The Phantom of the Opera
with the window down. She seemed to be slowly taking in the icy night
air. There was a glorious moon shining. She was recognized beyond a
doubt. As for her companion, only his shadowy outline was
distinguished leaning back in the dark. The carriage was going at a
walking pace in a lonely drive behind the grand stand at Longchamp.
Raoul dressed in frantic haste, prepared to forget his distress by
flinging himself, as people say, into "the vortex of pleasure." Alas,
he was a very sorry guest and, leaving his brother early, found
himself, by ten o'clock in the evening, in a cab, behind the Longchamp
race-course.
It was bitterly cold. The road seemed deserted and very bright under
the moonlight. He told the driver to wait for him patiently at the
corner of a near turning and, hiding himself as well as he could, stood
stamping his feet to keep warm. He had been indulging in this healthy
exercise for half an hour or so, when a carriage turned the corner of
the road and came quietly in his direction, at a walking pace.
As it approached, he saw that a woman was leaning her head from the
window. And, suddenly, the moon shed a pale gleam over her features.
"Christine!"
The sacred name of his love had sprung from his heart and his lips. He
could not keep it back... He would have given anything to withdraw it,
for that name, proclaimed in the stillness of the night, had acted as
though it were the preconcerted signal for a furious rush on the part
of the whole turn-out, which dashed past him before he could put into
execution his plan of leaping at the horses' heads. The carriage
window had been closed and the girl's face had disappeared. And the
brougham, behind which he was now running, was no more than a black
spot on the white road.
He called out again: "Christine!"
No reply. And he stopped in the midst of the silence.
With a lack-luster eye, he stared down that cold, desolate road and
into the pale, dead night. Nothing was colder than his heart, nothing
half so dead: he had loved an angel and now he despised a woman!
Raoul, how that little fairy of the North has trifled with you! Was it
really, was it really necessary to have so fresh and young a face, a
forehead so shy and always ready to cover itself with the pink blush of
modesty in order to pass in the lonely night, in a carriage and pair,
accompanied by a mysterious lover? Surely there should be some limit
to hypocrisy and lying! ...
She had passed without answering his cry ... And he was thinking of
dying; and he was twenty years old! ...
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 to-morrow. 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 At the Masked Ball
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. It must have been flung out in the hope that a passer-by would
pick up the note and deliver it, which was what happened. The note had
been picked up on the pavement of the Place de l'Opera.
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 a Christine forgetting her duty to herself made way for his original
conception of an unfortunate, innocent child, the victim of imprudence
and exaggerated sensibility. To what extent, at this time, was she
really a victim? Whose prisoner was she? Into what whirlpool had she
been dragged? He asked himself these questions with a cruel anguish;
but even this pain seemed endurable beside the frenzy into which he was
thrown at the thought of a lying and deceitful Christine. What had
happened? What influence had she undergone? What monster had carried
her off and by what means? ...
By what means indeed but that of music? He knew Christine's story.
After her father's death, she acquired a distaste of everything in
life, including her art. She went through the CONSERVATOIRE like a
poor soulless singing-machine. And, suddenly, she awoke as though
through the intervention of a god. The Angel of Music appeared upon
the scene! She sang Margarita in FAUST and triumphed! ...
The Angel of Music! ... For three months the Angel of Music had been
giving Christine lessons ... Ah, he was a punctual singing-master! ...
And now he was taking her for drives in the Bois! ...
Raoul's fingers clutched at his flesh, above his jealous heart. In his
inexperience, he now asked himself with terror what game the girl was
playing? Up to what point could an opera-singer make a fool of a
good-natured young man, quite new to love? O misery! ...
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 turn and turn about. At all events, he bought a white
domino.
The hour of the appointment came at last. With his face in a mask
trimmed with long, thick lace, looking like a pierrot in his white
wrap, the viscount thought himself very ridiculous. Men of the world
do not go to the Opera ball in fancy-dress! It was absurd. One
thought, however, consoled the viscount: he would certainly never be
recognized!
This ball was an exceptional affair, given some time before Shrovetide,
in honor of the anniversary of the birth of a famous draftsman; and it
was expected to be much gayer, noisier, more Bohemian than the ordinary
masked ball. Numbers of artists had arranged to go, accompanied by a
whole cohort of models and pupils, who, by midnight, began to create a
tremendous din. Raoul climbed the grand staircase at five minutes to
twelve, did not linger to look at the motley dresses displayed all the
way up the marble steps, one of the richest settings in the world,
allowed no facetious mask to draw him into a war of wits, replied to no
jests and shook off the bold familiarity of a number of couples who had
already become a trifle too gay. 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; for this small space was the point where all those
who were going to supper in the Rotunda crossed those who were
returning from taking a glass of champagne. The fun, here, waxed fast
and furious.
Raoul leaned against a door-post 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 no longer doubted
that she had "nothing to reproach herself with," however peculiar and
inexplicable her conduct might seem. He was ready to make any display
of clemency, forgiveness or cowardice. 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, this time in
the wake of his guide, 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, which trailed along the
floor like a king's train; and on this cloak was embroidered, in gold
letters, which every one read and repeated aloud, "Don't touch me! I
am Red Death stalking abroad!"
Then one, greatly daring, did try to touch him ... but a skeleton hand
shot out of a crimson sleeve and violently seized the rash one's wrist;
and he, feeling the clutch of the knucklebones, the furious grasp of
Death, uttered a cry of pain and terror. When Red Death released him
at last, he ran away like a very madman, pursued by the jeers of the
bystanders.
It was at this moment that Raoul passed in front of the funereal
masquerader, who had just happened to turn in his direction. And he
nearly exclaimed:
"The death's head of Perros-Guirec!"
He had recognized him! ... He wanted to dart forward, forgetting
Christine; but the black domino, who also seemed a prey to some strange
excitement, caught him by the arm and dragged him from the crush-room,
far from the mad crowd through which Red Death was stalking...
The black domino kept on turning back and, apparently, on two occasions
saw something that startled her, for she hurried her pace and Raoul's
as though they were being pursued.
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. And he once more saw the
death's head of Perros-Guirec.
"It's he!" he exclaimed. "This time, he shall not escape me! ..."
But Christian{sic} had slammed the door at the moment when Raoul was on
the point of rushing out. He tried to push her aside.
"Whom do you mean by 'he'?" she asked, in a changed voice. "Who shall
not escape you?"
Raoul tried to overcome the girl's resistance by force, but she
repelled him with a strength which he would not have suspected in her.
He understood, or thought he understood, and at once lost his temper.
"Who?" he repeated angrily. "Why, he, the man who hides behind that
hideous mask of death! ... The evil genius of the churchyard at Perros!
... Red Death! ... In a word, madam, your friend ... your Angel of
Music! ... But I shall snatch off his mask, as I shall snatch off my
own; and, this time, we shall look each other in the face, he and I,
with no veil and no lies between us; 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. With a tragic gesture, she flung out her two
arms, which fixed a barrier of white flesh against the door.
"In the name of our love, Raoul, you shall not pass! ..."
He stopped. What had she said? ... In the name of their love? ...