“I have not told you how beautiful his real voice is, how melodious, how gentle and warm. Who can blame me for believing it was the voice of an angel? I honestly think that when I die and hear the real angels, their voices will be no sweeter, no more majestic, than his. Can you now understand my fury when you told me someone was tricking me? I believed absolutely in my angel, more even than in God, for God was not real to me as my Angel of Music was real.”
“But in the end he was a false angel.” The Viscount’s voice had an undercurrent of cruelty, restrained, but obvious enough.
“Remember the night the chandelier fell?” Christine asked. “I was terribly upset. I had hated Carlotta, but what happened to her was the worst nightmare of every singer. During the uproar I fled to my room and begged for the Angel to come to me. He did not answer, and I began to weep. At last I fell asleep, but music woke me, ‘The Resurrection of Lazarus’ again. This time the voice sang the words along with the violin: ‘Come! And believe in me! Who believes in me shall live! Walk! Whoso hath believed in me shall never die!’ I was half awake, half asleep, and somehow... I went to him through the mirror.”
The Viscount started. “The mirror!”
“Yes. A tall man dressed all in black with a black mask waited for me. ‘Come,’ he said, and it was the voice. I followed him down into the darkness; his lantern gave almost no light. Nearby was César, the white horse from Le Prophète. The man helped me mount, and we continued our descent deeper and deeper, further underground than I had ever been before. At last we came to a great blue lake, which we crossed in a black barque. By then I was weary and felt strange, almost as if I had been drugged. He carried me into his curious little house filled with beautiful and terrible things: canvases of far-off places, Persian carpets from the Arabian Nights, beautiful vases and bronze statues, an organ that covered an entire wall, and the ebony coffin with a red pillow where he sleeps.
“‘Who are you?’ I asked. ‘You are no angel.’
“He must have heard the sadness in my voice. ‘It is true, Christine. I am not an angel, nor a ghost, nor a phantom. I am only Erik, and I love you.’
“At that he left me, and I must have slept until well into the next morning. When I awoke and saw where I was, when I saw that the strange house and its dark occupant still existed, it was as if the dreams of the night continued unabated. He led me to a table where the most wonderful breakfast was laid out, but he ate nothing. Indeed, I never saw him eat. Afterward we sang while he played the organ. He has the most incredible voice; he can reach the high notes of a lyric tenor or plunge so low in the bass that he would make a perfect Mephistopheles. We were both rather shy and quiet, but happy, I believe. The first day I worried about missing rehearsals and what my friends might be fearing, but the second day such thoughts came hardly at all. It was so... peaceful. But then came the third day.” A moan escaped from her lips, its intensity catching me by surprise.
“Go on.” The Viscount’s voice was hard.
Christine bowed her head. Only a faint pink coloring remained in the western sky, and her bright blue dress was turning dark gray. “He wore a black mask, and I wondered what lay beneath it. He was tall, thin, and angular, but neither his body nor voice suggested any illness, any blot, which might mar his countenance. Oh, I considered that he might be scarred or pockmarked, but I convinced myself that his face must correspond to the sweetness of his voice and the gentleness of his manner.” A sharp laugh escaped her. “Dear God, what a silly, stupid little fool I was! I knew nothing–nothing. He was playing the organ, part of his composition, an opera entitled Don Juan Triomphant. I should have suspected from his music. It was beautiful but terrible, full of strange dissonances, cries of anguish and dread mixed with its glory. As he played, I crept nearer and nearer. He was so caught up in his music that my stealth was wasted, a gratuitous insult. I snatched away the mask, and before he could turn away I saw his face.”
Christine wept. She clutched at the stone wall with both hands, swaying slightly. The Viscount seized her arm to steady her. It was odd to witness such a scene, but to have their faces turned away, hidden. To us, they were masked, even as Erik, only their voices revealed.
“I have seen him,” the Viscount said coldly. “Both at Perros and at the Opera as the Red Death. You need not describe him to me.”
“No? Well, then may I describe his pain to you? He gave a cry as though I had stabbed him through the heart. Over and over he repeated, ‘Why? Why? Why?’ I tried to answer, to justify my folly, to somehow explain away his appearance, but nothing could soothe him. He writhed about the floor, moaning and clutching at his poor hideous face. At last he regained some measure of his senses. He stood and advanced toward me, and for the first time I feared him.
“He is a good foot and a half taller than I, taller even than the Englishman Holmes or his cousin. I could not take my eyes off his horrible face. It was incomprehensible that his beautiful dark eyes could have such a setting. ‘Now you are damned,’ he said. ‘We are both damned. You must rot here beneath the earth with me. I can never let you go now.’ Then he took my tiny hand in his and raised it to his face. I was truly frightened; I did not know what he could be doing. He pressed my fingernails into his ravaged cheek, pressed until I felt his flesh give way and tear open, then pulled my fingers downward.
“‘What are you doing?’ I cried. In vain I attempted to pull my hand away; my nails left four bloody scratches on each cheek before he released me.” She sobbed once.
The sky was dark except for the reflected glow of the lights of Paris. The black form of the Viscount seemed to swell up, his hands clenching into fists. “The monster! Oh, how I hate him! You must hate him, too– you do hate him, do you not, Christine?”
“No,” she said.
“No, of course not–why, you love him! Your fear, your terror, these are all part of love, love of the most exquisite kind, the kind people do not admit even to themselves, the kind that gives one a thrill even to consider. Think of it, a madman in a romantic underground palace.” His voice had grown steadily more sarcastic.
“Then you want me to return to him?” Christine’s voice quivered with anger. “Have a care, Raoul. He lays a great and tragic love at my feet. If I return to him, you will not see me again.”
The wind swelled, suddenly colder and more intense. “Finish your story. He released you at last?”
“Yes, although I stayed with him until the masked ball.”
“And you went back to him even then? For God’s sake, Christine–why did you not flee him? I would have helped you to escape, even had you spurned me. Even now I can give you money to do with as you please.”
“I gave my word.”
“Your word.” The sarcasm had returned.
“And does your word mean so little to you, to a member of the vaunted French nobility always prating about honor! Do you keep your word only so long as it is convenient? How then should I take all your vows of love?”
Holmes turned to me. I could not see his face very well in the darkness, but I could imagine his glee.
“It is not the same thing.”
“Is it not?” Her sarcasm was more cutting than his.
They were both silent, the wind moaning about them, sweeping across the dark, empty roof of the Palais Garnier. The sound was plaintive, and for an instant I fancied I actually heard a man moaning, too. However, the wind died away into silence, and I knew I must have imagined it.
“For a day after I had exposed his face, he left the mask off. I think he wished to punish me. I tried to pretend his horrible face no longer frightened me, but all my resolutions melted away when that gruesome death’s head with the sad eyes stared at me. I could not meet those eyes. Neither of us succeeded at our charade, and he put his mask back on. Too late, however, because I had ruined everything. Even our singing was lifeless and sad. After three days of silence, I pleaded with him to release me, if only for a little while. He told me he had planned to let me retu
rn for La Juive and Faust, especially for Faust, but he made me promise I would return to him afterward. Then, he said, he would decide my fate and his own. And he told me... he told me that he loved me still, that he could not bear for me to love... to love another man.”
“I’ll wager the dog did! If you are foolish enough to return to him, do you think that you will ever see the light of day again? He will keep you as his slave and his toy forever!” The wind hurled the Viscount’s shrill, angry words back at us.
“Perhaps he will,” she replied softly.
“Perhaps! Christine, Christine, you cannot do such a thing–I cannot let you!” He seized her hand. “Oh, Christine, must you torture us both? As God is my witness, I love you! I know I can be arrogant and unkind, but that does not mean I cannot love you. My voice may not be the voice of an angel, but this face is, at least, not that of a demon. Your angel is a madman. Let me take you away from him. Christine, my dearest, will you marry me?”
I would not have thought the Viscount could surprise me, but he had. Christine was stunned. “What?”
“You heard me. I want you to be my wife, the Viscountess de Chagny.”
“Oh, Raoul, you cannot mean it. Your brother...”
“Be damned! He can marry whomever he wants, and I shall do the same. We can be married tomorrow if you wish–tonight even.”
Christine laughed, but it was joyful rather than derisive. “You cannot mean it.”
“You think not? You are wrong.” He reached into his pocket: “I have only been waiting for the right moment. I have bought you a ring, a genuine engagement ring, and a fine one. Can you see it?”
“Not very well, but...”
“The diamond was the largest they had.”
“Oh, I am sure it is beautiful. Oh, Raoul, I shall marry you, and we shall go away together and be happy, but first... It must be on Sunday, the day after Faust. It is best, anyway, to be married on Sunday.”
The wind had picked up again, the air turbulent, but Raoul was still and silent. To our right, over the city, I saw yellow-white lightning leap across the clouds, illuminating the sky. A few seconds later came the dull rumble of thunder.
“You are still thinking of him,” Raoul said. “Even now.”
“I have my career, my singing, to consider as well. Will anyone ever trust me again if I run off? The performance is sold out. Let me do Faust, and then we shall go off together that very night.”
“As Viscountess de Chagny you need not sing for your living. You will be well provided for.”
“But I want to sing, Raoul. I must sing, even as I must breathe or walk or love you! I shall still love you and be a good wife, I swear to you on my heart.”
Another silence, interrupted by the rumble of the thunder, closer now. “Oh, very well, Christine, but it must be Saturday night after the performance. I shall have my coach ready. We shall surprise everyone, especially Philippe. He will come around eventually. He will no more be able to resist your charms than I.”
“Oh, Raoul, I am so happy.”
Holmes turned and whispered softly, “We should go. This is becoming mere intrusion on our part.”
“You are right,” I replied. The whole thing had left a sour taste in my mouth. Perhaps the Viscount would be a good husband, but I disliked him intensely. He seemed such a child, and so too, ultimately, did Christine Daaé. A diamond ring and a proposal had conquered all.
“Put on the ring–go ahead.”
“Very well.”
“Christine–you must remove his ring first.”
“Why?” The question did sound remarkably obtuse.
“You cannot wear the rings of two men! It must be one or the other.”
“But... so long as I wear his ring, he promised to protect me, to watch over me. ‘Lose this ring and you shall know my wrath,’ he said. It is no marriage ring.”
“Christine!” the Viscount shouted. “Must I yield to you on everything–on every point? I was a fool to think you loved me!” He turned away in our direction, but she seized his arm. Holmes and I flattened ourselves against the dome wall and held very still.
“Wait!” she cried. The wind swept past us, and I felt a few wet drops on my face. The rain would be cool, that of spring rather than winter. “See, I take off his ring and put on yours. Oh, my betrothed of only a moment’s time, if I did not love you, I would never offer you my lips!”
The two black shapes came together in a violent embrace, and if I could not actually see their lips meet, I could certainly imagine it. I heard a tinkle as something hit the roof and rolled a small way. Erik’s ring, I reflected sadly. Holmes squeezed my arm, and we had taken a step or two when a terrible, pained scream filled the night. So completely unexpected, it would have startled anyone, but it was of such intensity and conveyed such anguish, that my immediate thought was that someone had been killed or mortally wounded. However, the cry had come from above, which made no sense. The only thing higher was the stage roof with its statue of Apollo.
Just then a river of lightning flowed down, flooding the roof with brilliant white light. I saw the Viscount and Christine, arms still about each other, faces raised, then turning my head I saw the green Apollo with some black form clinging to him like a monstrous growth. One hand grasped the golden lyre, while a black arm and skeletal fingers clasped the god’s chest, a great black cloak flapping about their shoulders in the wind. But the worst was that face alongside the god’s, a white oval with black holes for eyes, a smaller hole for a nose, and the gaping black mouth with all its teeth bared, the mouth howling in agony, but all sound eclipsed by the cataclysmic bang of the thunder.
Then the darkness returned, and Holmes pulled me back to the dome. Christine Daaé was screaming.
“Stop it!” someone shouted. “Stop it!” Then another voice shouted, “Follow me!”
“Let them pass,” Holmes whispered.
The rain striking my face was cold. The Viscount and Christine swept by, a tall figure behind them whose astrakhan hat was recognizable even in the dark. Christine wept loudly. “He heard everything–he knows. Oh God, I am so ashamed.”
“Hush, dearest,” the Viscount said.
“We must hurry,” the Persian said. “I know a way to lose him.”
They went through the door. Holmes at last released his iron grip on my arm. Another flash of lightning, thankfully more distant this time, lit up the roof. Apollo was alone now except for his two lady friends, Poetry and Music. The rain fell in earnest.
“Wait a moment.” Holmes walked over to the perimeter wall, knelt down and felt about.
Walking over to him, I received a gust of wet wind full in the face.
“What are you looking for?”
“This.” He held up something. “Christine Daaé’s ring. Let us get inside. The roof is no place to be during a thunderstorm.”
We stepped through the door, and I felt a familiar, but weary, fear–my vertigo. So much had happened, and luckily it was too dark to see much, the only light coming from the stage far below. Holmes took out a box of matches, lit one, then looked about. If he had seemed comical before in his disguise, now he appeared sinister with that ugly nose and black mustache. The black beret was lost somewhere on the roof.
“Ah, here we are.” He had found a gas fixture. He lifted the glass cover, turned the cock, then lit it. “It should not be long.” He took out a cigarette.
I was rather rattled. “What should not be long?”
“Erik must have taken these stairs to an outlet on the stage roof near Apollo. He will have to return the same way. This is the only way down. I think we shall meet him quite soon.”
The logic of this made my mouth go dry. “Is that wise? He is... hardly in the best of moods, I fear.”
Holmes gave a brusque, weary laugh. “Comic understatement suits you, Henry. I should think he is in a very black mood indeed.” He glanced at the narrow metal catwalk above, the twin of the one upon which we stood. I had my back against the
wall and was reflecting that meeting the Phantom up here might well prove dangerous. “Erik!” he shouted. “Please come down. We are unarmed and mean you no harm.”
His voice had a faint echoey quality, and afterward I heard the dim sound of the storm outside. “Sherlock, are you certain...?”
“I know not. Erik, please–we can wait all night if need be!” He drew in on his cigarette, and I had the bizarre thought of spending the night trying to sleep on this narrow platform suspended high above the Opera.
It remained quiet for a long while. I began to relax, thinking the Phantom must have found another way down, when I heard the faint clang of a footstep above us. My heart seemed to stop beating. I raised my eyes and saw a dark, shadowy form through the metal grill above us.
“Ah, welcome, sir. Please come down.” The shadow was still, then it moved, and I heard another footstep, then another; the sound changed when he reached the spiral staircase and started down.
He wore a long black cloak with a cowl and a black mask which covered his entire face. The mask blended into the darkness all about us, making it appear as if the cowl were empty. The eyes blazing at us from the holes in the mask had a blurry, liquid quality. He had been weeping, and I thought about how he must have felt watching that charming scene between Christine and the Viscount. If it had made me despondent, what had it done to him? He and Holmes locked eyes, and neither of them moved for a long time. I grew uneasy and again reflected upon our height from the ground.
At last the Phantom spoke: “Your meddling in my affairs grows tiresome.” His voice was a remarkably warm and resonant baritone, the tone characteristic of a trained actor, and he spoke English with only the faintest hint of a French accent.
“I am sorry for that.” Holmes’s voice sounded thin and faintly nasal in comparison. “My intentions are not malicious; quite the contrary.”
The Phantom laughed, the sound pitched higher than his speaking voice. “You will forgive me if I doubt you. My enemies’ friends are my enemies.”
“I do not consider those two buffoons who manage the Opera my friends, and the Viscount de Chagny is among the most disagreeable persons I have ever met.”
The Angel of the Opera Page 19