Chapter Four: Gala

"Indeed," I murmured. "When did this happen?"

As if I didn't know.

"Yesterday at rehearsal." She gave me a strange look. "Why, weren't you there? I thought you usually attended rehearsals."

"I had some things to take care of." It was hard to keep a straight face. Of course I'd been there; it would have been hard to time the croaks properly, had I been absent. But Christine couldn't know that; Christine, like all the others, thought that Carlotta's croaking was a freak accident. "Should I have been there?" I inquired innocently.

"Oh, Carlotta fell ill. Some sort of voice trouble -- she started croaking during rehearsal, just like a toad!" Christine could not stifle her amusement. "I'm sorry," she said quickly, "I shouldn't laugh. It's not professional. It was just so... amusing."

Fell ill? What a laugh. "I can believe it was," I assured her. "And they picked you as a replacement?" Ah, my dear managers, I do believe you are learning.

"Yes, they did. I was a little surprised, to say the least, but not displeased. I'm glad, though, that you had me learning the material. It makes it a lot easier for me to be ready for the gala."

She regarded this as an amazing coincidence, and did not seem to recognize it as the elaborate plot I was creating to get her in the limelight. I smiled, slightly sadly. I did not like to keep secrets from her... yet I must, for her sake and for mine. Her Angel would have to remain separate from the Opera Ghost for a little while yet.

"Yes, indeed, Christine. But now that you are to be singing before all of Paris, we must work harder than ever before."

Christine nodded, and we began to work. I was perhaps a little hard with her -- I demanded perfection -- but she understood, and did not complain. In fact, she even seemed eager for my help, however demanding it was. She had progressed a lot, in the time we had been together, but she still was a little insecure about her own talents.

I don't think the managers ever quite appreciated her, either. Many times I overheard them, when they thought they were alone, complaining that they would give anything to have Carlotta back. "There's nothing to draw the old crowds like a big name," they muttered, "and more than anything, we need the old crowds. The big crowds."

Strange, I mused, that no one seemed to be able to recognize a jewel when it stands uncovered beneath their eyes. It seemed that they were all too blinded by La Carlotta's splendor... the cut glass was masking the brilliance of the only recently unearthed diamond.

Or, to put it another way, the dandelion -- somewhat pretty, as weeds go, but somewhat of a bother and utterly useless -- was crowding out the young rose blossom.

When the gala performance drew near, I was no less nervous than Christine was. I of course did not tell her that; there was no sense in putting more pressure on the girl. But I was, in a sense, being tested as much as she was. I had put my reputation at stake, to advance one insignificant chorus girl, and if she failed I would most likely lose what little respect I had gathered. Their fear of me would remain, of course, and I would retain some control over the opera house.

But what would the managers think of a "ghost" who backed a poor singer?

There was no sign of Carlotta; I had been worried that she might show up and demand her place back. Rather unlikely, but there was that possibility. But Christine sang in the gala, and as she sang her initial nervousness faded quickly. And I, lost in her spell, ceased to worry, ceased even to think; I felt like I had when I drank half a bottle of champagne, that one night when I thought -- thought -- that Lauren had been understanding, that she would be able to love me like I so desperately needed to be loved. It was a pleasant feeling, that love -- and of course it didn't last. Couldn't last.

I suppose I shouldn't be all too bitter, not since that failed relationship spawned Black Rose. And without Black Rose, I might never have convinced Christine to trust me.

Intermission came -- all too quickly, even though the songs had lasted forever. I took the opportunity to examine the audience: smaller than usual, but I saw many familiar faces. So, my dear managers, only a big name like Carlotta can draw the old audience?

The two managers, I saw, were not alone in their box. It was hard to discern details, since their box -- Box 4 -- sat across the theater from my own Box 5. But, as far as I could tell, the new occupant was a young male, fair-haired and clean-shaven. A new patron, I supposed. It would be interesting to learn more about him, for the managers had kept this a jealously guarded secret; even the ballet girls, who loved to latch onto any rumor, however slight the truth, had not whispered about a new patron. But right now, I had better things to turn my attention to -- especially now that the lights were dimming.

During the whole of the first half, I had not stirred from the hollow column, in which I normally hid while the lights were up. There were not quite enough shadows in the box for me to be guaranteed invisibility. But most nights, I could creep out when the lights were dim, and sit in comfort in the normal chairs of Box 5.

Not tonight.

I did not dare leave the safety of the column. I knew that, wherever I was, I was bound to ignore my surroundings once Christine started to sing. I would be soaring, dancing among the stars, and not paying attention to what was happening around me. Which is ordinarily bad enough... but Andre, if he were alert, might take advantage of my oblivion, and try to rid the Opera of me so that Carlotta could come back. And he might just discover that the Ghost haunting his Opera is not quite as invulnerable as I had portrayed him...

After the gala was over, Christine was tied up for a few minutes with the obligatory remarks of congratulations, farewell and welcome, which she said to the managers on behalf of the whole cast. I spent the time writing a quick note to the managers:

I must congratulate you on a splendid gala. Christine, of course, was a success -- or had you not noticed? -- and we did not suffer from La Carlotta's unexpected "illness." I believe you will find that Christine outshines Carlotta in all ways, except perhaps in arrogance.

As for the rest -- the chorus sang well, for a change, but the dancers need work. I prefer a ballet that dances gracefully, not one that tromps around the stage like a herd of young heifers. I do not know if you were aware of the mess they made, but it was painfully obvious to those of us with some artistic talent.

She had a few more admirers than that night when I first met her. I suppose it was only natural; a young, talented star would naturally attract more attention than an unknown in the ballet chorus. And most of the people milling about her were only concerned with congratulating her, not on trying to take her home for the night.

So why was I, all of a sudden, feeling jealous?

I had felt jealousy before, especially of "normal" people. People like my younger brother, who was as handsome as I was repulsive, and of whom I had been almost insanely jealous of. Or people like Antoine, who became Lauren's suitor, and soon thereafter her husband. People who were assured of living and of loving.

But now, when I found myself stalking about the rafters of the Opera House following Christine's progress, watching as she turned and smiled and chatted and laughed, I felt a burning in my heart that was not like anything I had felt before. And the more I tried to ignore it, tried to tell myself that she was mine and mine alone, the more it grew inside me, as a little taunting voice said She does not love you, she can never love you! She will run off with the first eligible male she sees, and you are powerless to stop her!

I did not like being powerless.

At last Christine was alone in her dressing room, and, like many times before, I spoke to her from behind the mirror:

"You did well, Christine."

She whirled to face the mirror, her face radiant. "Do you really think so, Angel?"

"Not this again," I murmured, laughing. "Haven't I told you enough times? You are the finest singer in Paris -- the finest singer I have ever heard! -- you could not help but do well!" I stopped myself; too much praise could easily harm her. But I could not resist adding, under my breath, "Angels wept at your voice, child, and the gods held their breaths in wonder. Like all the great musicians, you have given your soul; it is a fine thing, and I am pleased."

I do not know if she heard me, but she flushed and turned back to her dresser.

I knew that she had to eat, for she had eaten only a light meal before the gala started. It is not good to sing on too full a stomach... but it renders one quite hungry after the performance. I had prepared a slight meal for her -- nothing much, just a mild Persian dish which had been one of my favorites -- but she didn't know that yet. Incredibly, I was nervous about telling her, if only because I would have to bring her down to my lair, and that might lose any chance I have of keeping her respect. She would no doubt find it difficult to respect a man who hides like a rat in the basement of the Opera...

I did not have a chance to tell her, though, for as soon as I had opened my mouth, someone knocked.

She shot me a glance (or rather, glanced quickly at the mirror, which was where she had no doubt guessed I was), and went to the door. "Yes? Who is it?"

"A friend," came the cryptic response. I scowled, but then nearly laughed, when I remembered that I had used the same phrase when introducing myself to Christine. I had indeed become a friend to her, if not more than that... The voice was definitely male, though it sounded like neither one of the managers nor a member of the company. I frowned slightly. That voice was familiar, but whose was it?

Christine opened the door tentatively, enough to admit her caller. A young man, perhaps no older than she was, with fine blond hair and smiling dark eyes. The man, I realized with a slight shock, who had been sitting in the manager's box during the concert.

Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny.

I knew him from a long time ago -- the last time I'd seen him, he had been one of the children at the school at which I had served as rat-catcher. My fists clenched in sudden anger. Who did he think he was, to come in here like this, without warning or notice as if he owned the place?

I noticed with slight amusement that what I had taken for a clean-shaven chin was in fact covered with a fine misty layer of wispy blond hair... a beard, or at least an attempt at one. I had never understood the need for beards; they seemed like ridiculous adornments to me. Oh, they could be powerful enough when worn properly... but when a youth such as the Vicomte attempted to grow what little facial hair he could manage, I couldn't help but laugh.

He smiled down at her almost fondly. "Hello, Christine," he said softly.

Christine's eyes widened; at first I thought it was shock, at the boy's impertinence, but I was soon proved wrong. "Raoul?"

"It is I," he said, and with a startlingly swift movement she flung herself into his arms and hugged him tightly. I stared at her in bewilderment. They knew each other? When did that happen?

"Oh, Raoul, it's been so long! What is it, ten years now? I had almost forgotten about you!"

He grinned. "But you didn't forget your red scarf, now, did you?" he asked gently.

She laughed, and broke free just enough to point him to the faded red scarf hanging over the back of the chair in the corner. I had noticed the scarf before -- a simple, solid-color scarf, faded and slightly dusty, thin in a few spots. I had once offered to buy her another scarf, which would quite probably have kept her throat warmer -- for the voice, like most instruments, does not do well in severe cold -- but she turned my offer down. She later told me that it had been her father's, and that she wished to keep using it for sentimental reasons.

But what did the scarf have to do with the Vicomte?

Raoul chuckled, and fingered the slightly tattered scarf. "It has seen much use," he commented, "but doesn't seem to have been ruined by the, ah, accidental washing it received."

I was getting more bewildered by the moment. Obviously Christine had not told me everything about her past... oh, I would not expect her to, for I would not wish to tell her everything about mine. But surely she would have mentioned meeting a Vicomte?

"I never really thanked you for that, did I?" she murmured.

Raoul protested good-naturedly. "Oh really, Christine! It wasn't that much trouble!"

"Really?" She cocked her head at him. "A fourteen-year-old boy -- and the son of a noble, no less! -- running into the sea to fetch the scarf of a young peasant girl?"

"A very beautiful young peasant girl," he corrected, laughing.

"But did you not get in trouble for that? As I recall, your governess was quite annoyed."

He shrugged. "She didn't dare punish me that much -- although the sea water did some fairly nasty things to my clothes." He blinked his dark eyes almost childishly, and then turned playfully to her. "Enough of the past!" he cried, "let us focus on the present! You were fantastic tonight, Christine, enchanting! Come, we must celebrate."

"Celebrate?" she asked uncertainly. "I don't think..."

"Dinner," he said gaily, ignoring her protests, "and then... oh, but you haven't changed! Five minutes then." He glanced around for a moment, bewildered, and then laughed. "And imagine that, I left my hat in the box! I guess I was just too excited about seeing you once more. Well then! I shall get my hat, and that will give you time to change." He kissed her hand, bowed, and ran out of the room.

I was trembling with barely contained anger. How dare he come in here like this! Did he think that, by virtue of past acquaintance, he could share in the glory that was rightfully mine? It was I, not he, who had helped her from the start, who had guided her voice until it was pure gold, and it was I who should reap the rewards of that labor!

Christine sank into the chair in front of the dresser, looking slightly pale. "Angel?" she whispered tentatively. "Angel, are you still there?"

"I am here, mon cherie," I replied, trying to keep my voice level. My anger was not at her.

"Oh, Angel, would you be upset if I did go to dinner with the Vicomte? I know I told you that I would never allow suitors, but Raoul is an old friend, and such a dear--"

"Christine," I said slowly, "when did you meet him?"

"Ten years ago. I was traveling with Papa... we were by the seaside. Papa was playing his violin, as usual, and I was wandering along the beach. My scarf, that red scarf over there, which Papa had just given me, blew off and into the ocean. I was terribly upset! And then out of nowhere, a boy ran out into the sea -- pursued by the severest looking woman I'd ever seen! -- and fetched it back for me."

"The Vicomte," I murmured.

"Oh, and he looked so darling, standing there with his suit all wet, and his blond hair hanging down and dripping onto his face and neck, and all the while holding out the red scarf... we talked for a while, ignoring the screechings of the governess, until Papa came to collect me." She smiled at the memory. "For some reason, we got along quite well; even though we hadn't known each other for long, it seemed like we'd always known each other... that's confusing, I know, but it's what it felt like. And I convinced Papa to bring me back every few months, and Raoul and I would talk and play, and Papa would tell us stories from Sweden." Christine paused for a moment, smiling at her memories, and then turned to the mirror. "So, Angel, would you be upset if I went with him?"

"Uh," I said cleverly, trying to think of something to say. I didn't want her going with him; once she experienced the life that the Vicomte leads, why would she choose to tie herself down to a monster that lurked in the basement of the Opera House? Yet, by the same token, I had nothing to attract her...

Only one thing. She thought of me as an Angel; if I could convince her I was as human as anyone else (now that was a laugh, 'as human as anyone else'... if I could convince her, it would be a miracle!), she might consider me as a rival for the Vicomte. And perhaps I could offer her something the Vicomte never could:

Music.

Christine was waiting for my reply, and I realized that Raoul would be back soon. "Well," I said slowly, "what you do with your life is your concern." But she would not escape from my grasp easily! "But I had planned for us to celebrate alone, together... but no, if you would rather go with Raoul, so be it."

She gasped slightly, as I knew she would, and looked horrified. "Oh no, Angel, I'd rather stay with you! I'm sorry, I didn't realize..."

I smiled mirthlessly. "Then we must leave... through the mirror, not the door, for I am afraid that Raoul would hurt you, if he knew there were another man in your life."

"He is just a friend," she protested, "not a lover!"

"Nonetheless," I said grimly. I could hear Raoul coming down the hall, whistling off-key. "Come..." And, singing a Persian lullaby which, I had found, had mesmerizing effects on many people, I activated the mechanism which opened the mirror. Gently I took her hand in mine -- noticing that her hand seemed small and fragile tonight, though surely some of that was my imagination -- and pulled her through.

The Vicomte came through the door as the mirror closed, and looked around in bewilderment. I continued to hum the lullaby, though my lips tightened grimly, and led Christine through the dark passage. I looked back only once, when the mirror was practically out of sight; the Vicomte was kneeling in the center of her dressing room, pressing the red scarf to his lips in despair.

Ah, my dear Vicomte, this puzzles you, does it not? Apparently you were not told about the Opera Ghost. You cannot fight Ghosts, my dear sir... best to give up now, before it is too late.

Raoul raised his head once more, twining the scarf around his fingers -- but at that point, Christine, sounding slightly afraid of the darkness of the passageway, asked me why I kept looking back. "What is there to see?"

"Nothing, my love," I murmured, and continued on. When I glanced back once again, the mirror was lost in the darkness.