After a moment of thought, she tried to wave it away with the flutter of one hand. “Anyway, as I was saying, it’s ridiculous that the managers and everybody expect me to go around remembering strings of gibberish for months on end.”
“Why don’t you try to learn Italian?”
She dismissed the idea with another wave of her hand. “I’m no good at languages. But I still have—let me think—fifteen days before the opera opens; that’s plenty of time. I don’t know what the managers are fretting about.”
“It’s only eleven days,” he corrected.
“Didn’t the managers move it back again?”
Erik frowned, apparently irritated by the managers’ incompetence. “They were considering it before I put a stop to it.”
“What did you do that for? It’s nice having a dead-space between operas—like a vacation for everyone!”
“If I hadn’t, the performance would have ended up somewhere in mid-April.”
She sighed. “Well, even by April I probably still wouldn’t have it all learned—stupid Italian.”
“Christine, are you telling me you still haven’t memorized the last act?”
“Just the last scene or two.” It wasn’t her fault if God had given her a poor memory. “But it isn’t a big deal—if I don’t learn my lines by the eighteenth, they can write them on big posters in the orchestra pit.”
Erik was trying not to laugh. She quite enjoyed watching him laugh—it was a pleasant change from his usual serious demeanor. “I think the audience would be able to tell the difference.”
She was about to speak, but paused when she realized that Erik was right; she had a duty to the audience and to the Garnier. She bit her lip. She was being ridiculously whiny and unreasonable. She didn’t know how Erik put up with her. “Yes, of course, you’re right,” she admitted, rather unhappily. “I’ll memorize the rest…. I just hope these people will appreciate the pains I’m going to.”
“I’m sure they will.”
She yawned and eyed the Bible, which had fallen to the floor in the commotion, with a resigned grimace. “Well, you can go now; I need to read at least a few chapters before I go home.”
“Very well; call me if you want anything.”
He turned to leave, but Christine suddenly remembered something. “Oh, and thank you so much for getting Mamma hired here!”
“You’re very welcome, Christine, but no thanks is necessary; her work is exceptional, and Idomeneo will benefit greatly from her talent as a seamstress.”
She watched him leave before retrieving the Bible. He really was a wonderful man. She had only asked him about it yesterday; she had given Raoul months and he had never done it. Oh well; she supposed Raoul was very busy.
It was too bad that she wouldn’t be able to see Erik after she got married. For a while she had tried to scheme a way of keeping both Raoul and Erik in her life, but it was quite impossible.
For an ephemeral moment she toyed with the idea of refusing Raoul’s hand, but she discarded it immediately. It was a shame; if Erik were wealthy like Raoul, she might even consider marrying him despite his disfigurement. But she couldn’t change Erik’s financial status any more than she could change his deformed face. She could still write Erik letters, couldn’t she? It wouldn’t be the same as having him around, but that was the price she had to pay for a handsome vicomte, a title, a beautiful mansion, marvelous food, villas on the Riviera, sparkling gems, gorgeous satin gowns, wealth, respect…. It would be hard, but she supposed she could live with it. She just had to make sure she remembered in the weeks to come not to become any more attached to Erik than she already was.
With another loud sigh, she resumed her position on the stool—all four of its legs planted firmly on the ground—and continued reading the Book of Matthew.
Chapitre Vingt-Huit: Le Enlèvement
At the Garnier the following day, the six o’clock hour found the Vicomte de Chagny trying without success to control his anger. The whole week had been a veritable cavalcade of disasters: he hadn’t been able to purchase the dinner jacket he had gone to great lengths to acquire, the Marquis de Montberon had beaten him at polo, D’Aubigne had utterly destroyed his relationship with Fleurette (they all found out in the end, but it was so blasted hard to find desirable women that didn’t care about or hadn’t already heard about the engagement), and he was being forced by Philippe to attend a dinner with the horrid Veronique, on top of which, he couldn’t find Christine to protect her from the damned Marquis D’Aubigne—and then, as if all that wasn’t quite enough, Carlotta Torres had just decided to voice her opinion of “dat Mademoiselle Daaé.” And while he stood here and defended Christine’s honor, Christine was alone in the opera house! All alone, devoid of protection, and perhaps in the clutches of the Marquis D’Aubigne!
He turned his attention back to Carlotta, who had been squawking at him for the past few minutes. “Dat Christine Daaé es mud on da bottom of my shoes,” spat the ex-diva, finishing this statement with several Spanish curses. She was dressed in a monstrous gown, with cascades of decadent red silk and black lace. But Carlotta’s excessive masses of bright make-up, combined with her towering inferno of black hair, made the whole effect rather overbearing. Anyone less cultured than himself would have assumed that this was the style in Spain and that she was just honoring her heritage—no one would look like that on purpose.
Carlotta had been talking all this time, and her shrill piercing voice was impossible to ignore for very long. “When dat rata ruins de opera, the managers will be crawling back to me, on manos y rodillas, you be marking my words!”
“Señorita, Christine is no such thing! She sings like a beautiful dove! Her skin is flawless alabaster, her eyes sparkle like—like shining stars!” An image of Christine floated to the top of his mind, causing him to pause in awe and reverence of her beauty.
A few moments later, the impatient tapping of Carlotta’s foot brought him back to the present state of affairs. “Oh yes—and I would thank you not to say such foul things about her in my presence.”
Much to Raoul’s annoyance, she loosed a piercing shriek of laughter that could be heard throughout the opera house. “And ‘oo are you, to be defending ‘er so? ‘Er lover?” She snorted. “Usted es muy guapo y rico—demasiado por ella.” Carlotta batted her over-large eyelashes at him.
Raoul started. And not just because he knew enough Spanish to understand what she had said. In fact, her very posture implied… Goodness, no. Well, he supposed that someone with such handsome and regal qualities as himself would have to put up with undesirable women flirting with him occasionally. “As a matter of fact,” he boasted pompously, “I am her lover.”
Carlotta laughed again. “Ou’ of all da girls in Paris, you ‘ad to pick dat one? Christine Daaé es una don nadie! She cannot ‘old a match to da beauty tha’ es my voice.” The flourish with which she rolled her r’s was beginning to grate on his strained nerves.
“How dare you say such wicked things about my darling Christine?” he demanded, momentarily losing his control. He could feel the battle raging between his anger and his upper-class breeding. “Señorita,” he managed through gritted teeth, “get thee gone, before I lose restraint over my temper.”
This only brought more peals of laughter from Carlotta. “Vicomte, you might not be very bright, but you are deserving someding better dan a mere chorus girl!”
“She isn’t a chorus girl!”
Carlotta’s fluorescent lips curled into a sneer, and her overly-mascara-ed eyes narrowed hatefully. “Maybe no’ at de moment—but after de first performance of Idomeneo she will be! You cannot ‘ide a mongrel in a diva’s clothing for long!”
“How dare you—!”
She waved his anger aside. “I’ does not matter. I ‘ave always said dere is no accounting for taste. I make you a deal.”
“What could you possibly—”
“¡Cállate! Jus’ listen! If you are ‘er lover, you are a very poor o
ne—dere are all kinds of men always around dat ballet rata, like bees buzzing around a piece of ‘oneycomb! You are no’ protecting her from all dese lobos!”
“Lobos?”
“Wolves, vicomte, wolves!”
“Who is bothering her? Tell me and I’ll have them fired!”
“Dere are being too many to name! You get rid of dem, the next round of men will take dere place! And what about de Phantom? ‘E is being responsible for ‘er diva-‘ood, you know—she couldn’t have done it by herself. Ella canta como una comadreja!”
“Christine has told me she has no contact with the Phantom!”
“Ha! ‘Ow can you be so gullible? She is lying to you!”
“Christine would never lie to me!”
“You go ahead an’ convince yourself of dat, vicomte—it does no’ matter. If de Phantom does no’ get ‘er, de plaga will! ‘Ow you say—pneumonia, yes!”
“Why do you care?”
“You take de rata to your mansion—keep ‘er safe from all dese tings. And I will take back my crown.”
“I couldn’t possibly do that to her—”
“It is being for ‘er own protection, cannot you see dis? Take ‘er out of ‘arms way, ‘ave your fun with your rata mistress, an’ when you are being tired of ‘er, she can ‘ave her job back.”
“How dare you say that I could ever tire of my darling angel—!”
“Well you certainly don’t intend to be marrying ‘er, do you?”
“Well—maybe—”
“You are engaged, you buey estúpido! To de Comtess de la Musardiere! You would be better to jump off de roof dan to renounce your promise to marry ‘er!”
Though he took objection to being called a stupid ox, he shoved his anger aside. “Yes, you’re right, of course—I can’t marry her. And in a month when I wed Mademoiselle de la Musardiere, Christine may return to her position here, as diva?”
“Sí, sí, of course.”
“Why would you agree to that?”
“Because by den I will ‘ave arranged for a position at a better opera ‘ouse. Dis performance of Idomeneo nine days from now is a—what is de word—‘undred-year celebration, no?”
“Centennial. So?”
“So it is being talked about across Europe! I mus’ play Princess Ilia!”
Raoul frowned, uncertain of the whole affair.
Carlotta sighed in irritation. “Fine, fine! I did not want to ‘ave to be telling you dis, but a man is ‘ere right now waiting for da re’er-sal to end so ‘e can bag your darling little songbird!”
His head shot up. “What?!”
“Sí, a nobleman, with riches far beyond dose dat you are ‘aving, vicomte. She will not be able to refuse dis man!”
“The Marquis D’Aubigne!”
“Yes, dat was ‘is name.”
Raoul wasted no time to reply and flew past the diva in his haste to reach Christine. He would have to whisk her away to the safety of his mansion at once before the loathsome marquis stole the most beautiful woman in the world!
After the vicomte was out of sight, Carlotta finally allowed herself to laugh. She had originally planned to steal the vicomte away from the Swedish rat, but this worked out much better. What a stupid, pitiful oaf that vicomte was, falling for a story like that! And what a poor amount of faith he must place in his precious little rata, to be so gullible (of course, given Christine Daaé’s intellect, it was understandable).
She turned and strode down the hall, straight to the managers’ office. Once they learned that their cheap little surrogate had bailed ship, just like the rat she was, they would have no alternative but to accept her, Carlotta, goddess of a thousand songs, back as the diva of the Opera Garnier, the only woman in the world who currently knew every line of Idomeneo.
She couldn’t restrain a scream of triumph; she had succeeded in ridding the Garnier of the usurping little toad, and nothing would ever come between her and her crown again!
Christine walked off the stage and into the maze of hallways, feeling sulky and rather wrung-out. It was unfair that the managers had just wasted seven hours of her day—how stupid could they be, to try to conduct a dress rehearsal without enough stagehands to move all the sets! And how could they possibly expect her, their diva, their goddess, without whom there is no performance, to push pieces of furniture around like a common employee?
What was equally degrading was that, in light of the impossibility of a rehearsal, the managers had instructed everyone to stay and paint banners to hang above the street advertising the opening performance. How perfectly ridiculous that they would expect their cast to do it, just to save the few francs it would have cost to have the banners made professionally! Erik had told her the managers had almost run out of money—they had spent all of their own and almost all of Raoul’s donations, the remainder of which they were keeping on hand for themselves in case Idomeneo didn’t bring in enough of a return. She could understand that, she supposed—she would do the same in their position, though she never would have invested her money (if she had any) here with Richard and Moncharmin in command. They were very fortunate that they had Erik. They were still frightened of him for some reason or another (and yet refusing to pay him a single franc)—Erik only interfered when the success of the opera was at stake, and he seemed to do so in a non-threatening way when possible—but they couldn’t help but reluctantly agree with his logic once it had a chance to sink in. Still, even with his help, the opera was likely to be a disaster, what with the epidemic, the crime (caused by the epidemic, according to Erik; she didn’t understand the connection), and the poor management.
She saw a metal trash can inside one of the offices she was passing and seriously considered chucking her script in with the rubbish. She hated looking at the bound stack of pages with her name scrawled on it, which seemed to stare back at her accusingly as if conscious of the fact that she still did not know all of her lines. It was ridiculous; it wasn’t her fault that the stupid opera was written in Italian. All Erik had said was that she should do everything humanly possible; well, this opera was humanly impossible. He couldn’t argue with that.
She was halfway through the door towards the trash can when a man’s voice stopped her: “Why, you must be Mademoiselle Daaé.”
She turned to see a tall, thin gentleman striding down the hallway towards her. She quickly scanned his appearance, impressed with her findings. His clothes looked very expensive and were quite reminiscent of Raoul’s; he must be at the very height of fashion—a nobleman!
He removed his hat as he approached, and she saw a gold signet ring on his hand. “I must say,” he continued, in a smooth, self-assured voice, “you are absolutely seraphic! What an angel!” He kissed her hand, and she giggled as his lips lingered on her skin; how exciting that she could have two aristocratic suitors!
“I am the Marquis D’Aubigne—but you may call me Laurent.”
Christine’s ecstasy at discovering the lofty rank of her new beau was dimmed by the chilling look in his eyes as they raked over her body, his whole face transformed into that of some terrifying carnivore studying its prey. Goodness, he looked as though he wanted to eat her alive!
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Laurent,” she said as cordially as she could manage. It must just be the lighting, she reasoned, trying to quash the creeping sensation that was threatening her spine. Surely his expression is simply one in awe of my glorious beauty. Yes, that must be it.
His face returned to a more amiable state, and she convinced herself that she had imagined its previous expression entirely. “Yes, quite a pleasure,” he replied, in a drawling voice. “I’m sure you’ve heard of my family’s extensive holdings.” He sighed dramatically. “It’s so loathsome having so much money and no one to spend it on—a young lady, perhaps; one with beauty and talent, but tragically poor, just waiting for a worthy marquis to sweep her off her feet.”
“Why monseigneur, you flatter me—”
“I’m thi
nking of buying a restaurant near here—just a whim, you understand, but I would simply love to have a woman’s discerning opinion concerning the place.”
Christine, absolutely dumbstruck, could only open and close her mouth, unable to force out any sound as her mind raced. This man must be absurdly rich, to be able to buy restaurants on a whim like baubles!
“What’s the matter, my adorable little angel? Hasn’t the Vicomte de Chagny ever taken you to one of his restaurants?”
“No, I—”
“Oh, how foolish of me! I’d forgotten he didn’t have any! A creature of such legendary beauty shouldn’t be wasting her time on a lower-class noble like him. Now come; the reservations are for six-fifteen.”
He grabbed her arm and steered her towards the exit. She walked along willingly at first, dropping her script on a nearby table in the hopes that someone would move it and she could honestly say she had lost it. (She had learned yesterday at church that honesty was important in the Bible—it was even one of the Commandments. Fortunately she was smart enough to think of ways around lying so she technically wasn’t sinning.) She was congratulating herself on her intelligence when she realized that the marquis had just insulted her fiancé.
She dug her heels into the floor. “Take back what you just said about Raoul!”
“Fine, fine,” sighed the marquis, still pulling her along. “I rescind that perfectly true statement. Now will you come? The restaurant won’t hold reservations very long, even for someone as important as myself.”
“At least let me change first.”
“You look fine.” He sounded a little impatient now, which annoyed Christine even more than his snide remark about Raoul.
“I’m afraid that I can’t dine with you, marquis—I’m engaged to the Vicomte de Chagny.”
To her surprise and horror, instead of falling to her feet and begging that she leave the vicomte and marry him instead, he actually laughed. “Chagny would never even consider marrying you. He may be tasteless, but he’s not completely stupid.”