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

by Dayna Stevenson

  “WHAT—”

  “Hurry up—if you aren’t in my carriage in one minute, I’ll take some other, more appreciative chorus girl.”

  “I’M NOT A CHORUS GIRL!” she shrieked, stomping her foot in rage. “I’M A DIVA! I’m the most important woman in Paris! And you can’t treat me like a servant!”

  His impatient expression suddenly turned ugly. “You impudent little brat! You’re little better than a servant! You should be thanking me on your knees for paying you any attention at all!”

  Shrieking with fury, she was about to leap onto the marquis’ face and claw his eyes out when she heard pounding footsteps echoing down the hall. She turned to see Raoul rushing to rescue her from the demonic marquis. “Raoul, Raoul,” she cried, “get this horrid man out of my sight!”

  “You heard her!” Raoul shouted, brandishing his sword threateningly. “Get out of my opera house!”

  “She isn’t worth my time,” said the marquis calmly, fingering the gold cap on his cane. “Under normal circumstances I wouldn’t even bother.”

  “THEN GET OUT!”

  The marquis continued as if he hadn’t been interrupted: “But since you seem to have some odd fascination for the little rat, I just can’t walk away.” He pulled a necklace from his jacket pocket and dangled the glittering pendant in front of Christine’s eyes. “Look what I’ll give you if you’ll just have dinner with me.”

  Christine was about to damn the man to Niflheim—which, in the confusion, she had forgotten didn’t exist anymore—when her eyes fixed on the enormous diamond an inch from her face. It was the size of a small plum and sparkled with a rainbow of colors in the gaslight. She started to say no several times, but she couldn’t get it out.

  “See, marquis,” said Raoul triumphantly, “she doesn’t want your pernicious pendant. Now, my sweet, we’ll go—”

  “Wuh—wuh—well, maybe I could—”

  “Ha ha!” exclaimed the marquis.

  Raoul shoved the diamond out of Christine’s face and forcibly steered her towards the exit. “Come along, darling, move faster.”

  She continued to stare at the necklace in the marquis’ gloved hand, stammering incoherently as he dragged her down the hallway.

  “Buh—but Raoul, I could just—”

  “NO! He won’t really give you that diamond, Christine! He’s not a marquis—he’s a fiend—a contemptible scoundrel—the most threatening of the lobos trying to take advantage of your innocence!”

  The marquis laughed coldly. “Come now, Chagny, don’t be so melodramatic. And don’t worry, pretty little Christine,” he called to her. “I’ll be waiting when you return to the opera house tomorrow.”

  “She won’t be returning tomorrow!” Raoul hauled her around the corner and out of sight, but she could still hear the marquis’ mocking laughter.

  When they reached the doors, Christine finally rallied enough of her brainpower to make a coherent protest. “But there’s a rehearsal tomorrow! I have to be here!”

  “Nevermind the rehearsal!” Raoul snapped.

  “But I’ll lose my divahood!” she whined, falling to the floor and starting to cry.

  “This isn’t the time for a tantrum! Get up! I can hear his footsteps!”

  “I don’t care! I have to be here!”

  “How can you be so abominably stupid, Christine?! Why it’s enough to—” Raoul stopped abruptly as she started to cry harder and changed tactics: “It’s not just D’Aubigne! There’s the epidemic! It’s reached this area of the city, and it’s hitting it hard!”

  She stopped crying long enough to consider this declaration. “Is that why there aren’t enough stagehands?” she said, after a moment of intense thought.

  “Who cares?! It’s you that matters, Christine, and only you—if you stay here, in contact with the masses that come to view the opera, you’ll most certainly catch pneumonia and die!”

  “Really?” She wiped her nose on her sleeve. “Is it that serious? What is pneumonia, anyway?”

  Raoul suddenly noticed a man at the end of the hallway from where Christine had just walked, and his entire body tensed, as if he were a fear-struck animal that has caught sight of a monstrous predator. “God, there he is! Come on!” he shouted, throwing Christine off-balance as he bolted for the front entrance.

  “Raoul,” she whined, trying in vain to pull out of his grip, “where are we going?”

  “I’ll tell you in the carriage! Hurry!”

  “Take back the terrible thing you said!”

  “Yes, yes, I’m sorry! Hurry up!”

  “But I can’t leave—Erik’s expecting me for our lesson!”

  “Surely you can miss just—“ Raoul broke off suddenly, wondering if he had heard right. “Who is Erik?”

  “He’s the Phantom of the Opera and he’ll be angry if you make me miss my lesson so close to the—”

  “What?” Raoul breathed, his voice, almost a hiss, and his narrowed eyes made him look almost like a snake.

  She gasped and clapped a belated hand over her mouth.

  “You mean to tell me that you really are in contact with this—this womanizing fiend?”

  “He’s not a womanizing fiend!” she said loudly, extending her lower lip in a pout. “He’s wonderful!”

  “And you lied to me?” he continued, as if he hadn’t heard, his eyes going red like a bull that had caught sight of a waving cloth.

  “Yes, well, what did you want me to do? I couldn’t let you challenge him to a duel and deprive me of my instructor!”

  “And he was the hideous monstrosity who attacked me at Perros?!”

  “How dare you say that he’s a—what?!” she demanded. “Attacked you?! Why were you there? You followed me!”

  “Christine, you little fool!” he snarled, gripping her shoulders furiously and shaking her. “How could you consort with a monster—a hideous, manipulative monster! My God, I’ve blindly let you stay here, under his influence, for months, and—he did kidnap you, didn’t he?! Oh, God, you lied about that, too?!”

  She squirmed out of his grip. “Let me go! Stop being so mean! It’s all fine, don’t you see that? He was teaching me to sing, but I want to be a vicomtess even more than a diva now, so none of it matters!”

  He froze, hands still outstretched, and she could see furious thought behind his raging eyes.

  “Well then come on!” he declared, grabbing her arm and tugging her towards the doors.

  His wild anger seemed to have quelled somewhat, and she interpreted an acceptance of marriage in his response, so she happily walked with him for a moment before another thought suddenly came to mind. “Will I be back for supper?” she asked, dallying in the doorway. “Mamma is fixing mock turtle soup and—”

  “Of course you won’t! The pneumonia—and the damned marquis!—and oh, God, that monster!—they won’t be gone by suppertime! I’ll send a message to Madame Valerius that you won’t be able to make it!”

  She caught hold of a doorway, jarring their progress to a halt. “But I like that soup!”

  “Soup!” Raoul exclaimed, staring up at the heavens as if begging for patience. “There are wolves and plagues and she’s talking about soup! Christine, I’ll have my chef fix you whatever you want! Soups, salads, caviar, araignée de mer, filet mignon—”

  “But that necklace—”

  “I’ll buy you a bigger one!”

  “You will?”

  “Yes, yes, anything, just come!”

  She considered for a moment, and then ran to keep up with him.

  Raoul, having shoved the driver aside, whipped the horses to a full gallop along the streets of Paris, utterly ruining Christine’s chance to enjoy the scenery along the nine blocks to the Champs Élysées. He seemed almost frenzied, and it frightened Christine a little; he ignored everything she said the entire way, just as he ignored the shouts from pedestrians and screams from those he threatened to run over in his mad haste.

  She was already starting to regret her
hasty decision to flee the opera house; she should have taken more time to think things out. It was a flattering and exciting thought that she could have two noblemen in love with her, but she wasn’t sure she wanted it—the marquis had been so rude! She’d just have to live without the dazzling fortune he’d promised to spend on her.

  “Where are we going?” she shouted up at Raoul.

  “My mansion!” he yelled back, whipping the horses with even more fervor.

  She thought for a moment. It would be nice to spend a few days at Raoul’s glamorous mansion. The breach of etiquette would be overlooked, she was certain; they were engaged, after all, and it was an emergency. Besides, he could shower her with jewels and silks and chocolates to make up for the necklace she had just lost. But what about her divahood? She did want it, despite what she had just told Raoul. The managers had told her that if she missed one more rehearsal, she’d lose the part. And if the pneumonia were a danger, surely Erik would have warned her. Oh, dear—what had she gotten herself into?

  “Get out of the way, you blasted peasants!” yelled Raoul, brandishing his whip as the passersby leapt out of the way of the carriage.

  “Slow down!” she shrieked, holding on for dear life as they rounded a corner.

  He ignored her completely, and she continued to scream until the carriage came to a jarring halt, throwing her to the floor.

  Before she could get up, the door was yanked open and Raoul hurriedly helped her out of the carriage. It took her a moment to realize that the beautiful building in front of them was Raoul’s mansion.

  “Come on!” he said impatiently, grasping her hand and half-dragging her towards the front door.

  Christine caught a glimpse of the horrid butler as they passed through the doors and into the foyer. “Sir, what—” the man began to protest, but Raoul cut him off:

  “Prepare a room for Mademoiselle Daaé at once!”

  The butler continued to stare.

  “Get moving!” Raoul snapped.

  A man entered the foyer from what appeared to be a library. “Raoul, why are you shouting?”

  “Philippe!” Raoul seemed to force himself into a relative state of calm, though his body was taut and his eyes blazing with tension and impatience. “Philippe, this is Christine Daaé. Christine, this is my brother, the Comte de Chagny.”

  Philippe set down the book he was carrying and kissed Christine’s hand. He was tall and quite thin, and though he looked about thirty, the light in his dark blue eyes, wise and wearied, made him appear much older. “A great pleasure, mademoiselle,” he said, with grave sincerity. “I had the good fortune to witness your spectacular performance of Faust.”

  Christine decided immediately that she liked him. “Why, thank you, monsieur.”

  “Raoul, forgive me for asking, but what exactly are you planning to do? Mademoiselle de la Musardiere will be here any moment to plan relief efforts for the epidemic.”

  “Oh, blast it, I forgot! You’ll have to deal with her!”

  Philippe blanched. “What?”

  “I’m busy!” Raoul propelled Christine up the stairs to the second story. “Please, Philippe, this is an emergency!”

  “Raoul, you can’t ask me to—”

  Raoul stomped down the stairs until he was inches from his brother. “Do you recall the new Marquis D’Aubigne?”

  “Arnaud’s son? Yes—detestable fellow.”

  “He’s targeted Christine as his next victim! I barely managed to get her away from the Garnier before he got her!”

  “And you brought her here?”

  “Yes! It’s the only place she’ll be safe from him!”

  “And the plague,” Christine chimed in.

  “She means pneumonia.”

  “What about Idomeneo?” asked Philippe.

  “It’s not the primary concern here!”

  “But Erik will be upset if I’m not there for the opening night!” Christine whined.

  “Why do you care what he thinks? He’s a monster, for God’s sake!”

  “STOP CALLING HIM THAT!” she screamed, so loudly and shrilly that her throat burned—but Raoul clapped his hands over his ears, so, in her anger, she felt it was worth the pain.

  “Raoul,” interceded the comte, “You don’t think this is a bit excessive, bringing a woman to stay with us when the wedding is only—”

  “Philippe!” Raoul shouted, gripping his brother’s shoulders, on the point of frenzy. “PLEASE! At least entertain Veronique until I take care of Christine!”

  “Veronique? She’s your fiancée, right?” Christine asked Philippe.

  “ENOUGH TALKING!” Raoul thundered. “When she gets here—”

  A knock sounded at the door, causing them all to jump.

  “She’s here now! Philippe, please, please, if you value the reputation of the Chagnys at all, answer the door!”

  Philippe stood frozen in the middle of the foyer, staring at his frantic brother; for a horribly long moment, Christine watched fear and honor battling on his thin face.

  She tugged on Raoul’s sleeve. “What’s so bad about Veronique?”

  “Be quiet!” Raoul snapped.

  Shocked and hurt, she started to cry loudly. As Raoul hastily tried to comfort her, Philippe nodded hesitantly.

  “Thank you!” snapped Raoul.

  As Philippe headed for the door, Raoul raced back up to Christine and forcibly led her to a room at the far end of the hall.

  Chapitre Vingt-Neuf: Le Décision de Christine

  Leonhard Blaise set down the burglary report he was supposed to be reading, discarding it on top of a monstrous stack of paper that constituted the last two days of crime in Paris. He rubbed his temples resignedly, wishing it would all just disappear. He had joined the police force to combat iniquity and to help the common people—shackled behind a desk, the Prevote de Police did not track down any criminals, did not save any people from cruelty and misfortune. He wished he could have refused the promotion, but duty called him to serve the people as best he could. Still, it wasn’t very enjoyable to be the man that everyone came complaining to with their endless problems and criticisms of the police force.

  With a sigh, he picked up the next report and tried to force his eyes to do more than just slip aimlessly down the page. In capital letters across the top, this page was entitled “Arrest Report: Case #74 of December 1881.” Almost six hundred cases in the past two months. What was happening to this city?

  December 10, 1881

  Buiron Severin, age 36, arrested and escorted to La Santé Prison. Selling drugs claiming to cure pneumonia. Deadly effect. Arresting officer Sgt. Bettencourt.

  The signature on the scrawled missive was illegible, but Leonhard recognized the sharp, jagged handwriting of Gilbert Bettencourt. A noticeable tear where his fountain pen had marred the date, combined with the unacceptable brevity of the report, gave the whole paper an unprofessional quality that irked the Prevote greatly. He kept everything in his domain spotless and perfectly organized, and any report written this poorly would usually be sent back for modification before it was filed. But over the past few weeks, as the quantity of crimes had doubled, then tripled, the quality of paperwork had decreased tremendously. So, though it annoyed him personally, he would have to deal with the irritation and focus on the more important matter of saving the city from total corruption.

  The entire room shook as the office door slammed. The Prevote de Police looked up wearily. He had quite enough on his plate at the moment, but he could handle one more complaint today—it was part of his job. He attempted to put on a welcome smile for the man entering his office—but that was before he saw who it was.

  “Well, Monsieur Blaise?” The Vicomte de Chagny demanded. “Why haven’t you caught him yet?”

  Leonhard Blaise withheld a sigh of aggravation with some difficulty. “He escapes all our traps.”

  The vicomte loosed a short, derisive laugh. “He’s only a man, for goodness’ sake!”

  “He
is no ordinary man.” The Prevote lowered his gaze back to the dry report about the arrest of a poor woman who had stolen two bottles of medicine for her pneumonia-stricken son.

  “Well? Did you search Mademoiselle Daaé’s dressing room? Lie in wait for him?”

  Leonhard looked up into the vicomte’s fuming eyes. “Sir, I joined the police force so that I could help people. To try to make the world a better place, if I can. Not to sit here and listen to your unreasonable complaints. I am perfectly aware of your high status and…personal interest in the Phantom. But we are doing all that we can. And you are certainly not aiding us any.”

  The vicomte looked somewhat taken aback at this lack of respect. He was obviously not taking into account the hours upon end that the police had wasted listening to his inane disparagement and derision. But he regained his footing within a few moments. “But Mademoiselle Daaé’s life is in danger!”

  “So are the lives of thousands upon thousands of Parisians, and even her beautiful voice does not entitle her to special treatment in the face of this epidemic. Besides, the last I heard, she was safe and sound sitting on a silk pillow in the splendor of your estate.”

  The vicomte bristled angrily. “Leave it to a German to be so utterly contemptible!”

  “If you have nothing further to say, you may leave my office, monsieur.”

  “I could have your position, you know!”

  Leonhard laughed wearily. “You’re welcome to it.”

  “I demand to see the Préfet!”

  “As I imagine you are already aware, the Préfet is far too occupied with the current disasters facing Paris to take complaints, even from aristocrats.” Rising from his chair, he ushered the protesting vicomte out of his office. “When we capture him, you shall be the first to know.”

  Once the vicomte was safely out the door, the Prevote locked the door and set himself back down at his desk. “Well,” he muttered to himself, “that takes care of him, for the moment.” Though even dealing with the insufferable Vicomte de Chagny might have been preferable to pouring over these reports of such terrible human misery.

  Scrawling his signature on the thievery report, he placed it atop a neat pile and proceeded to the next paper.