‘Raoul,’ said the Count, ‘you winged a cat.’
‘The funny thing’, said Raoul with a bitter laugh which grated painfully on the Count’s ears, ‘is that I could well have. You never know with Erik. Was it him? Was it a cat? Was it the Phantom? Was it real or was it a trick of the light? With Erik you can never tell.’
Raoul then began saying bizarre things of this kind which may have been closely and logically connected with what was in his mind and followed on naturally from the strange (but either real or seemingly supernatural) tale which Christine Daaé had told him, but they only encouraged people to think that he had become unhinged. Even the Count thought so and later the examining magistrate, after reading the police inspector’s report, was left in no doubt.
‘Who is Erik?’ asked the Count, gripping Raoul by the hand.
‘My rival! And if he’s not dead, I’m sorry for it.’
He dismissed the servants with a wave of his hand.
The bedroom door closed leaving the two brothers together. But the servants did not move away so quickly that the valet did not hear Raoul say clearly and distinctly:
‘Tonight I intend to leave Paris with Christine Daaé!’
Later, these words would be repeated by M. Faure, the examining magistrate. But no one knew exactly what was said by the two men when they were alone.
According to the staff, that night was not the first time they’d shut themselves away and quarrelled.
The shouting could be heard through the walls and the argument always seemed to be about a singer named Christine Daaé.
Next morning, at breakfast, which Count Philippe always took in his study, he sent word to his brother with an invitation to join him. Raoul arrived, grim and silent. There was a scene which did not last long.
The Count: Read this!
Philippe holds out a newspaper, L’Époque,* and points out an item on the society page. Reluctantly, Raoul begins to read:
‘The big talking-point in the Faubourg Saint-Germain: the engagement of Mlle Christine Daaé, of the Paris Opera, and Viscount Raoul de Chagny. If what a little bird tells me is true, Count Philippe is saying that for the first time in its history the House of Chagny will break a pledge. But since love at the Paris Opera is even more all-conquering than anywhere else, we wonder how exactly the Count proposes to prevent his brother, the Viscount, leading “the New Marguerite” up the aisle. The two brothers are said to be the best of friends, but the Count is deluding himself if he imagines that brotherly love will vanquish love of the other sort!’
The Count (sadly): You see, Raoul? Thanks to you, we are a laughing stock… That girl has completely turned your wits with her tales of ghosts.
(Evidently the Viscount had repeated Christine’s story to his brother.)
The Viscount: Goodbye, Philippe.
The Count: So it’s settled, then? You leave tonight? (The Viscount does not reply) With her?… You surely don’t intend to do anything so foolish? (The Viscount remains silent) I’ll find a way of stopping you!
The Viscount: Goodbye, brother.
(He leaves)
This scene was reported to the examining magistrate by the Count himself, who would not see his brother again that day until the evening, at the Opera, only minutes before the disappearance of Christine Daaé.
For his part, Raoul spent the whole day making plans for their departure.
Arranging for horses, a carriage, a driver, provisions, luggage, money for the journey, planning the route—they were not going by train, to make it harder for the Phantom to follow them—kept Raoul busy until nine in the evening.
So at nine sharp, a four-wheeled berline-style carriage, with curtains drawn and doors locked, pulled up in the rank on the Rotonde side of the Opera House. To it were harnessed two powerful horses driven by a coachman whose face was mostly hidden by the coils of a long muffler. In front of the berline were three broughams. It was later established that they belonged respectively to La Carlotta, who had unexpectedly returned to Paris, La Sorelli and, at the head of the line, Count Philippe de Chagny. No one got out of the berline. The coachman remained on his box. The three other coachmen also stayed on theirs.
A shadowy figure in a long black cloak and a soft black felt hat walked along the pavement between the Rotonde and the carriages. He seemed particularly interested in the berline. He inspected the horses, then the coachman before moving on without speaking. Investigators would later agree that this shadowy figure was Raoul de Chagny. But I disagree, not least because on that evening, as on every other, the Viscount was wearing a tall opera hat which, furthermore, was later recovered. I believe that the shadow was the Phantom who was fully informed about what was afoot, as will become clear.
As it happened, Faust was being performed that night. There was a glittering audience. The Faubourg Saint-Germain was out in force. In those days, subscribers did not lend, let, sublet or share their boxes with bankers, businessmen or foreigners. Nowadays, ensconced in the Marquis de This or That’s box (still known as the Marquis de This or That’s box because the Marquis retains all his contractual rights to it), you will find some salt pork wholesaler and his family—and he is perfectly entitled to be there, since he has paid the Marquis for the privilege. But back then, such practices were almost unknown. Boxes at the Opera were in effect private salons where you were virtually certain to meet or see the most prominent socialites who, in rare instances, had a genuine feel for music.
The members of the fashionable crowd knew each other, without being necessarily on familiar terms. But everyone could put names to faces and the face of the Count de Chagny was known to all.
The paragraph in that morning’s Époque had clearly had an effect because all eyes were on the Count’s box where he sat alone, looking aloof and quite unconcerned. The female element of the brilliant gathering seemed very intrigued and the Viscount’s absence gave rise to a great deal of whispering behind fans.
Christine Daaé was given a cool reception. The public had not forgiven her for aiming so high. She quickly sensed the hostile mood of one section of the audience and was upset by it.
Regular patrons, who claimed to be up to date with the latest state of the Viscount’s amours, did not pass up the opportunity to snigger at certain passages in Marguerite’s role. They turned ostentatiously to look towards the Count’s box when Christine sang:
‘Pray tell me who was that young man,
If he is noble, and his name, if you can.’
With his chin cupped in his hands, the Count seemed oblivious to their reaction. He kept his eyes fixed on the stage. But was he really watching? He looked very much as if his mind was elsewhere.
Christine’s confidence was melting away. She shook. She was heading for disaster… Carolus Fonta thought she might be unwell and wondered if she’d last until the end of the act which was the garden scene. Meanwhile, the audience were remembering what had happened to La Carlotta at the end of this same act and the celebrated skaark which had temporarily disrupted her career in Paris.
As if on cue, La Carlotta chose precisely that moment to make her entrance in a box facing the stage. She was a sensation! Poor Christine glanced up to see what the excitement was all about. She saw it was her rival. She thought she saw her snigger and that was her salvation. She put everything out of her mind except her determination to score a new triumph.
From that moment, she sang with all her soul. She strove to surpass everything she had achieved until then and succeeded superbly. In the last act, as she began to invoke the angels and began to ascend, she took her captive audience with her and made each one believe that they too had wings.
As she approached the superhuman climax, a man stood up in the middle of the stalls and remained on his feet, facing the singer, as if he too were rising into the air… It was Raoul.
‘Angels so pure, Angels bright!
Angels so pure, Angels of light!’
Christine, arms outstretched, her voice ablaze
and haloed by the glory of her hair which tumbled loosely over her bare shoulders, sang:
‘Transport my soul to heaven above!’
• • • • • • • • • • • •
And then the whole theatre was suddenly plunged into darkness. It happened so quickly that the audience barely had time to give a collective gasp of astonishment, for almost at once the stage was lit up again.
But Christine Daaé was no longer there!… What had happened to her?… By what miracle…? The audience turned and looked uncomprehendingly at each other and then all was chaos. The uproar was as great on the stage as in the body of the auditorium. Members of the cast ran out from the wings to the spot where Christine had been singing only moments before. The performance came to a halt in the middle of widespread confusion.
Where had Christine gone? What magic wand had spirited her away from her many admiring spectators and the arms of Carolus Fonta? You could have been forgiven thinking that her passionate prayer had been answered and that the angels had really borne her aloft, body and soul, ‘to heaven above’.
Raoul, still standing in the middle of the stalls, had given an audible gasp. In his box, Count Philippe sprang to his feet. The spectators looked at the stage, they looked at the Count, they looked at Raoul, and they wondered if this curious turn of events was in some way linked to the story which had appeared in that morning’s paper. Raoul rushed out, the Count left his box and, as the curtain was brought down, subscribers made a beeline for the door that led to the wings. The rest of the audience stayed where they were, waiting for an announcement and surrounded by a tremendous hullabaloo. Everyone talked at the same time, claiming they knew how it had happened. Some said: ‘She dropped through a trapdoor’; others, ‘She was whisked up into the flies, possibly a stage effect dreamed up by the new management that went wrong’; but there were also those who detected something more sinister: ‘Surely her disappearance and the sudden blackout leave no room for doubt?’
At last the curtain rose slowly and Carolus Fonta advanced to the conductor’s rostrum where he announced, in a sober, shocked voice:
‘Ladies and gentlemen, something unprecedented has occurred which leaves us deeply concerned. Our colleague, Christine Daaé, has disappeared from under our very eyes and no one knows how!’
CHAPTER 15
A Strange Request for a Safety Pin
ON the stage there was total confusion. Performers, stagehands, dancers, walkers-on, figurantes, members of the chorus, subscribers all asking questions, shouting, jostling one another.
‘What happened to her?’
‘She’s been kidnapped!’
‘By the Viscount de Chagny!’
‘No, by the Count!’
‘Look, there’s Carlotta! She did it!’
‘No, the Phantom did it!’
Some began to laugh, especially after close inspection of the traps and stage floor ruled out any possibility of an accident.
Among this noisy crowd three men stood apart talking in whispers and waving their hands despairingly. They were Gabriel, the chorus master, Mercier, the Administrator, and the Directors’ private secretary, Rémy. They were standing to one side by a door which connected the stage with the wide corridor leading to the foyer of the corps de ballet. There they stood behind a number of large stage props parked there, locked in urgent discussion.
‘I knocked! They didn’t answer! Maybe they’re not in the office. Anyway, there’s no way of knowing because they’ve got the keys.’
The speaker was Rémy, the secretary, and there was no doubt that he was referring to the Directors. They had given orders during the last interval that they were not to be disturbed for any reason.
‘They’re not seeing anyone!’
‘That’s as maybe,’ said Gabriel, ‘but it’s not every day that singers disappear on stage in the middle of a performance!’
‘Did you shout that through the door?’ asked Mercier.
‘I’m going back there,’ said Rémy and he set off at a run.
At this point they were joined by the stage manager.
‘Look lively, M. Mercier. Are you coming? What are the pair of you doing here?’
‘This is something that needs the personal attention of the Administrator.’
‘I’m not doing anything and I don’t want to know anything until the police get here,’ snorted Mercier. ‘I’ve sent for Inspector Mifroid. We’ll see what’s what when he arrives!’
‘And I’m telling you that you’ve got to go down to the organ pipes right away.’
‘Not before the Inspector comes.’
‘I’ve been down already.’
‘And what did you see?’
‘There was no one there. Do you hear: no one!’
‘What do you think I can do about it?’
‘You’re right!’ replied the stage manager frantically running his hands through his tousled hair. ‘You’re right! But if there had been someone there, they’d have been able to explain how the lights suddenly cut out on stage. But there’s no sign of Mauclair anywhere!’
Mauclair was the Opera’s lighting engineer, in charge of the gas lamps which lit or darkened the stage.
‘Mauclair not to be found?’ repeated Mercier, rather shaken. ‘What about his assistants?’
‘Not a sign of Mauclair or his assistants either! There’s nobody from Lighting, I tell you! You don’t think’, exclaimed the stage manager, ‘that Mlle Daaé actually kidnapped herself, without any help? It was all planned and we’ve got to get to the bottom of it… And where are the Directors? I’ve given orders that no one’s to go down to Lighting and posted a fireman to watch the gasman’s office next to the organ pipes! Was that right?’
‘Quite right, you’ve done well… But now we’ll wait for the police.’
The stage manager moved off, with an angry shrug of his shoulders, swearing under his breath at his ‘lily-livered’ betters who hid themselves calmly in a safe corner when everyone else in the theatre was running round the theatre ‘like headless chickens’.
But calm was what Gabriel and Mercier were not. They had been given an order which tied their hands. On no account were they to disturb the Directors. Rémy had disobeyed that order but to no avail.
And then the man himself returned from his second attempt. There was an odd expression verging on panic on his face.
‘Well? Did you speak to them?’ asked Mercier.
‘In the end,’ said Rémy, ‘Moncharmin opened the door. His eyes were like saucers. I thought he was going to hit me. I couldn’t get a word in edgeways. He shouted at me, and you’ll never guess what. He said: “Have you got a safety pin on you?” I said no. “In that case, stop bothering me!” I tried to tell him that something totally unprecedented had happened on stage… But he bellowed: “A safety pin! Get me a safety pin at once!” An office boy who’d overheard—Moncharmin was shouting his head off—appeared with a safety pin, gave it to him and Moncharmin just slammed the door in my face! And that was it!’
‘So you didn’t manage to tell him that Christine Daaé…’
‘I would have liked to see you try!… He was foaming at the mouth!… All he was thinking about was his blasted safety pin. I honestly think that if one hadn’t been brought to him immediately, he’d have had a stroke! No, it’s not right! Our Directors are in the process of going mad!’
M. Rémy, the secretary, was not at all happy and he made his feelings plain:
‘Things can’t go on like this! I’m not used to such treatment!’
Then Gabriel muttered:
‘This is another stunt arranged by the P. of the O.!’
Rémy sniggered. Mercier snorted and was about to say something indiscreet… but catching Gabriel’s eye which told him to keep his mouth shut, he said nothing.
However, Mercier, whose sense of his own importance grew as the minutes ticked by and the Directors did not appear, could contain himself no longer:
‘I’ll stir
them up! I shall go myself!’ he said decisively.
But Gabriel, suddenly grave and sombre, checked him and said:
‘Give a thought to what you’re doing, Mercier! If they’re staying in their office, maybe there’s a reason for it. The P. of the O. has got more than one trick up his sleeve!’
But Mercier shook his head:
‘I can’t help that! I’m going! If people had only listened to me, all this would have been put in the hands of the police long ago!’
And off he went.
‘All what?’ said Rémy sharply. ‘What would have been put in the hands of the police? Cat got your tongue, Gabriel?… Ah I see! You’re in on the secret too. Well, it wouldn’t be a bad idea if you were to let me in on it too if you don’t want me to start telling everybody that you’ve all gone mad!… Stark, raving mad!’
Gabriel played dumb and pretended he did not understand the secretary’s intemperate outburst.
‘What secret?’ he murmured. ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
Rémy lost his temper.
‘Here, earlier this evening, Richard and Moncharmin were both behaving like lunatics during the interval!’
‘I wasn’t aware of anything…’ grunted Gabriel, becoming cross.
‘Then you’re the only one!… Do you think I didn’t see them?… or that M. Parabise, head of Crédit Central, didn’t notice anything… or that La Borderie, the Ambassador, hasn’t got eyes to see with?… All the season-ticket holders were staring at our Directors!’
‘What were Richard and Moncharmin doing?’ asked Gabriel ingenuously.
‘You should know better than anybody because you were there!… You and Mercier both were keeping a close eye on them!… And you were the only ones who didn’t laugh!…’
‘I don’t follow you!’
Very cool and tight-lipped, Gabriel raised both arms then dropped them in a gesture which clearly meant that he’d lost interest in the topic. But Rémy persisted:
‘What’s this new fad of theirs?… They don’t want anyone coming near them!’
The Phantom of the Opera (Oxford World's Classics) Page 21