Unmasqued: An Erotic Novel of The Phantom of The Opera (13 page)

Until Raoul de Chagny.

Her eyes had lit up and sparkled, and she swooned up to her feet upon his presence. And immediately took his imperious arm.

And then he’d swept her away, out of the theater, away from Erik, away from the Opera Ghost’s stronghold.

Leaving Erik alone, with the darkness of his destiny and the taunts of his imagination.

W
ith the encouragement of the two managers, and her many supporters, Carlotta defied the Opera Ghost’s warning, gliding onto the stage that night in full costume and regalia. She had determined that she would sing, and sing she would.

Feathers quivering from her ornate, glittering headdress, the train of her silk gown and yards of ruffles and gathers spilling onto the floorboards, the prima donna took her position in the exact front center of the auditorium as the beaming Moncharmin and Richard looked on from their places in Box Five.

“The ghost is late,” chuckled Firmin Richard to his partner. “The performance has begun and he has not arrived to claim his seat.”

“I am glad we did not let this box out tonight; I am looking forward to hearing La Carlotta’s performance. She is not afraid of the ridiculous jokester ghost.”

“I refuse to keep this box unavailable to our patrons any longer. Opera Ghost, indeed.”

“And whoever it is…he shall not find any salary forthcoming from us,” Moncharmin replied, laughing to himself. “We can put those twenty-four thousand francs to much better use.”

The second act passed without incident, and during the intermission, the two managers left their box in order to greet La Carlotta backstage.

“You have never sung better, madame,” Firmin Richard told her, bowing over her hand. “I am so pleased you did not disappoint your many supporters and comply with the threatening letter you received.”

“
Ridículo.
The Opera Ghost is nothing but a story made up by Christine Daaé’s friends, trying to frighten me.
Me, La Carlotta!
” She humphed and preened, and the managers, well satisfied with the result of their foiling whatever plot had been hatched, returned to their box for the third act.

When they reentered Box Five, however, they noticed almost immediately that a box of candy had been placed on the railing.

“Where in heaven has this come from?” asked Moncharmin, pointing to the box.

“And these?” Richard produced a pair of opera glasses that had not been there when they had left. “Call the
ouvreuse
and find out who has been here since we left. Someone must have put them here as a joke.”

But when they questioned the ushers, they all indicated that no one had come along the staircase leading to the box. No one at all.

Richard and Moncharmin looked at each other uneasily, but settled into their seats as the curtain rose for the third act of
Faust.
It was only an instant later that a strange draft, eerie and unhealthy, began to seep through the box. Moncharmin fancied he could hear someone
breathing, just behind him. The managers looked at each other, but remained silent, suddenly very attentive to what was happening onstage.

It was time for Carlotta’s entrance. Richard realized he was holding his breath, twisting his fingers into the handkerchief he had somehow pulled from his pocket.

When La Carlotta made her third and final entrance of the evening, a great cheer arose from her supporters in the audience. A triumphant gleam in her eyes, La Carlotta raised her arms and began to sing Marguerite’s response to Faust’s entreaty.

Suddenly, a most unnerving rumble sounded from…somewhere. Above, below, in front…later, witnesses were not able to agree on the location of the noise, but it was the sound of an angry growl or grumbling. Moncharmin choked audibly and Richard dropped his handkerchief. It fluttered to the seats below.

After the ominous rumble, Carlotta paused, hitching her breath, casting a wary glance behind her…but she was standing far in front of the backdrops, even in front of the proscenium, nearly upon the gaslights that studded the edge of the stage. She picked up and carried the next few notes, even as the grumbling sounded again and a flicker of a shadow blinked over the stage, sending her fuchsia gown into shades of dirty pink.

Faust approached her, and sang his lines.

Carlotta opened her mouth and began to sing her reply:

But—it was
horrible
!

The audience stood as one, gaping at the people around them. The managers turned to each other, clasping the other’s forearm, their mouths wide with horror, eyes goggling, jowls shaking.

It was inconceivable…but the last syllable had come from Carlotta’s mouth, not as a beautiful, clear note…but as the sound of the croak of a
frog.

Her face was the picture of a terrified, bewildered woman. Her hands rose to her throat as if to ascertain whether it was still hers. She looked at Piangi, the man playing Faust, who was staring back at her as though she had grown a second nose.

“
Impossible
,” Richard gasped to his partner. “She has just been singing so perfectly. All night.”

“It was an inhuman sound. It must have been…it had to have been a mistake.”

“She has sung the most intricate and beautiful notes.…How could this be? She has never faltered, in all of her performances.”

They turned back to the stage, holding their breaths. Moncharmin noticed to his dismay that the draft seemed to have gotten colder. More sharp and eerie. And the breathing…it was closer. Louder. He swallowed deeply and began to wish quite vehemently that they had not made those jests about refusing to pay the ghost’s salary.

The orchestra began to play. The buzzing of the people had risen, and now ebbed back into silence. All waited expectantly.

Carlotta, looking not quite as triumphant as she had appeared earlier, drew in her breath to sing. Richard held his own breath, waiting.…

“Go on,
go on
,” Richard hissed, his heart beating so hard his fingers jolted on the box’s railing.

The croaks echoed with hoarse ugliness through the auditorium and Carlotta closed her mouth, clapping her small hands over it as if to push the awful sounds back in. Her eyes bugging, she picked up her skirts and ran offstage as the audience erupted in a mass of whispers and titters.

From behind them, the managers heard a low, rumbling laughter. “The way she sings tonight, ‘tis a wonder she doesn’t bring down the chandelier!” It was the ghost! Behind them, speaking behind them in the very same box!

Moncharmin and Richard dared not turn to look behind them, but Moncharmin glanced quickly up at the chandelier as if expecting it to tumble to the stage. It swayed gently, but did not appear to be in danger of falling.

“What shall we do now? The show is ruined,” he said to Richard.

“He wants Daaé to sing. We shall give him Daaé, then,” the taller man replied, more bravely than he felt, and hoped assiduously that the ghost had heard him and would leave off. He stood at the edge of the box and called out into the auditorium. “Please, ladies and gentlemen…the show will go on. We shall present to you Miss Daaé, performing the remainder of the role of Marguerite for your pleasure.”

Thus, moments later, due to some quick work on the part of the stage manager and the director, the newest star of the Opera
House, Christine Daaé, stepped into the circle of light left empty by Carlotta.

She looked angelic and fragile. Her long, dark hair was left unbound and curled in a gentle, delicate swath that hung to the middle of her back. Her pale blue gown was not nearly as ornate and fancy as that of La Carlotta, but it suited her innocence…and clearly displayed the woman inside. The neckline plunged to a deep vee between her breasts, lifted high and steady by her corset. Her long, white arms were bare from the shoulders down; only the narrowest band of blue rosettes formed the sleeves that rested just below the juncture of arm and shoulder. The delicate curve of her collarbone, the dip at the base of her throat, were shown in fine relief by the yellow light above.

But her face. It was her face and voice that captivated the audience. A woman had never sung so purely, so cleanly and perfectly in all the Opera House’s history. The rapturous expression on her beautiful countenance bespoke of some ecstasy that was beyond the grasp of the audience, but that clearly moved her. She sang as though she could never stop, as though she would never tire, never run out of words or notes.

Indeed, Christine knew she had never sung so beautifully. She felt the music filling her veins, sounding her nerve endings…carrying her away. She felt Erik’s presence, knew he had somehow caused Carlotta’s embarrassment to pave the way for Christine’s own triumph.

As she sang, she did as he requested: She sang for him. She felt his hands on her skin, his gentle lips scoring her bare shoulder. Her breasts, lifted enticingly, tightened and swelled as she recalled the gentle, persuasive hands that had fondled them earlier.

She felt naked, bare, warm, and titillated and basked in the heat of the limelight, and she felt as though she and her angel sang together, somewhere, alone. And joined together as one.

They were joined. They would be one.

And when she was done, when she broke from the trancelike state that had enabled her to sing without nervousness or fear, the applause of the audience brought her back to herself. She bowed and curtsied and accepted the roses and lilies and gillyflowers tossed and presented to her. Elation grew inside her as the audience continued to cheer, until her excitement was such that she was hardly able to stand still. She had succeeded! She had never been so happy, so exultant, in her life.

When a large mass of blush-edged white roses dropped at her feet, bound with a crimson ribbon, she looked up and saw Raoul waving to her from the box nearest the stage. Smiling, flush and exhilarated with her triumph, Christine picked up Raoul’s offering and buried her face in the beautiful blooms.

And when she ran off the stage and hurried her way through the wings of the backstage, Raoul was already there to meet her. Somehow, he managed to slip an arm around hers and whisk her off into an empty wardrobe closet before she reached the
foyer de la danse
and any of her other admirers could get to her.

In the small, close room, lit by one single lamp, they were surrounded by racks of glittering gowns and feathered headdresses, props of swords and shields and belts and girdles. Lacy corsets, flowered hats, gloves, and silky, beaded skirts pushed them together so that they stood very close in the narrow aisle of the closet.

“Christine, my love, you were brilliant!” Holding her hands, he gazed at her fervently, his shadowed blue eyes gleaming with pride and emotion.

“Thank you, Raoul,” she cried, hardly able to contain herself, and dropped the roses at their feet as he drew her into his arms.

His kiss was brief and gentle, sweeping reverently over her parted lips. “You are so beautiful,” he whispered against her mouth,
drawing her flush against him. “And you sing like a perfect angel. You are perfect, Christine.”

She pulled away, resting a hand against his handsome cheek, excitement still raging through her. His skin glowed golden in the yellow light, his butter-colored hair tipped with a nimbus from the illumination behind him. “I am not perfect, Raoul, but it is kind of you to say so. Indeed, my tutor says I still have much work to do.” Christine smiled up at him, her attention on his slender, elegant lips. How lovely it was to
see
the man in front of her, to touch him and to look at him.…Still exultant and bold, she stepped forward into him and raised her face to kiss his delicate lips.

His arms wrapped around her as though suddenly loosened from bounds, pulling her roughly up against his body. Their mouths fought to taste the other, to sample and lick and nibble. His shoulders, high and broad, felt sturdy under Christine’s hands…so different from her encounters with Erik, where she had never faced him…never felt the length of his body pressed up against her breasts, her mons…never fulfilled the need to touch him, to trace her hand over his body.

“Christine,” Raoul muttered, and he was moving along her jaw to her neck, his mouth wet on her skin. She arched back, pushing her chest into his groping hands, wanting to feel those fingers over her tight nipples.

Her breasts pulled free and he bent to take one into the warm cavern of his mouth. Christine arched against him as he sucked, her hand trailing down to the bulge between his thighs.

Suddenly, the door just behind Raoul’s shoulder opened.

Christine pushed him away as she recognized the erect black figure of Madame Giry. “M-madame,” she stammered, hastily thrusting her breasts back into their confinements.

“Christine. You are keeping him waiting.” Her black eyes scored
over her and then over Raoul as she waited, arms crossed over her middle, for Christine to put herself to rights.

“Of course, madame,” Christine replied, suddenly overcome with remorse. How could she have kept Erik waiting? Of course he would want to see her…after her performance tonight, he would want to be with her…to touch her. To make her
feel.

As she was making a final adjustment, Raoul had turned politely away, but as she stepped out of the wardrobe closet, he was waiting for her.

Just as Erik was waiting for her.

How could she have forgotten Erik, even for the moment? The excitement of her second debut, the thrill of conquering the audience yet again…of being the beautiful lady of her dreams…and then Raoul had appeared to sweep her off her feet before she knew what he was doing.