”

  Christine froze. “You—you d-didn’t play it?”

  “No.”

  At a loss for how to take such a revelation, Christine stared out the window for several long minutes without speaking.

  Before he could stop himself, Erik had crossed the dingy chapel with the intention of comforting her; but when he reached her, he hesitated. He wanted so badly to hold her, to comfort her, but as relaxed as she acted around him, he was afraid that she was still disgusted by his disfigurement—and he didn’t want to add to her grief. So instead of embracing her, as his body screamed for him to do, he simply squeezed her shoulder. She put her hand on top of his, still staring out at the broken headstone, barely visible under the mounds of snow. She was so beautiful in the blue and gold light that trickled, like a mist, through the stained glass, rivulets of tears glistening silver down her cheeks; it was all he could do to keep from taking her in his arms. But he wouldn’t stoop to the vicomte’s level. Besides, Christine’s eyes shone with newly found happiness, not sorrow—she did not need comforting as she had when they had arrived.