Fantôme, Chapter 3

When the show must go on, so it is with the party! For what gala night is complete without a party following the show? So it was that the managers did not come to be told of Joseph Buquet’s death, for no staff member would venture into the busy atrium and tell them the grim news under the noses of their very important visitors, potentially ruining the evening for something which could not be changed. So it was that the gas continued to burn bright and constant in the hands of the caryatids and up high in the chandeliers, illuminating the guests’ heads, whether thrown back in laughter and leaned forwards in gossip; and it was a lucky thing that the Opera was laid on with gas, for all the chitchat and admiration and niceties exchanged would have worn down candles to stumps until they fizzled out, ending the party prematurely.

The party came in two phases, and lasted long into the night – first came the chitchat, for which everybody remained at the Palais Garnier. Guests at the Opera delayed their supper engagements to stay in the fashionable circle of gala attendees, and both sets of managers were in demand that night, circulating merrily and garnering invitations to every after-party being held. The gentlemen were in their element, and no member of the backstage crew was willing to give them bad news whilst they were working.

There was one point, halfway through the evening, that Mr. Moncharmin looked up, and saw a lone masked figure high on one of the balconies. It was through the window to the dress gallery that the billow and swish of a cape caught his eye, but the gentleman only had a moment to take in the whole figure and be taken aback by the stark, white mask, before he was pulled into a conversation with Monsieur Greffulhe. Moncharmin was polite and effusive to the Comte, and could not find a way to subtly squint upwards without appearing distant and rude to his wealthy interlocuter. By the time he could return his attention to the balcony, the mysterious figure was gone. An hour later, Moncharmin was convinced he had imagined the whole thing, that it had just been a shadow made by silk velvet curtain that had glinted like the brushed-silk of a top hat. How could a guest have made it up there? No, it was certainly a curtain. The ‘man’ was just an unusual shadow.

Gradually the Opera grooms brought around the carriages and the waiters stopped bringing around wine and canapes, ready for the second stage of the party. The gala was to split off into multiple tête-à-têtes which would attend the dining salons around Paris, and ensure that conversation about the Opera remained on everybody’s lips. As they waved off their honoured guests, the managers convened to establish just whose presence honoured them the most so that they could be sure that they were building the right relationships. Yes, a party is significant – you can tell from its attendees, their wealth and fashion and breeding, where you yourself are in the social strata; and the old managers certainly wanted to hand over their best relationships to their new counterparts. So it was that the after-party that was chosen for the managers was that of Madame Valerius, who was holding court at Chez Jenny.

Moncharmin and Richard chose Madame’s fine offer because the lady’s late husband was a conductor and she herself was fabulously wealthy. It was a gathering guaranteed to be for music-lovers with deep pockets. Debienne and Poligny had gone on to her before them, leaving with Madame Valerius herself in her carriage, chattering away about the merits of electric effects in a theatre and the virtue of having artisans paint their sets. The second pair of managers was late, deciding to show their faces at the gatherings of a few other key Opera attendees before settling down with one party for the night. As such, the other eleven were already in attendance, and the men were greeted with a round of applause as they walked into the restaurant, bowing at the effusive, wordless praise.

If you have never been to Paris then perhaps you have never been to a restaurant at midnight – and if you have, you know that here, the restaurants are different. Why, it might be five-o-clock in the evening for the people that you see about, except that a fashionable Parisian is always late. They arrive late, and they continue late, and it is of no consequence what the time is as long as you have good wine and good company. In the restaurants at midnight the conversation is raucous, for everybody is a little drunk, and the tables are pulled together to foster an environment of camaraderie with the greatest number of people. Even the virtuous women are flirts in this environment, and they stay with the men until the wee hours of the morning, for their opinions on news and culture and gossip are as sharp as the men’s, if not sharper, and a party is a dull thing without a smart woman’s opinion. Thusly, the party for the Opera smoked, told jokes, and banged on the table to make their points that much more compelling as they argued.

In those days, you could be fashionable regardless of age, and your desirability did not decline over time. Rather, like Madame Valerius, you could prove yourself with repeated social triumphs, knowledge of music and art, and an attitude of detached generosity, and so this fifty-something widow was the doyenne of the whole affair. Every man leaned in to her when he told his joke, every woman gave her opinion influenced by the lady’s thoughts. The Opera managers were the guests of honour, but it was Madame Valerius’ favour which the whole party courted.

Their group consisted of only the choicest guests, for dinner with the Opera-Managers at Chez Jenny was not possible for just anyone. There were thirteen in their party, and it was something of a squash to get even that many in there, for the table was only set for twelve.

Madame Valerius whispered into the ear of Monsieur Richard,

“I don’t see why you would insert yourself into a gathering if you’re going to be such poor company.”

By rights, the seat she gestured to ought to have been empty – at a party like this, given by a woman who, despite her respected status, could not sit at the head, the place should not have been occupied by a mere guest. Besides, thought Richard, the table arrangement had been planned Russian-style, where people were sat at a long table, opposite their conversational partner, and it had all been planned in advance by the Madame. Food and drink was laid out all along the table at the beginning of the night, minimising the party’s need for service and allowing the conversation to flow.

It was at this prompting that Richard took a long look at the man who sat at the head of the table.

There was a waxy quality to his face that the shadow of his wide-brimmed hat was clearly intended to diminish; a sheen across his whole face like he was sweating, and had been a long time. Truly, his visage was uncanny: smoother than skin, the colour flat and the pores dark and noticeable. His eyes were sunken back into his head, and the skin around them was darker than the rest of his face. His mouth didn’t move, didn’t even wrinkle when he laughed or spoke, but his eyes darted freely around the table to take in his fellow diners. Although he was fashionably dressed and impeccably neat, his hair hung in long curls over his ears and he lacked the moustache or sideburns of a man of fashion. The curls were scant replacement, and instead gave him the demeanour of a ghost of a hundred years passed, who could change his clothes and comport himself like a 19th-century gentlemen but who could not change his physicality and thus was unable to fully blend in to society. He looked the little like the doll of a rich young lady, dressed in men’s clothes instead of women’s, and with her hair laid out ready to be coiffured. Like a doll, his face might have been made of china, but his glassy eyes batted and rolled whichever way their housing turned.

An interloper in the seat of honour? On his night? And such a strange one, too? Firmin Richard’s artistic temperament could not ignore such a slight once it had been brought to his attention, and his voice rang out over the chatter.

“My good sir, are you shy?”

Monsieur Debienne put his arm on Richard’s to steady him, but it was too late and the man rose. Debienne looked daggers at Madame Valerius, but she opened her fan between them and looked steadfastly forward.

The man spoke with an accent, but one could not easily tell from where.

“Shy?”

Forks clattered on to plates and drops of wine spilled on the cloth as the whole party turned their attention

“Yes, sir; for you have not said a word all evening. Have you no opinion? For I do not recall seeing you at the Opera tonight.”

For several excruciating seconds there was silence at the table, Richard and the stranger staring at one another as the party looked on in rapt horror, until an amused smile began to curl on the lips of the stranger.

“Rest assured, I am too great a fan of the Opera to miss such a performance as this evening. I am here to champion Miss Christine Daaé’s miraculous performance.”

Richard walked over to the head of the table and clapped the man on the back, laughing uproariously. The diners went back to their conversations, and, in one swift moment, it was as though the incident had not happened.

Moncharmin, however, was still looking at the stranger. He continued to eat, but his focus was not on his food. Moncharmin continued to look over his knife and fork at their unusual guest until he realised he had been quite ignoring Poligny. His predecessor gestured at Richard, who was shaking this new friend’s hand and demanding his thoughts, and whispered,

“He’ll have quite a head on him in the morning, eh?”

“Say, who is that fellow? Richard is right, I don’t remember his face at the Opera… and it really is quite a face… something about that nose…”

“Oh, the nose?” Poligny said, vaguely.

“Don’t you think it’s a little shiny, Monsieur?”

“I… I couldn’t say for sure.”

“I’m sure I’d have remembered somebody who cut such a dash as he does – why, he’s terribly up-to-date with fashion, and awfully tall. Is he a patron, Poligny? I thought we’d met them all”

“Hmm… I couldn’t tell you for sure.”

Moncharmin looked at the man agahast. “Then what the devil is he doing here? Richard was right.” Throwing his napkin down, Moncharmin went to stand, but Poligny was quicker, or perhaps firmer, than his erstwhile colleague, and kept the man from rising. Poligny looked right into Moncharmin’s eyes when he spoke.

“That man is very powerful, Monsieur. You must treat him with the respect he feels that he is owed, for he is volatile with it. He will come to you, in his own time, and you must give him what he asks for.”

“And what is he likely to ask for, Monsieur?”

Poligny shrugged, and Moncharmin looked back at the stranger before going back to his plate.

“Debienne, what have you to say about this?”

“About what, Monsieur?” Moncharmin gestured with his fork. “Ah, ah. Well, I say nothing but to second what my colleague has said, I say nothing more on the topic, especially not tonight. Please, sirs, excuse me.” Debienne held the gloved hand of young Madame Fox, an Englishwoman staying with Madame Valerius, in his and, before Moncharmin could press him, he kissed it, causing the lady to graciously giggle. Moncharmin beckoned the waiter, and asked for more water.

“Yes!” came Firmin’s response from across the table, “and more wine with it. I must toast to my new friend!”

***

As the hours ticked by, the party moved seats and degenerated until their elbows had to be on the table to hold them up. The stiff-backed wooden chairs may as well have been fainting couches for how the party was incapable of remaining straight upright. Moncharmin was the only guest who gave the slightest appearance of sobriety, and he too was a little the worse for wear, red-cheeked and woozy-eyed, and he chose to observe rather than participate. Of course, he who was not invited could not truly be considered a guest, and the interloper sat poker-straight even as Richard lay on his elbows next to him. It was this man who chose to leave first, and he left with a bombastic declaration which brought the whole party to a close.

“I despise this laconic energy you all embody.”

Richard lolled about on the table and slowly inclined his whole body to the speaker.

“My good sir? What is the meaning of such a bare- *hic* such a bare-faced insult?”

In response, the man simply gathered his hat and his cape and his fine ebony-wood cane from the well under the table. Rising up,

Moncharmin blinked, leaning back in his chair, for the man seemed impossibly tall

“It is now quite clear to me, gentlemen, that you do not know the first thing which goes on in the Opera.

“I say, Monsieur! And after we had such an evening as this one.” Moncharmin watched Richard argue with the fellow.

“Yes, Monsieur, an evening like this one. An evening in which you told me you were not anticipating the triumph of song that came about, an evening where you told me you do not know who is cavorting with your star performers, an evening” he hissed, “in which it became clear to me you callously disregard a death in your fold.”

At this, Madame Valerius spoke up.

“Sir, it is bad luck to speak of death so freely. If you are a man of faith, you will consider that it is blasphemy to speak of a man’s demise in company such as this. Why, I do not believe that any of us here know of a death! How should it concern us?”

In response, the man simply smiled his curled-lip smile, and said chillingly,

“Madame, it is not my curse to bear. The death of Joseph Buquet tonight is a portent for the Opera, and its managers must take heed. I am simply here as a warning. I only hope that it is heeded.”

His eyes flashed, looking red or orange in the candlelight. He appeared so much like a demon in that moment that Moncharmin’s hand flew to his pocket, where he kept a rosary that his sister insisted he carry. Moncharmin watched Richard protest, fluster, and demand more information, but to no avail. The stranger strode from the table and the restaurant without even requesting a carriage from the servers, disappearing into the cloudy night air without looking back. He heard Poligny at his side simply muttering “Oh dear, oh dear,” and made a mental note to call the previous managers to his office and demand an explanation. The morning, Moncharmin thought. Yes, it would all come out in the morning.