His words made me feel even more chill. “Hugo was only writing a novel. Quasimodo did not exist.”
“But the Phantom does, and he is truly the soul of this place.”
“You cannot be serious. A building, a place, cannot have a soul.”
“I am serious. He is an unusual man, a true genius. In places I see the evidence of his presence, of his work, but certain other correspondences are so striking that I wonder if something larger is not at work.”
“What are you saying?”
He turned and gave me that familiar ironic smile. “Must I spell out everything? Very well–some power, some god or deity, beyond our ken.”
“You are serious.” My hushed voice was quickly swallowed up by the silence around us.
“I shall give you an example. Have you noticed the two most familiar motifs in the Opera, the symbols repeated over and over?”
I tried to think, but I was cold and afraid. “There are statues everywhere, and columns...”
“No, no–not architecture. What lines the outer perimeter at the top of the building?”
I had to think, to mentally place myself before the entrance. Then it came to me, the image of green faces with black holes for eyes and mouths, faces all in a row. “Masks–masks.
“Exactly! Masks. Everywhere you turn there are masks, the Greek representations of drama, of comedy and tragedy, repeated endlessly. There are more masks on the roof all around the lantern, there are the faces representing the Zodiac carved by Chibaud. Masks are one symbol, and the other golden symbol Apollo himself holds forth to the heavens at the highest point of the Opera.”
I did not at first realize he was speaking concretely, not abstractly. “Apollo’s lyre,” I said. “Apollo holds a golden lyre.”
“Yes. The lyre also appears everywhere, even in the fence before the Opera. They are the two key symbols, the mask and the lyre. Our Phantom wears a mask, and he has mastered music, the lyre, as has no other man. His powers on the violin and his singing are beyond belief. Do you now understand the strange correspondence I spoke of between him and the Opera?”
I shuddered. “Yes. It is uncanny. Is he... is he a man?” For the first time I was so shaken that I could almost believe he was a supernatural being, angel or demon.
“Is our Angel of Music a man?” He stopped poling, and the boat slowed, the turbulence radiating outward from the hull in great, dark circles. “Yes, he is a man, a poor weak mortal like ourselves.”
“How can you be so certain?”
“Because he loves Christine Daaé.”
Her name rippled through the air even as the waves upon the water, echoing throughout the vast cavern, and then the woman’s voice began again, singing the same sad, beautiful melody. I hunched my shoulders, the chill seizing at the nape of my neck, and felt my body quake with a will of its own, a thing apart from me. The voice had an odd timbre, the pitch so high it must be a woman, and although it was miraculously beautiful, I could hear the singer’s pain.
Holmes pulled the pole out of the water and laid it across the prow, then he took both the dark lantern and the revolver from my weak hands. Carefully he shone the light about us. “Erik!” he cried. “Erik!” The siren’s voice ceased abruptly. “Erik, come speak with me. I shall not harm you, I give you my word. Come forth and speak to us, and I shall throw away the revolver. I would be your friend, not your enemy.” His words died away, swallowed up by the vast silence of that subterranean lake.
“You cannot harm us, and we mean you no harm. I know who you are and how you suffer. Come speak to us. Please.” This time I heard the faint echo of that last word: “...please...” We waited, but there came not a sound, not a murmur. The boat had begun to turn slightly.
“Damnation,” Holmes muttered. “Damnation.” He gave me the revolver and the dark lantern, then seized the pole and started us forward again.
“Was he really there?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“But that was a woman’s voice.”
“Henry, can you fathom nothing for yourself?”
Cold and discouraged as I was, his anger cut at me. Why had I ever chosen to accompany my cousin? Perhaps he, like Erik, was beyond the comprehension of mortals like myself. “No,” I replied.
“That was his voice. Man, woman, bass, tenor, soprano or contralto, he can do them all, and he can also project the voice far beyond himself. A toad, as well. Yes, he can most definitely do a toad.”
“Carlotta. That was how he did it. She never made that sound.”
“I told you so, did I not? He drugged the prompter and took his place in the prompter’s box. That was also him saying, ‘She is singing to bring down the chandelier.’”
“If that is true, then who released the chandelier? How did he make it fall?”
“I suspect an accomplice, but there is a problem with that supposition. It does not quite fit.”
“What is the problem?”
“The problem is that he is alone.” Holmes stopped poling, glanced all about us. Ahead I could see a black archway opening up in the stone wall. “Everything about him speaks of a being subject to a frightful loneliness, a profound separation from all other men. How can he be so alone and still have a companion who serves as accomplice? Yet someone cut off the gas to the chandelier and then released the chain holding it. I do not believe the Phantom could be in two places at the same time, regardless of his other powers. You do understand that we have met the Phantom; we have even seen his frightful face.”
I thought for a moment. My brain felt sluggish, my body very weary. “The Red Death.”
“Very good. There is yet hope that we may make a consulting detective of you.” He said this not in disparagement, but with a certain warm amusement. I sensed he was sorry for his earlier display of anger.
We came closer to the wall, and the lantern illuminated enough of the archway that I could see the black water pass into it. “Are we going much further?” I asked.
“I think not. The dungeon is half a mile through that arch. Shine the lantern more to the right there. Look–look! Do you see the door?”
The yellow-white light showed a rusty rectangle set into the stone wall. As we came closer I saw that it was indeed a door, a formidable one, its face of solid metal. When we reached the stone landing, Holmes slipped the rope at the prow through an iron ring. He leapt ashore, setting the boat aquiver, then took the dark lantern from me.
“Wait a moment, Henry.” He dropped down upon all fours and peered closely at the ground, the yellow light spilling before him. “Someone has been this way just now. There are footprints, wet footprints.” He returned to the boat and extended a hand. “Come.” His fingers felt like cold bone. “You are shivering. I think we are nearly finished here.”
He turned, swinging the lantern about. “Let us have a look at this door.” He raised his head, inhaling through his large nose, the bowler hat hiding part of his distinctive profile.
“Yes, our Erik is cautious. That lock is of English make, and even a very skilled burglar could not pick it. The frame is steel set into stone, and I would wager the door itself is solid steel. Perhaps it is only oak with a thick coating of metal. That would suffice. The hinges are on the inside, of course. You could not batter down this door without collapsing the entire wall, and it would require a mechanical ram. Your medieval soldiers with an oaken beam would hardly dent it. Yes, a formidable barrier, and were an assault made upon it, Erik would not loiter about.”
“How could he get away?”
“Henry, do most homes have only a front door?”
I sighed. “I see why you think me hopelessly stupid. There must be a hidden passageway.”
“Very good. I have no doubt that he took some liberties with the architectural plans while he served as contractor. Work crews have a way of asking no questions if the pay is sufficiently high. The Opera is something of a labyrinth, is it not?”
“Yes.” I gave an enthusiastic nod.
“Within this labyrinth lies another, a network of secret passages and hidden chambers which would take as long to master as the Opera itself.”
“Would they not be interconnected so that if once you found one...?”
“I very much doubt it. He is far too clever for that. Sometime we shall try the one in Christine Daaé’s dressing room.”
“Behind the mirror.”
“Exactly. Did you notice the eye in this door?” He pointed to what at first glance seemed an imperfection in the metal; on closer look it was an opaque piece of glass three-quarters of an inch across.
“What...?”
“It is a peephole with a lens which allows the person inside to examine all visitors.”
My fear returned abruptly. “Do you think...?”
“I am certain he is peering at us at this very moment.”
“Good Lord.” I tipped my hat back and put my hand over my forehead.
“I do not think he will open up, so we shall soon depart.” He turned to the door, smiling strangely. “You would not care to reconsider and let us in for a chat? We have much to discuss, and I would give anything to hear you play the violin again.” Gradually his smile faded away. “The managers are buffoons, and the Viscount is a young puppy with less breeding than any of his dogs. I doubt you will believe me, but I would like to help you. I would not willingly bring harm to you. Perhaps a part of you is deformed, twisted, corrupted, and I do not refer only to your face. Still, there should be a place in this world for a man such as you. Your genius is wasted down here, wasted. Can the rats appreciate your music? Can even Christine Daaé? Please open the door.”
But there was only silence, that cold, dark silence which had sunk its tendrils through the very stones and claimed the black waters for its own. We were further beneath the earth than most corpses; the tombs of Paris and their dead lay above us, nearer to the sun. I remembered Dante’s Satan frozen in ice at the center of Hell, and the fear closed about my heart.
“For God’s sake, Sherlock.” I clutched at his arm. “Let us get away from here. Now.”
His eyes remained fixed on the door. “Very well.”
Somehow I managed to stumble back into the boat. Falling into that icy water seemed the worst thing I could possibly imagine.
Holmes pulled off his tweed jacket and handed it to me. “Put this on.”
“Are you not cold?” I stammered, putting it on only too gladly.
“Not particularly. The punting has warmed me. You have greater need of it than I.” He stepped into the boat, then pulled free the rope and used the pole to shove us away from the landing. My hands made the lantern shake. I set it on my knees, but still it quivered. “There is food in the satchel, Henry.”
“I have no appetite.”
“It might warm you.”
“No.”
“Seven arches, then we turn to the left. It will seem faster returning.”
The boat glided through the water, Holmes’s breath forming a halo of white vapor about his head. His white shirt seemed very bright set against all the darkness. His vest, trousers, and the bowler hat appeared black.
“Henry, humor me. Close the shutter of that dark lantern for a moment. I wish to conduct an experiment.”
“But it will be pitch black.”
“For a moment only.”
“Very well.” I closed the shutter, plunging us into darkness. I should have guessed the effect it would have on me. Thoughts of the grave came to mind again and of the tons of stone overhead crashing down upon us. I bit down hard on my lower lip, then said, “Enough?”
“Do you see the light?”
“Light?” I blinked, then noticed a faint, liquid luminescence all about us, a cold blue. “What is it?”
“Some naturally occurring phosphorescence.”
The longer we sat in darkness, the bluer it seemed. However, all was formless: dancing points of light and strange swirling colors similar to what you see when you close your eyes and stare at the inside of your eyelids. I could not tell what was real, what a trick of the mind. The silence was absolute, the faint murmur of Holmes’s breathing all that I could hear.
“It is... strangely beautiful,” he said.
At once I opened up the lantern, flooding the dark waters again with light. “Let us go! We must leave this place–you must leave it.”
He turned toward me, and for an instant his eyes were angry. “Very well, Henry. You are correct, as usual.” He began to pole, and the boat slowly gained speed.
I feared we might hear the siren’s voice, but the rest of our journey was made in uninterrupted silence.
Nine
Christine Daaé caused a sensation in La Juive. Carlotta’s partisans were out in force, determined to vanquish the usurper, but they were either overwhelmed or converted on the spot. Daaé’s portrayal of the Jew Eleazar’s fragile, persecuted daughter, Rachel, was everything one could wish for, both musically and dramatically. Her voice soared into the high registers, the tone incredibly beautiful, yet full and (so Holmes assured me) absolutely on pitch. At the final curtain call the crowd went berserk, applauding loudly and shouting bravos.
As a measure of our reconciliation, the Viscount had invited us to his box, and he, too, applauded enthusiastically. All the same, in his eyes I discerned a certain wary puzzlement. He had the type of leaden, petty soul which could never comprehend her art, and her singing was also a link to the despised Erik, her maestro. The Count’s manner toward us was glacial, his fury barely contained. No doubt he did not care for his brother’s game of feigned engagement and our part in it.
Holmes was weary. Our journey on the underground lake had made quite an impression on us both. I had caught a slight cold, and Holmes seemed disappointed, discouraged.
After the performance on Saturday night, we did not return to the Opera House until the following Monday. The managers were in exceptionally good spirits. La Juive had sold out, and the papers were filled with rhapsodic praise for Christine Daaé, the critics for once unanimous in their verdict. Already the managers were receiving telegrams of inquiry from their counterparts throughout Europe. Tickets for Faust, scheduled for the following Saturday, were the most precious commodity in all of Paris.
Later that afternoon, Holmes and I were chatting in the foyer with Monsieur Bossuet when Christine Daaé and the Viscount walked by on their way to the auditorium. Bossuet was telling us about the new electrical light system which would be illuminating the exterior of the Opera on Saturday evening. Holmes brought our conversation to a close, then drew me away and led me upstairs. We went to the door on the grand tier marked Five. Holmes took out a key, unlocked the door, and gestured for me to enter. Once inside, I placed both hands on the golden railing and looked down.
The stalls were empty except for Christine and the Viscount. They sat in Row One, their backs to us. The high-pitched ripple of her laughter filled the empty hall. A few workmen on the stage were dismantling the set from La Juive. Holmes grasped my arm with one hand, and pointed with the other to our right near the back of the theater. Even had I not recognized the features, the astrakhan hat would have given him away.
“The Persian,” I whispered. “Whatever is he doing here?”
Holmes shrugged. He turned, then stared intently at the gilded pillar to the left side of the box, the palm of one hand resting upon his waist. Suddenly he dropped down to his knees, bent over, and peered closely at the red carpet. “Open the door, please. I require more light.”
I did as he asked. “What is it?” I said. He did not even seem to hear me.
“The box has not been visited since Saturday night, and Erik has large feet, unusually large.” Finally he rose. “Come.” He closed the door behind us and locked it. Before I could question him further, he said, “I do not like the Persian being here. Perhaps I am being premature in my judgment, but it does not bode well. We have problems enough. Erik has made too many enemies, far too many. His only other friend is Christi
ne Daaé, and she cannot be trusted.”
“And who is the other?”
He gave me a disapproving glance. “Sherlock Holmes.”
“Are you serious?”
“Certainly.” He started down the stairs.
“But we do not even know the fellow.”
“Ah, Henry, you could not be more mistaken. I know him only too well.”
Holmes went to the large dressing room of the men’s chorus. It was deserted that afternoon. He opened a leather satchel and withdrew some dirty clothes. “Put these on.” He removed his own frock coat and unbuttoned the buttons of his waistcoat.
“What for?”
He gave me that disapproving glance.
“I am sorry. Obviously we are to be disguised again.”
“Exactly. I want to keep an eye on Christine Daaé, the Viscount, and the Persian. Especially the Persian.”
He put on the blue workman’s clothes, then took out his makeup box and sat before a mirror. He parted his hair in the middle, then began constructing a false mustache.
I sniffed at the shirt he had given me, then frowned. “Sometimes you carry verisimilitude too far.”
“One can never carry verisimilitude too far.”
“Where on earth did you get these?”
“From two gentlemen I spied on the street. In return I purchased them new suits and boots at a department store. We were all most satisfied with the arrangement.”
I pulled on a worn boot. “At least the boots fit.”
“I confirmed that before making the offer. They had the most curious expressions on their faces when I inquired about their shoe sizes. How does this look?”
I could not help but laugh. Remarkably dexterous and quick, he had transformed himself almost in an instant. His nose, that angular beak, had grown bulbous and assumed the blotchy red, characteristic of the Gaul too well acquainted with the fruit of the grape. Two teeth were blacked out; a large dark mustache had appeared; and he wore a black beret cocked to the left.
The Angel of the Opera Page 17