Page 46 of Angel's Mask
“Go. Sing for me,” the Angel ordered, and Christine obeyed.
She made her way to the stage, caught up with the rest of the chorus. Together they waited in the shadows of the wings, listening to the audience murmuring. The overture was over in a heartbeat and soon it was time to sing, taunting Faust. It was so different from the first time she had been backstage, only watching and listening. This time she was part of the music, and it thrilled her. But the true excitement only came in act two, when she finally stepped into the bright lights of the Paris Opera stage.
The chorus had a great deal to do in act two, as soldiers sang, and the devil tempted the villagers with the tale of the golden calf. Christine sang with all her soul, but in the moments of silence, she could not help but look out at the audience in awe.
She’d never seen the theater with the glorious chandelier alight before. Her angel had mentioned more than once that he disapproved of keeping the great mass of brass and crystal illuminated during performances. He was a proponent of the modern, German idea that a theater should be dark to bring the focus to the stage and not to the audience. But this way, Christine could finally see the glittering world of the upper crust, just on the other side of the blazing footlights.
The auditorium that had always been a dim sea of red velvet and gold before now sparkled like a trove of jewels. What was it like, Christine wondered, to live such a life among such riches? She could see women in satin gowns and white gloves and even make out their jewels and silken fans. She couldn’t see their faces well, but some looked bored, as if they were only at the Opera to be there, and not for the great spectacle before them. Every seat and box was full, she noted. All but one.
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Erik had chosen boxfive for its awkward location: almost on top of the stage, only two premier boxes separating it from the proscenium, on the grand tier, one level above the orchestra. The hollow column he had constructed that allowed him to enter and leave the box was quite useful and almost eliminated the need for a concierge, but Estelle Giry had proved extremely useful in other ways.
Quite the opposite of the other box-holders, he did not come to the Opera to be seen and instead kept to the shadows at the back of the box. He was grateful for those shadows tonight. He hoped their soft chill would dim the memory of Christine on the other side of the mirror, so utterly stunning. And now, there she was, on his stage at last, a vision of loveliness with a voice so perfect he could hear it through all the din. And it sang for him.
Erik could not take his eyes off her in the crowd scenes of act two. Carlos Fontana and Robert Rameau did their level best as Faust and Méphistophélès, while Simon Fayard brought some bombastic verve to Valentin, but it was Christine who shone for him. Enough so that he had no desire to stay for act three, where the chorus did not appear. He slipped out of the box and made his way to the dressing rooms, taking his time to listen to the gossip.
Fontana held room one, and as always, was using the interval to sip tea and reapply his makeup. Rameau was across the hall in a room Erik usually could not look into, but it sounded like he was entertaining a male visitor who he knew well.
“I don’t know. I think I’m too young for it,” the unknown man was saying.
“If the minister is looking for new blood, you should seize on it,” Rameau replied, still sounding like a tempting devil even off stage. “And I’d certainly be happy about it.”
“As if I could even do the job with you around,” the man protested, and Erik raised an eyebrow.
“I’ve spent years here watching sopranos be suchdistractions, don’t you think it’s my turn?” Rameau laughed. Erik wondered what position Rameau’s paramour was being considered for.
“It’s different with us, you know that,” the man said quietly.
“Maybe you’re right, you’re far too demure for the Opera,” Rameau laughed. “And too superstitious.”
“More ghost stories now?” the man asked back. Erik did love to hear himself talked about, but movement in the corridor forced him to retreat, back into the dark confines of the walls. And behind Carlotta’s mirror now.
Like Fontana, Carlotta was seated at her vanity, applying more rouge to her lips and decolletage, while LeDoux simpered behind her, scribbling notes in a little book, the night’s program also clutched under his arm.
“Is there any one new tonight?” Carlotta asked, her attention intent on her own reflection and her regular mélange of an accent completely absent. “I’m getting tired of the Marquis and his crooked prick.”
“Yes, Signora, I was getting to that,” LeDoux stammered, flipping through his little notepad as Carlotta rolled her eyes in impatience. “Tonight, Comte Philippe has been joined by his younger brother, just out of the navy. Uh,” LeDoux flipped the page. “Raoul. He’s quite handsome I’m told.”
“Why would I care about the younger brother of someone Sorelli already has under her skirts?” Carlotta seethed. “And yes, I know Philippe de Chagny has no heirs or wife, that doesn’t mean I want to bother trying to fuck his baby brother.”
LeDoux gulped and nodded, flipping to another page as a faint sweat gathered on his moustache. “There’s a rumor Léo Delibes may be here...”
Erik turned away, shuddering, and wishing he could use Carlotta’s copper bath for himself. It was repugnant, the way she spoke of and used people. Not that the so-called nobles with their empty titles and useless gold didn’t deserve to be used, but it was the way she did it that disgusted Erik.
He ignored the rest of the dressing rooms, finally giving into the real reason he was backstage, and found himself once again behind the mirror of room thirteen. Christine was already there, sitting on the floor of all places, with her eyes closed. It looked like she was praying, and perhaps she was.
“There you are,” Christine whispered before Erik could even take a moment to appreciate her beauty in her act four costume; his angel dressed in a red velvet cloak to join a choir of devils. Beneath that she wore the dark bodice and skirt of a witch, who would join Méphistophélès in his dastardly spectacle while the ballerinas danced theWalpurgisnachtsabbath. Erik loved that an opera so concerned with the soul and salvation made hell and damnation so entertaining.
“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,” Erik replied. He still didn’t know how she always knew he was there. Perhaps she was a witch, he thought as she opened her forest-colored eyes. She certainly had bewitched him.
“Did I—”
“You were perfect,” he answered before she was finished. She smiled, bright and kind as always, but there was sadness in her eyes.
“Do you think he—” she stopped, her voice breaking. “My father told me I’d sing on this stage one day and now I have. And I just wish I knew if he was proud.”
Erik’s blood froze in his veins. There had always been an unspoken agreement between them that Christine was not to ask too much. She did not question her angel’s divinity or nature and had never asked aboutthe other side. Erik often wondered if she had already tried to reach her father, judging by the scornful way she spoke of mediums and spiritualist science. But now she was asking her angel, whom she believed her father had personally sent, for a message.
