The Angel of the Opera Read online

  We stepped out into the square before the Opera as the bells of Paris began to strike midnight. A cheer went up from the huge crowd. A Valkyrie with a spear seized my arm. “Embrasses-moi, Mort!” she cried, then pushed aside my mask and kissed me. Her lips were warm and moist, but her breath smelled of wine and tobacco. “Au revoir, Mort!” she cried as I nodded farewell.

  An older woman in furs was willing to kiss Quasimodo, but Holmes held her at bay. Our Viscount Pierrot also rejected several amorous offers. “What about her dressing room?” I asked.

  “Ah, let us try it!”

  There were even more people on the grand stairway than before, and they had grown more quarrelsome or more amorous, no doubt because so many bottles of wine and champagne had been drunk. It took several minutes to reach the dim, quiet corridor leading to Christine Daaé’s dressing room. We were almost to the door when we heard the voice begin. The Viscount wanted to cry out, but Holmes seized him at once and clapped a hand over his mouth. “Not now.”

  “Erik–Erik.” I could hardly hear Christine over the music.

  The voice was singing an aria. Usually I have a dreadful memory for melodies, but I had heard Faust only the week before. This was Faust’s aria, “Salut! demeure chaste et pure,” sung, in effect, to Marguerite’s house, that dwelling of “une âme innocente et divine,” a soul innocent and divine. Shortly thereafter, Faust ends up in his angel’s bed, setting her on the path to dishonor, ruin, and madness. If you can forget the irony, the aria is beautiful, and I had never heard it sung so well.

  Carlotta’s tenor had a big worn voice with considerable vibrato. This singing was very clear and pure with minimal vibrato, full of genuine warmth and feeling, not mere acting. Christine’s singing had something of the same quality, but one could tell this was the teacher, the maestro. He made it seem so easy. For someone like myself who had always been repelled by the artifice of opera, this was perfection, the beauty of the music with none of the usual defects.

  Holmes glanced at me, and I could see he was similarly affected. “Our angel again,” he murmured.

  The final high C note of the aria was the best I have ever heard. Usually a high C is a trial for tenor and audience alike: the singer bellows like a bull to produce the proper pitch while the audience worries that his voice will crack or a vein in his head burst. This person made the note a part of the song, a culmination of love which made one ache from the beauty.

  There was a brief silence, then Christine Daaé cried, “I come!”

  Holmes had released the Viscount who shouted, “Christine!” He ran to the door and wrenched it open. Holmes and I followed slowly, unwilling to break the music’s spell. The room was empty, the only sound the hiss of the low gas flame. A chair lay on its side before the full-length mirror, and we saw before us only Quasimodo, the grim reaper, and a befuddled Pierrot who had lost his mask.

  “She walked into the mirror,” the Viscount whispered. Then much louder, “My God, she went into the mirror!”

  Seven

  Late in the afternoon of the next day, we spent an unpleasant hour with the Viscount. After our adventures at the Opera ball he had been stunned, but sleep and a few hours contemplation had been enough to work him into a state of genuine frenzy. He bitterly reproached Holmes for again laying hands upon him, threatening to challenge him to a duel if it happened one more time. He also blamed Holmes for Miss Daaé’s relations with the mysterious Erik and finished by demanding that Holmes find her on the instant.

  Although Sherlock was weary, having slept little that night, he showed the patience of a saint, albeit a somewhat sarcastic one. He assured the Viscount that Mademoiselle Daaé would soon reappear, noted that she had confessed her love for him, and told him that he was free to take his business elsewhere if so inclined. After having excreted a goodly amount of black bile, the Viscount left, somewhat placated.

  “Promise me,” I said to my cousin, “that if I ever begin to behave toward Michelle or any other female in a manner in any way similar to Monsieur de Chagny, that you will apprise me of the situation.”

  “Fear not, Henry. You are not such an utter ass.”

  “Yet I see certain similarities. I fear that our general behavior toward the misnamed weaker sex is often reprehensible. They must tolerate a great deal of nonsense.”

  Holmes nodded. “The poor man beats his wife in a drunken stupor, the rich man treats her exactly as he treats his dog. Courtship is all clouds of perfumed sentiment while marriage has the stink of cynicism or indifference.”

  I laughed. “You might forge that into a pair of couplets worthy of Alexander Pope.”

  Holmes sighed. “You know, of course, that our Mademoiselle Daaé will end up with that sniveling wretch of a viscount.”

  “I cannot believe it.”

  “I have seen it happen too many times.” He suppressed a yawn, covering his mouth with his hand. “I am tired. Fear not, Henry, your Michelle, like you, is made of sterner stuff, and with age–at least in her case–has come wisdom. And unlike Mademoiselle Daaé, she has an income and a livelihood of her own. Christine Daaé has hardly a penny, and the chances of her making and keeping a fortune on the stage are slim. At least she has spirit. I doubt she will ever be a meek slave to the Viscount.”

  “In spite of everything... life would be very lonely without women.”

  A brief smile passed over his lips. “I hope to return you to your Michelle in another fortnight.”

  “Are you serious? Can you see an end to this business?”

  “Oh yes, but none that pleases me. That is the problem. However, one way or another, things are drawing to a climax.”

  I questioned him, but he would elaborate no further.

  Monday morning when I joined him for breakfast, he had claimed two letters from the front desk. Upon one I recognized the familiar British postmark and stamps.

  “Susan Lowell sends her regards.”

  I stared at him, but he sipped his coffee somewhat too loudly and regarded the tablecloth. “A lengthy letter?” I asked.

  “Yes. She has some misgivings about leaving Wales to go to London. Perhaps she is right.”

  “All the same,” I began, but an exclamation from Holmes cut me off.

  “Have a look at this.” He passed me the other letter. It was only three lines in which Christine Daaé pleaded for him to meet her at Notre Dame de Paris at eleven that morning. “I had foreseen something such as this. A rehearsal for La Juive is scheduled for this afternoon, and I expect her to be present. Eat your croissant, Henry, and then we shall take a cab to Notre Dame. No trip to Paris would be complete without a visit there.”

  Despite Baron Haussmann’s many improvements to Paris during the reign of Napoleon the Third–the great wide boulevards, the many monuments, squares and parks–the cathedral remained the very heart of the city, as it had for centuries. My father had been French Catholic, my mother British Protestant, and I was not much of either. Still, I must confess to a certain thrill, a visceral shiver, as we stood across the street and stared up at the great facade of the church.

  Hugo in his novel of the same name had immortalized Notre Dame de Paris forever. At one point he compares it to a monstrous, two-headed Sphinx, and despite its undeniable majesty, the edifice did possess a faintly sinister aura. Perhaps it was the dusky color the stone had taken on, a grayish black patina; and the sheer size of that immense front rising above us also contributed to its impact. The three portals with their pointed arches and elaborate sculptures were a good fifty feet high, the doors themselves some twenty-five feet tall. Next came the row of sculpted stone figures, each twice larger than life, then the gigantic, circular rose window, and finally those two towers, the Sphinx heads, each with two arches, their interiors black, the strange, rectangular eyes of the beast.

  Perhaps the age of Notre Dame or my knowledge of that age affected me. Largely finished in the late thirteenth century, it was nearly two hundred years old in Hugo’s novel, which was
set in the fifteenth century; now over six hundred years had gone by. The Cathedral stood as a monument to the past, to a different age entirely, one more primitive than our own, one whose faith was both its glory and its terror. That faith drove men to create beautiful things such as the Cathedral, even as they committed the most dreadful atrocities in the name of their God. The witch trials and tortures carried out in Hugo’s novel had their basis in fact, even if Quasimodo had never existed, had never crawled about that facade or pushed the evil priest Claude Frollo to his death.

  The day was bright and sunny, the preview of spring continuing. How much more sinister would the dark facade have appeared against a stormy gray sky! I glanced at my cousin and saw in his face indications of reverie and contemplation similar to my own. He wore a top hat and frock coat, but because of the gentler weather, he had left behind his overcoat.

  “It is imposing,” I murmured.

  “Quite. The carriages and pedestrians seem inconsequential. Curious that mortals could create something so much larger and more enduring than themselves. I wonder how much longer it will stand. One can almost feel the fundamental clash between it and our modern age. Perhaps it broods upon the folly of all notions of human progress.”

  “I wonder if it was truly an age of faith.”

  Sherlock shook his head. “I doubt it. The hearts of men remain the same. Only the surroundings, our monuments, change. This old Sphinx has had his day. A hundred years from now Eiffel’s steel tower will probably be the emblem of Paris.”

  “That monstrosity?” I shook my head. “Never. There was a genuine outcry at its construction.”

  Holmes gave me his most ironic smile. “We shall have to settle this bet posthumously, I fear.” He took his watch out of his vest pocket. “Come, we must not keep Mademoiselle Daaé waiting.”

  The interior of Notre Dame seems gloomier and darker than those of other famed cathedrals; one feels in walking through the great portal and under the vaulted stone walls high overhead that one is passing backward in time. Although other cathedrals may be more architecturally Gothic, Notre Dame is more Gothic in the sense of ominous atmosphere and mood.

  We walked slowly down a side aisle and stared up at the soaring vertical lines all around us, the stone columns which became the graceful arches of the vault and the tall windows which curved at their tops into points. The sunlight passing through the colored glass was subdued, the air heavy and damp with the faint hint of incense. A match flared, and as an old woman in black lit a candle before a gray stone saint, I smelled burning wax. The ancient tombs we passed, complete with sculptured representations of the dead, added to the funereal aspect.

  At the far end of the church, near a statue of the Virgin, Christine Daaé knelt praying. Her devotion seemed a trifle theatrical, her pious posture and the rosary held in her tiny gloved hands overdone. Of late her garments had become more fashionable and expensive; her hat, dress, and bodice were of brilliant purple, the fur at the collar and cuffs of the bodice a dark sable. Unlike the timeless old dames in black, that flock of aged crows, she seemed out of place, an incongruity. I reflected that the dye mauvine, a coal tar derivative, had only been discovered twenty or thirty years ago, a mere moment in time to the ancient stones about us.

  Her blonde hair was bound up in back, the bun showing under the purple brim of the hat, and the nape of her slender neck was very pale. I remembered kissing Michelle on that very spot, a mere prelude to that which followed, and a physical ache of longing went through me.

  Holmes slipped between the seats to join her, and she looked up at us. Her face was pale and weary, but she smiled, her lips parting slightly. She was like some small lavender flower set before a great gray tombstone; how many such flowers had these stones seen wither and die? She was so beautiful, so self-assured, that I tended to forget she was little more than a child. Remembering the awkwardness of my companions, male and female, at twenty years, I was glad to be past it all and near thirty. I recalled Holmes’s comment that only the plodding oxen like Carlotta lasted as singers, and I wondered if she would tame her artistic genius or burn out young even as a flaming meteor.

  She rose off her knees and sat down. “Monsieur Holmes, Doctor Vernier! I am so glad you could come.” Still radiant, she laid one hand on Holmes’s sleeve. Visibly he recoiled, but she did not notice. “I have been praying that you would come. I hope God will answer my other prayers.” She pulled off her gloves and folded her hands on her lap. The golden band was still on her finger.

  Holmes stared warily at her, his eyes tired. “You wanted to see us, Mademoiselle Daaé?”

  “Yes. Erik... Erik has released me. I wept, and he said I could go if I promised to return. I promised, and yet... Oh, Monsieur Holmes, what am I to do?”

  “You gave him your promise?”

  She stared down at her hands, then put her right hand over the other so the ring was hidden. She nodded.

  “Well, then.”

  She looked up at him, her face a mute appeal, but his face was stern and cold, like those of the stone saints all around us. I could not resist her. “A promise not freely given, a promise made under duress, may not be binding. Were you threatened or coerced?”

  Her smile slowly faded, and I sensed how weary she was. “No. Yes. Oh, I don’t know! If only–he is so mercilessly, so frightfully, ugly! If he were merely plain, but his face is hideous–hideous!” Her voice grew loud, echoing faintly overhead, and an old woman coughed once, then turned to give us a disapproving glance. Christine began to cry. She took a handkerchief out of her handbag and dabbed at her eyes. “Oh, I am sorry. I am... confused.”

  Holmes maintained his stony composure, but I could see in his eyes that he was troubled. My first impulse as a physician–and as a man–was to comfort her, but I held back.

  “He lives beneath the earth, Monsieur Holmes. Deep underground. Did you know that?”

  Holmes did not move, but I sensed the energy gathering within him, his attention caught at once. “I suspected as much. Beneath the Opera, yes?”

  She nodded. “He took me part of the way on a horse, the white horse César, whom I knew so well. It was cold and dark down there. I was frightened, but his voice was so calm and gentle. He took me to the strangest little house all full of musical instruments, statues, and paintings. He told me how he had always loved me from the first time he saw me, how he worshiped me, how he would make me the greatest singer of all time. How could I resist that voice, so warm, so resonant, a sound like a caress, like the touch of a hand? No woman could resist. He was my Angel of Music. But that was before I saw his face.” She covered her face with her hands.

  Holmes pulled at his chin with his thumb and forefinger and inhaled slowly. “He was masked?”

  “Yes, and that first day everything was wonderful. We were so happy together. It was as if we had been waiting all our lives to discover one another, as if fate had decreed our love, but I would not leave well enough alone. I had to see his face. Somehow I had managed to persuade myself that he was really handsome. Older perhaps, but handsome. He was playing the organ when I snatched the mask from his face.” Her hands clenched into fists. “Merciful God,” she whispered. “Why?” Another sob burst free, and again we received a disapproving gaze from the old woman.

  Something in the last sob seemed forced, and I suddenly had the impression of someone playing a part. Not consciously–Christine Daaé was no transparent little hypocrite; all was deeply felt. Yet something was wrong.

  “Removing masks is always a dangerous business,” Holmes said.

  “Believe me, Monsieur Holmes, I understand that now. God is testing me, I know.” Her tiny hand closed about the gold cross she wore at her throat. “He has sent me my Angel of Music, but why has he given him the face of a devil? I told you how at times I have sensed the angels all about me, the shimmer of their golden wings, but now... they are gone. I sense demons–only demons. I smell the sweet sick smell of their rotting naked flesh, and I hear th
eir laughter, a high-pitched chittering noise like that which rats make. I hear it at night; it creeps in and out of the silent darkness. Oh, they are terrible, these demons–they are black and damned! My father warns me, and I know that only my angel can save me. When I am with him, I am safe! Lucifer was the king of angels, the most beautiful, until he scorned God and was damned. His beauty was evil, a curse. Oh, if I abandon my angel I, too, am lost–am damned!”

  “Please calm yourself, Mademoiselle,” I said. “Such thoughts are morbid and unhealthy. These demons are fabrications of your mind. They are not real.”

  She bit at her lip, drew in her breath, and a change came over her face. “Do you think... do you think Monsieur de Chagny is fond of me?”

  Holmes grimaced. “You know the answer to that question. You heard him declare his feelings for you.”

  “But is he to be believed?”

  Holmes drew in his breath between his clenched teeth. “You must be the judge of that.”

  “But what do you think, Monsieur Holmes?”

  “Mademoiselle Daaé, you put me in an impossible position! I have been assisting the Viscount, and he is my client. However, in good faith I must tell you that”—the anger had burst from him; he struggled to control it—“I... I am not an admirer of the Viscount. That is all I shall say.” This sternness triggered more tears. Holmes gave me a grim smile which conveyed his wish that we could leave. I felt impatient with her myself.

  In the midst of her tears she suddenly laughed. “What a silly little fool I am. He is a boy, such a boy, and yet... He is rather handsome, for a boy, and he says he loves me. Am I to be blamed for wanting a normal life? For wanting not to be poor? For wanting a husband who will take me places and buy me things and say sweet, stupid words? Do not all women want this? Who will blame me! Would you have me buried alive with a madman and genius? Would you blame me, Monsieur Holmes!”

  He gave his head a swift shake. “No. Most women would not hesitate given the choice you face. The fact that you are troubled, that you hesitate, is to your credit.”