The Angel of the Opera Read online

  “Yes,” Holmes said. “Of Edgar Allan Poe. ‘No pestilence had ever been so fatal, or so hideous. Blood was its Avatar and its seal–the redness and horror of blood.’”

  The specter advancing toward us wore a scarlet robe and hood, the cloth visibly decomposed in the manner of something long in the grave, but it was the face under the cowl that drew everyone’s attention. At first I thought it must be a mask, but as he came closer, I decided it must be makeup applied in an extraordinarily realistic manner. Above the black sunken eyes, with their dreadful blend of rage and sorrow, was the yellow-white, hairless dome of the skull. The lack of a nose, an irregular black cavity in the center of the face, was a particularly gruesome touch. The thin lips were barely discernible, the tissue about the mouth very slight, so that the outline of the protruding upper and lower teeth showed. His color was of a particularly cadaverous hue, white but with hints of both green and yellow. Specks of red marred the face, the signs of Poe’s pestilence. As a medical man I had seen the worst effects of death and disease and had grown somewhat inured to them, but this visage turned even my stomach. No wonder the masqueraders grew pale and quiet. The pretty girl in black on the stairs had spilled her champagne, and her companion’s face now showed revulsion, not anger.

  On the front of the crimson robe was pinned a sheet of paper: JE SUIS LA MORT ROUGE. NE ME TOUCHEZ POINT. A drunk near the point of unconsciousness decided to test this prohibition; he staggered forward and pawed at the robe.

  That face turned upon him; a skeletal hand seized his wrist, crushed it. He screamed in pain and vainly attempted to free his arm. The hand pulled him skyward, the red sleeve slipping down to reveal a long, bony forearm, then the specter seized his shirt at the collar and hurled him away. The fellow collapsed in a heap, slid down a few stairs, then clutched at his forearm, whimpering and cursing simultaneously. No one else seemed inclined to touch the Red Death; space opened up about him as he approached us. I took a step back, then realized Holmes had not moved. Even under his makeup I recognized that pained, ironic smile of his.

  When the Red Death reached the top of the steps, he stopped a pace away to stare at Holmes. He was very tall, taller even than Holmes or I. The two men regarded each other for a long while, neither gaze wavering. At last the Red Death spoke: “Oh, all that I ever loved.” His voice was a vibrant baritone, something of a surprise for so hideous an apparition.

  The words were so strange, so utterly incongruous, that they seemed to me to be utter nonsense, but Holmes recognized them at once. After a sharp laugh he replied: “‘And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all.’”

  Holmes had spoken English, and although I had not read Poe for years, the source of the quotation was obvious: it must be the last line of the story. The Red Death had spoken French; perhaps his words were also a quote; they must be from Notre-Dame de Paris. In a romantic period of my youth I had read Hugo. Had not Quasimodo said some such thing near the end of the novel when he viewed his beloved Esmeralda hanging from a gibbet?

  “You would do well to ponder carefully the words you have just spoken,” said the Red Death.

  “And you would be wise to consider your own words. What did that poor broken creature have to show for his love in the end? He could protect neither his gypsy nor his own heart.”

  The Red Death’s mouth drew back in a way which made it evident that he wore no mask. “What do you know of love or loneliness? That face of yours, its deformity, its pain, is but a mask.”

  Holmes shook his head. “No, my real face is the mask, this the reality, that the pretense.”

  The Red Death smiled, an expression that made him look even more ghastly. “You are amusing, Quasimodo, most amusing, but I do not believe you. Your face is mostly putty.”

  “Your own face blinds you. It is no more real than mine. No faces are real: they are all illusions, constantly changing, all masks. It is foolish to envy another his mask. A mask has no more permanence or reality than anything else in this life.”

  The Red Death stared at Holmes, his eyes aflame. “You would not find that so easy to say if you were to trade places with me, if you had a face even a mother would cringe before.” A strange, pained smile pulled at his mouth.

  “I know that. However, although it is something of a cliché, that which lies under the mask is what counts. Too many fools and villains have the visage of Jove or Adonis.”

  “All the more reason to hate this life, this face, which Fate has bestowed upon me! Some Pierrot with a title, youth, and mediocre looks can triumph over me. None can love one such as I, none can begin to share the anguish in my heart.”

  Holmes shook his head. “No, that is not true.”

  “You dare to lecture–to advise me!” shrieked the Red Death. “What can you know of me!”

  “I know you,” Holmes said. “I know you.”

  Again he and the Red Death stared at one another, locked in a combat of wills. At last the specter turned, wearying of the contest but not yielding. He drew in his breath, then stalked away.

  I had been watching him closely and had realized there was no possible way to create that cavity where a nose should have been with makeup. “Good Lord,” I whispered.

  The relief of the crowd was audible; they threw themselves into their merrymaking with renewed energy. I grasped Sherlock’s arm. “What on earth was that all about?”

  “Life,” he replied brusquely. “Come, we had better find the Viscount.” While facing the Red Death he had straightened up to his full height; now he bent over again and assumed the hunchback’s deformity, ambling forward in the most incredible way. Anyone watching would have sworn he was born malformed.

  We reached the door to Box Five, but the Viscount was nowhere to be seen. “Where can he be?” I asked.

  As if in reply, the door swung open, and two Pierrots came out of the box. “Christine!” the Viscount cried, seizing her arm. “Forgive me! I–I did not mean it.”

  She wrenched her arm free. Her Pierrot costume was made of a cloth with a pattern of black and white diamonds, and her white pointed hat hid most of her hair. However, the small white mask did not conceal much of her face; the turned up nose, the full, narrow mouth and the electric green eyes made her identity obvious.

  “You have as much as called me a harlot, Monsieur de Chagny, and I grow weary of your insults. It was foolish of me to think I could rely upon your understanding. I shall not trouble you again.”

  “But, Christine...” The Viscount’s voice had a familiar whine.

  She wrenched her arm free again, then turned to walk away. “Bravo!” shouted a red devil with horns and a tail, and his two female demons also showed their approval. “That’s telling him, honey!” one of them cried.

  Holmes had stepped forward and grasped Christine Daaé’s arm. Thinking it was the Viscount, she tried to free herself, then turned and received the full impact of Quasimodo’s hideous face. She cried out, then saw me in my Reaper’s garb.

  “Mademoiselle...” Holmes and I both began. Our voices steadied her, confusion replacing fear. Holmes continued: “It is I, Sherlock Holmes, and Doctor Vernier there. May we please speak with you?”

  “But whatever are you doing here?” She turned upon the Viscount. “You told them! No one was to know–how could you! Oh, this is insufferable! So you were in his employ all along, Monsieur Holmes. I thought...”

  “I am no man’s lackey, Mademoiselle, least of all his. I am only interested in one thing–unraveling the mystery of le Fantôme de l’Opéra.”

  She drew in her breath. “What has that to do with me?”

  “Surely by now you must have realized that he and your Angel of Music are one and the same.”

  If she had not been wearing white makeup, we would have seen the blood drain from her face. Thinking she was about to faint, I seized her arm. My mask disturbed her, so I took it off. Weakly she said, “What can you know of him?”

  “A great deal, Mademoi
selle Daaé. That is why I wish to speak with you. Believe me when I say I have his interests and yours at heart.”

  “You speak as if they were one and the same,” she whispered.

  “Do you not wear his ring?”

  On the finger of her left hand was a gold band that I did not recall, and knowing Holmes’s eye for detail, the ring must have been a recent acquisition.

  “Christine!” the Viscount howled, ripping off his white mask. “How could you? How could you! Now I understand–you have played me for the fool all along. Even as you spoke to me, you wore another man’s ring. I was right! You are nothing but a dirty little whore!”

  “Monsieur de Chagny!” I exclaimed, but he turned and strode away. Christine sobbed once, and I put my hand on her shoulder.

  “It is not true, Monsieur Holmes–in the name of God it is not!”

  “He is a fool,” Sherlock said.

  “You’re lucky to be rid of him!” shouted one of the female demons, raising her champagne glass in a toast.

  Christine wept. “Come,” Sherlock said. “Let us find a quiet place where we can talk.”

  She nodded. We started for the stairway to the second tier. Suddenly a scream, a man’s voice, rose above the crowd.

  “Raoul!” Christine cried.

  “That could not have been him,” I said.

  Holmes smiled at me, the left eye with the wart over it opening up. “Come on. We had better see what he is up to.”

  We had gone only a few feet when the Viscount ran up to us. “It was he! The death’s head–the death’s head from Perros! For God’s sake, come help me, Monsieur Holmes!”

  Sherlock sighed, then walked forward past de Chagny. Christine Daaé tore her arm free of my grasp, then stepped between the hunchback and the Pierrot. “No! You must not!”

  The Viscount appeared ready to knock her down. “You will not stop me! I shall kill the villain with my bare hands!”

  “No, Raoul!” She raised a tiny white hand. “In the name of our love you shall not pass!”

  An angry Pierrot is a vaguely comical sight, but the fury quickly left the Viscount’s face. “Christine!” He clasped her in his arms.

  I stared in disbelief, then glanced at Holmes. He was not surprised, but his smile was more cynical than usual, his eyes weary.

  “We must get away,” Christine said. “Follow me.”

  “The Red Death!” a voice shouted, and behind us, silence advanced like a shadow over the crowd.

  Christine Daaé quickly led us toward the stairs, her hand holding the Viscount’s. We went up two levels, then halfway around the foyer. She took a key from the pocket of her Pierrot costume and opened the box door. “We shall be safe here.” She closed the door behind us, locked it, then drew the velvet curtain across the circular window. The auditorium was mostly in darkness, but we heard the voices of some revelers below.

  Christine sank down into a chair. “I am so weary, so very weary. Oh that this were finished, all finished, oh, everything.”

  “What do you mean, Christine?” The Viscount sat beside her and took her hand.

  She sobbed once. The light was dim, but I saw a strange, feverish gleam in her eyes. “Oh Raoul, my dearest, if only you knew!” She touched his cheek, and he quickly drew in his breath. “Be thankful, be thankful for your face, and especially for... especially for your nose.” And indeed, she touched the very tip of his nose with her forefinger.

  “Christine, Christine, what are you saying?” The Viscount’s voice, for once, was gentle, but I detected a certain histrionic note, an exaggeration, that I found distasteful. However, I freely admit that by then my feelings toward the man were so hostile that I was incapable of an unbiased view.

  Christine was staring intently, not at the Viscount, but at Holmes. “There is an Angel of Music, Monsieur Holmes. In the name of God the Father and the Blessed Virgin Mary, I swear there is an Angel of Music.”

  “I know, Mademoiselle. I know.”

  “You do! You really understand?”

  “Only an angel could have played as he did at Perros.”

  “You do understand!” She seized his long, thin fingers with her tiny hand. His first impulse, I saw, was to pull away from her, but he did not. “He is an angel, Monsieur Holmes. You have heard that divine music. His voice is the same, if not more celestial than the violin. Saint Michael the Archangel when he sang to the other angels could not have sounded more heavenly! And yet...” She began to cry again. “His face, oh, his face–his poor face. Oh, poor Erik! How could God do this to his own angel!”

  The Viscount stiffened. “Who is Erik?”

  “His face is that of a demon, a creature from Hell! How can that be, Monsieur Holmes? You must tell me–how can God have done his own angel such a wrong?”

  Sherlock had dropped the guise of Quasimodo; both eyes were open, the false teeth held in his left hand. “I know not, Mademoiselle Daaé.”

  “Oh, I do not know what to believe anymore! I do not know whether he is an angel or devil, but when he sings to me his voice is an angel’s. I...” She was crying so hard her words were difficult to make out.

  “Christine,” the Viscount said, “what is this? What are you talking about!”

  “I am talking about a tragedy, a great and terrible tragedy!”

  “But... You spoke of our love, and you know that I do love you–you must understand that you are my heart, my soul, my very being! And yet you speak of this... this Angel. Angels do not appear to mortals. Someone is deluding you, my darling. And that ring... You must understand... Whose ring is it?” The Viscount’s voice had gradually taken on its familiar whine.

  “It is his ring. Erik’s ring.”

  “But who is this Erik!”

  “He is the Angel of Music, my own special angel, the one whom God has sent to me. He is my inspiration and my trial. Oh, if only I am worthy of him!”

  “This is madness, Christine. Madness!”

  “So you think that I am mad?”

  “No, no, of course not. I only...”

  She stood abruptly. “I must go. He will... Raoul, we may not see one another again in this life. Believe me when I swear I... that I loved you. Try to understand. I must go–I must go now. If he should find me here... Promise me, all of you, that you will not follow me. Promise.”

  “But, Christine...” the Viscount began.

  “Silence! You are incapable of understanding–absolutely incapable! What a silly little fool I have been!” She turned to Sherlock. “Promise me, Monsieur Holmes, that none of you will follow me for at least five minutes.”

  “Is it really necessary that you depart?”

  “Yes–yes.”

  “Are you certain that he will not harm you?”

  “Yes. I shall be safe with him.”

  “Then you have my promise.”

  “And you, Doctor Vernier?”

  I nodded.

  “And you, Raoul?” Her voice quavered.

  “But dearest, this is madness. I cannot...”

  “Promise me!”

  He sighed. “Oh, very well. I promise.”

  She touched his cheek with her fingertips, then rose, opened the door, flooding us briefly with light, and closed it behind her.

  The Viscount promptly leapt to his feet. Holmes’s hand shot out and seized his wrist. “Where do you think you are going?”

  “I must follow her! I must find this Erik!”

  “Need I remind you that you gave your word?”

  “You impertinent dog–spare me your lectures!” He tried to break free of Holmes, an endeavor I could have told him would be futile. “Release me at once!”

  “You are going to keep your word and your honor, Monsieur le Vicomte, whether you wish to or not.”

  “But she is mad–delirious.”

  “That does not matter. Please sit down.”

  “Ow!” the Viscount cried. “You are hurting me. Let go!”

  “Only if you will sit down.”

>   “Oh, very well–just release me.”

  Holmes did so, and the Viscount sat and rubbed angrily at his wrist, then glanced at the door handle.

  “I shall certainly catch you if you try it.”

  The Viscount began to curse. I turned to my cousin. “Do you think she has lost her reason?”

  “She is quite sane.”

  “She is behaving most strangely,” the Viscount moaned.

  “That is certainly an understatement,” I muttered.

  “She has been placed in a most difficult position.” Sherlock’s fingers began to drum at his right knee. “The choice is usually not so stark, so dramatic. The outcome is predictable, but I wish...” He sighed, then stared out at the dark dome of the auditorium overhead.

  “What are you talking about!” the Viscount cried. “Has everyone gone mad but me?”

  “Oh, be quiet for once!” Holmes snapped.

  After a brief interlude, Sherlock stood. “We have waited long enough to honor our promise.” He opened the door, and I blinked at the light. “It will no doubt be futile, but let us see if the Red Death is still about.”

  “We might have followed her to him if you had let me out earlier,” the Viscount said.

  “Yes, but then you would have shown yourself to be a filthy liar. Come.” He twisted his body, metamorphosing again into Quasimodo, and started down the hallway.

  We searched in vain for over an hour. Everyone recalled seeing the Red Death; some were so drunk they fancied he had just passed by; but the specter was nowhere to be found. We tried Box Five and discovered a man and woman earnestly assuming the roles of nymph and satyr, their earlier costumes discarded. An audience did not seem to disturb them, but Holmes quickly shut the door, his gray eyes showing a strange blend of repulsion and attraction. Again, I thought of Michelle, then was embarrassed at making such a connection. There was more to love than mere copulation, even if the most ethereal lovers and barnyard animals did share in the same biological act. My feelings for her were not merely carnal, nor, I hoped, did they have much in common with those of Christine Daaé and the Viscount!