Chapter VIII

That tragic evening was bad for everybody. Carlotta fell ill. As for Christine Daae, she disappeared after the performance.

Raoul, of course, was the first to be astonished at the prima donna’s absence. He wrote to her and received no reply. His grief increased and he was seriously alarmed at never seeing her name on the program. Faust was played without her.

Mme. Giry had been reinstated in her functions.

One afternoon he went to the managers’ office to ask the reason of Christine’s disappearance. He found them both looking extremely worried. Their own friends did not recognize them: they had lost all their gaiety and spirits. The fall of the chandelier had involved them in no little responsibility.

When Raoul came to ask about Christine, they merely told him that she had been ill.

“Then she is ill!” he cried. “What is the matter with her?”

“We don’t know.”

“Didn’t you send the doctor of the Opera to see her?”

“No, she did not ask for him.”

Raoul left the building. Of whom was Christine Daae the victim? He trembled as he rang at the Christine little flat. The door was opened by the maid whom he had seen coming out of Christine’s dressing-room one evening. She brought him to the old lady, Christine’s adopted mother, Mamma Valerius.

“M. de Chagny!” she cried gaily. “Ah, it’s Heaven that sends you here! We can talk of her.”

This last sentence sounded very gloomily in the young man’s ears. He at once asked:

“Madame, where is Christine?”

“She is with her good genius!”

“What good genius?” exclaimed poor Raoul.

“Why, the Angel of Music!”

The viscount dropped into a chair. Really? Christine was with the Angel of Music? The old lady smiled to him and put her finger to her lips, to warn him to be silent! And she added:

“You must not tell anybody!”

“You can rely on me,” said Raoul.

“She used to speak of you every day.”

“Really? But, madam, what did she tell you?”

“She told me that you had made her a proposal! But I beg your pardon… After all, what has happened isn’t your fault. Didn’t you know? Did you think that Christine was free?”

“Is Christine engaged to be married?” the wretched Raoul asked.

“Why no! Why no! You know as well as I do that Christine couldn’t marry, even if she wanted to!”

“But I don’t know anything about it! And why can’t Christine marry?”

“Because of the Angel of Music, of course!”

“I don’t understand.”

“He forbids her to!”

“He forbids her! The Angel of Music forbids her to marry!”

“Oh, he forbids her without forbidding her. It’s like this: he tells her that, if she got married, she would never hear him again. That’s all! So, you understand, she can’t let the Angel of Music go. It’s quite natural.”

“Yes, yes,” echoed Raoul, “it’s quite natural. Please, tell me where that genius lives.”

She raised her eyes and said:

“In Heaven!”

Such simplicity baffled him. He did not know what to say.

“How long has she known this ‘genius?’”

“About three months. Yes, it’s quite three months since he began to give her lessons.”

“The genius gives her lessons! And where, pray?”

“It was in Christine’s dressing-room. It would be impossible in this little flat. The whole house would hear them. Whereas, at the Opera, at eight o’clock in the morning, there is no one about, do you see!”

“Yes, I see! I see!” cried the viscount.

And he hurriedly left. He walked home to his brother’s house in a pitiful state. The Angel of Music! Oh, what a miserable, little, insignificant, silly young man was M. le Vicomte de Chagny! thought Raoul, furiously. And she, what a bold and damnable sly creature!

His brother was waiting for him and Raoul fell into his arms, like a child. The count consoled him, without asking for explanations.

His valet found him in the morning sitting on his bed. He had not undressed and the servant feared, at the sight of his face, that some disaster had occurred. Raoul snatched his letters from the man’s hands. He had recognized Christine’s paper and hand-writing. She said:

Dear:

Go to the masked ball at the Opera on the night after tomorrow. At twelve o’clock, be in the little room behind the chimney-place of the big crush-room. Stand near the door that leads to the Rotunda. Don’t mention this appointment to any one on earth. Wear a white domino and be carefully masked. As you love me, do not let yourself be recognized.

Christine.

Chapter IX

The envelope was covered with mud and unstamped. It bore the words “To be handed to M. le Vicomte Raoul de Chagny,” with the address in pencil. Raoul read it over again with fevered eyes. No more was needed to revive his hope. The somber picture which he had for a moment imagined of Christine disappeared. Was she really a victim? Whose prisoner was she? Into what whirlpool had she been dragged? What had happened? What influence had she undergone? What monster had carried her off?

The Angel of Music! For three months the Angel of Music had been giving Christine lessons. Raoul asked himself with terror what game the girl was playing? Thus did Raoul’s thoughts fly from one extreme to the other. He no longer knew whether to pity Christine or to curse her; and he pitied and cursed her. At all events, he bought a white domino.

The hour of the appointment came at last. With his face in a mask, looking like Pierrot, the viscount thought himself very ridiculous. One thought, however, consoled the viscount: he would certainly never be recognized!

This ball was an exceptional affair, given in honor of the anniversary of the birth of a famous draftsman. Raoul climbed the grand staircase at five minutes to twelve. Crossing the big crush-room and escaping from a mad whirl of dancers in which he was caught for a moment, he at last entered the room mentioned in Christine’s letter. He found it crammed.

Raoul leaned against a door and waited. He did not wait long. A black domino passed and gave a quick squeeze to the tips of his fingers. He understood that it was she and followed her:

“Is that you, Christine?” he asked, between his teeth.

The black domino turned round promptly and raised her finger to her lips, no doubt to warn him not to mention her name again. Raoul continued to follow her in silence.

He was afraid of losing her, after meeting her again in such strange circumstances. His grudge against her was gone. He was in love. And, no doubt, he would soon receive a very natural explanation of her curious absence.

The black domino turned back from time to time to see if the white domino was still following.

As Raoul once more passed through the great crush-room, he could not help noticing a group crowding round a person whose disguise, eccentric air and gruesome appearance were causing a sensation. It was a man dressed all in scarlet, with a huge hat and feathers on the top of a wonderful death’s head. From his shoulders hung an immense red-velvet cloak; and on this cloak was embroidered, in gold letters, which every one read and repeated aloud, “Don’t touch me! I am Red Death!”

The black domino kept on going. They went up two floors. Here, the stairs and corridors were almost deserted. The black domino opened the door of a private box and beckoned to the white domino to follow her. Then Christine, whom he recognized by the sound of her voice, closed the door behind them and warned him, in a whisper, to remain at the back of the box and on no account to show himself. Raoul took off his mask. Christine kept hers on. And, when Raoul was about to ask her to remove it, he was surprised to see her put her ear to the partition and listen eagerly for a sound outside. Then she opened the door ajar, looked out into the corridor and, in a low voice, said:

“He must have gone up higher.” Suddenly she exclaimed: “He is coming down again!”

She tried to close the door, but Raoul prevented her; for he had seen, on the top step of the staircase that led to the floor above, a red foot, followed by another… and slowly, majestically, the whole scarlet dress of Red Death met his eyes.

“It’s he!” he exclaimed.

But Christine had slammed the door. Raoul tried to push her aside.

“Whom do you mean by ‘he’?” she asked, in a changed voice.

“Whom?” he repeated angrily. “Why, he, the man who hides behind that hideous mask of death! Red Death! Your friend, madam, your Angel of Music! But I shall snatch off his mask; we shall look each other in the face, he and I; and I shall know whom you love and who loves you!”

He burst into a mad laugh, while Christine gave a disconsolate moan behind her velvet mask.

“In the name of our love, Raoul, you shall not pass!…”

He stopped. What had she said? In the name of their love? Never before had she confessed that she loved him. Pooh, her only object was to gain a few seconds! She wished to give the Red Death time to escape And he said:

“You lie, madam, for you do not love me and you have never loved me! Why did you give me every reason for hope, at Perros… for honest hope, madam, for I am an honest man and I believed you to be an honest woman, when your only intention was to deceive me! I despise you!”

And he burst into tears. She allowed him to insult her.

“You will beg my pardon, one day, for all those ugly words, Raoul, and when you do I shall forgive you!”

He shook his head.

“No, no, you have driven me mad! Just think: I had only one object in life—to give my name to an opera wench!”

“Raoul! How can you?”

“I shall die of shame!”

“No, dear, live!” said Christine’s grave and changed voice. “And good-bye. Good-bye, Raoul.”

He risked one more sarcasm:

“Oh, you must let me come and applaud you from time to time!”

“I shall never sing again, Raoul!”

“Really?” he replied, still more satirically. “So he is taking you off the stage: I congratulate you! But we shall meet, one of these evenings!”

“No, Raoul: you will not see me again.”

“May I ask to what darkness you are returning? For what hell are you leaving, mysterious lady, or for what paradise?”

“I came to tell you, dear, but I can’t tell you now. You would not believe me! You have lost faith in me, Raoul; it is finished!”

“But look here!” he cried. “Can’t you tell me what all this means! You go about Paris. You put on a domino to come to the ball. Why do you not go home? What have you been doing this past fortnight? What is this tale about the Angel of Music? You seem to me quite sensible, Christine. You know what you are doing. Explain yourself, Christine! What is this farce?”

Christine simply took off her mask and said:

“Dear, it is a tragedy!”

Raoul now saw her face and could not restrain an exclamation of surprise and terror. The fresh complexion of former days was gone. A mortal pallor covered those features, which he had known so charming and so gentle.

“My dearest! My dearest!” he moaned, holding out his arms. “You promised to forgive me.”

“Perhaps! Some day, perhaps!” she said, resuming her mask; and she went away, forbidding him, with a gesture, to follow her.

He tried to disobey her; but she turned round and repeated her gesture of farewell with such authority that he dared not move a step.

He watched her till she was out of sight. Then he also went down among the crowd, hardly knowing what he was doing, with an aching heart; and, as he crossed the dancing-floor, he asked if anybody had seen Red Death. Yes, every one had seen Red Death; but Raoul could not find him; and, at two o’clock in the morning, he turned down the passage, behind the scenes, that led to Christine Daae’s dressing-room.

His footsteps took him to that room where he had first known suffering. He tapped at the door. There was no answer. He entered, as he had entered when he looked everywhere for “the man’s voice.” The room was empty. He saw some writing-paper on a little desk. He thought of writing to Christine, but he heard steps in the passage. He had only time to hide in the inner room, which was separated from the dressing-room by a curtain.

Christine entered, took off her mask with a weary movement and flung it on the table. She sighed and let her pretty head fall into her two hands. What was she thinking of? Of Raoul? No, for Raoul heard her murmur: “Poor Erik!”

At first, he thought he must be mistaken. To begin with, he was persuaded that, if any one was to be pitied, it was he, Raoul. It would have been quite natural if she had said, “Poor Raoul,” after what had happened between them. But, shaking her head, she repeated: “Poor Erik!”

Why was she pitying Erik when Raoul was so unhappy?

Christine began to write, deliberately, calmly and so placidly that Raoul, who was still trembling from the effects of the tragedy that separated them, was painfully impressed.

“What coolness!” he said to himself.

She wrote on, filling two, three, four sheets. Suddenly, she raised her head. She seemed to be listening. Raoul also listened. Whence came that strange sound, that distant rhythm? A faint singing seemed to issue from the walls. Yes, it was as though the walls themselves were singing! The song became plainer, the words were now distinguishable. He heard a voice, a very beautiful, very soft, very captivating voice. But, for all its softness, it remained a male voice. The voice came nearer and nearer, it came through the wall, it approached, and now the voice was in the room, in front of Christine. Christine rose and addressed the voice, as though speaking to some one:

“Here I am, Erik,” she said. “I am ready. But you are late.”

Raoul, peeping from behind the curtain, could not believe his eyes, which showed him nothing. A smile of happiness appeared upon Christine’s bloodless lips.

The voice without a body went on singing; and certainly Raoul had never in his life heard anything more absolutely sweet, more insidious, more delicate, more powerful, in short, more triumphant. Christine Daae was doubtless under the influence of the mysterious and invisible master.

The voice was singing the song from Romeo and Juliet. Raoul saw Christine stretch out her arms to the voice.

“Fate links thee to me for ever and a day!”

These words went through Raoul’s heart. He drew back the curtain that hid him and he walked to where Christine stood. She herself was moving to the back of the room, the whole wall of which was occupied by a great mirror that reflected her image.

“Fate links thee to me for ever and a day!”

Christine walked toward her image in the glass and the image came toward her. The two Christines—the real one and the reflection—ended by touching. Suddenly Raoul was flung back, he saw, not two, but four, eight, twenty Christines spinning round him, laughing at him and fleeing so swiftly that he could not touch one of them. At last, everything stood still again; and he saw himself in the glass. But Christine had disappeared.

He rushed up to the glass. He struck at the walls. Nobody! And meanwhile the room still echoed with a distant passionate singing:

“Fate links thee to me for ever and a day!”

Which way, which way had Christine gone? Which way would she return? Would she return? But had she not declared to him that everything was finished? And the voice was repeating:

“Fate links thee to me for ever and a day!”

To me? To whom?

“Who is this Erik?” he said.