Fantôme – Chapter 7, Part 3

Unfortunately for poor Carlotta, the stage was set that night by the long, curling fingers of our Fantôme. The die had been cast, the shot had been called, and the unheeded warning may not have been ringing in her ears, but she felt it in the pit of her stomach. Her short remaining tenure would be a great moment in the history of the Opera – terrible and great.

After the dark gentleman had confirmed Daaé’s involvement, Carlotta had seethed until finally settling on feeling disdain. Yes, it was disdain she felt for the little singer, and a lack of surprise that she had to resort to petty threats for leading roles. She could not simply stride into the greatly renowned Paris Opera House and sing it as her first concert! However well she did at school, and we must remember that she still took instruction rather than practice, she ought to play shows in Lyon, in Nottingham, in Düsseldorf, before singing in Paris. Her first capital city ought to be Copenhagen, as Carlotta’s had been Madrid, before she graduated up to Paris. No, there was a natural order to things, and little Daaé was certainly no prettier than Carlotta, so she feared no leapfrogging in that department. Indeed, it was no surprise that the admirer of such a skinny little upstart was filled with such dark-eyed intensity, and Carlotta much preferred her own gay and handsome beaux. She invited one to her dressing-room before her performance, a Spaniard, and she delighted in the fuss he made of her. Though too low-ranking to be anything more than a dalliance she loved how he indulged her, and appreciated the comfort she found in his embrace. She revelled speaking in her native language to a man who acted as she liked a gentleman to do. She giggled and joked, tying ribbons around his moustache, sitting on his knee, polishing the buttons on his jacket where her scented powder had fallen in a gentle cloud over them both. Somewhere, deep in the back of her mind, she knew that she was feeling not merely gay, but comforted – glad not to be alone. That was what she sought from this man, and why he had been invited above any other patron of hers. Carlotta skipped to the stage that night, ready to give a joyful and rapturous performance. The house was full, and it was her friends: those she knew to be sympathetic to her, the newspapermen she had encouraged them to bring, the dear little composer who was now manager of the Opera and his buinessman friend she was confident loved her almost as much. Yes, the audience was full of people who loved her music, and joy was in her heart tonight. She wanted to give them the performance they deserved.

Up in Box Five, the managers had no thoughts of a potential coup d’etat in their heads. Their thoughts were of how to transform this box into a luxury space for entertaining. They thought of whether they could have a new sofa made, if it should come with an attractive young butler to flatter grand-dames instead of a whiskered old witch like Giry, of where to place journalists that they may see – or not – the box’s goings-on. The men sat back and enjoyed the show with notebooks and pencils, and were seen to be scribbling by other patrons (though not, it must be said, through the good lady’s moments). For indeed, Carlotta did sing that night: she waltzed out on stage in Act I, haughty and smug, tossing a beaded Spanish shrug over her shoulder and pointing her toes. A few lines, too, in the second Act, were sung by the Prima Donna – there was an unusual uproar at this, the crowd hooting and cheering for their Prima Donna. Carlotta did not perform as Marguerite: she was herself, singing Marguerite, right down to the Spanish dress and smug smile on her face at the cheers of her friends and her fans. When Siebel came out in Act II it was Christine Daaé looking quite charming in breeches, and there was a breath-measure of hesitation before her little “plus d’un ami fidèle,” sweet and harmonious, rang out in response to the baritone, in which time she looked away from the d’Chagny box – though was it her rudeness to the countess or the Viscomte’s ardour which caused her blush? Though tensions rang high, there seemed to be no need for Carlotta to have been so rattled.

Indeed, all ran smoothly until Marguerite’s first aria. With the garden set around her, as Mephistopheles and Faust fled into the wings, dark-haired Carlotta drew breath and opened her mouth to sing. A single cheer rang out from the audience, but they were shushed that the patrons might hear the lady sing. No surprise was expected. After a simple, satisfying first couple of acts, a few music appreciators in the audience closed their eyes in anticipation. When a croak escaped from Carlotta’s throat those eyes opened in surprise, but all in attendance still thought that the next note would be perfect. When the veteran singer moved her muscles and all that escaped was a hiss and a ribbit and a husky, sharp note, there were gasps. As the theatre began to chatter in the silence the shocked orchestra had left, Carlotta swallowed hard, coughed, pulled in one more breath… and seemed to think better of it, dashing offstage, the only sound (heard from the front few rows) was the thud of her slippers hitting the boards and a rip as she caught her costume on a nail. Those soft sounds may have been heard in Box Five, but at the first sign of the calamity its occupants had run downstairs, two steps at a time where their legs would take it, coming to the aid of a mess of a performance with fixes in their mind.

Backstage, Carlotta was spitting into a bucket. Her tongue was swollen and violet, and her cheeks were beginning to get puffy. The moment she saw the Managers, she cried out like a dying animal, a heavy slur in her mouth, just a single word.

“Poithoned!”

Moncharmin took the woman in his arms and ushered her away. Usually Carlotta was statuesque next to him, but tonight she was bent double, her body shaking from holding on to her small scraps of her dignity, her shapely, plump legs heavy with defeat. It wasn’t until the pair weaved their way into the lady’s own dressing room and shut the door that her tears began – body-shaking hysterics, safe in the luxury nobody but her patron would hear.

Meanwhile, Richard took charge of the mess of the performance. He grabbed the beaded shrug that the singer had worn and wrapped it around Christine Daaé, who he pushed onto the stage, still in her boy’s breeches. He seemed, in the same second, to be in the orchestra pit, shoving the conductor and taking his place. “Sing!” he hissed at the girl, terse, and she locked eyes with the nervous tenor at the side of the stage, opened her mouth, and sang, as he commanded. Gradually he shepherded the orchestra in around her, beginning with light, airy wind, continuing with strings. By the time she found the mirror, Marguerite was a playful girl, attended by music as though from heaven which wrapped around her soulful voice as she adorned her physical self in borrowed jewels. Nobody could deny this was a peasant-girl transformed to la fille d’un roi, as the words she sang proclaimed. This Marguerite was indeed too humble to use the word princess to describe her temporary adornment, and mouths were open all around the theatre, not simply at the shock of being present at such a dramatic show, but at the perfection of Daae’s performance. No part was out of place: from her voice to her embodiment of character to how she related to the other singers and the set pieces on stage it seemed as though the production had been made with her, and not poor Carlotta, in mind.

The next morning the papers carried the story that Daaé had brought the house down in a ragged approximation of the proper costume, that she had embodied Marguerite so well that no soul had noticed her garb. That part, at least, was not true: Carlotta had ripped her sleeve, and not beyond being mended in the interval before the dress was donned by Christine. Those selfsame folks who had been supposed to write of Carlotta’s triumph were slaves to truth before friendship and had to write of Daaé’s impeccable timing, fathomless charm, her angelic voice – it was as though she had bewitched them all. The salons that had been home to Carlotta’s bawdy wit and larger-than-life presence now courted shy little Christine Daaé. The Paris social world had been changed overnight. Music-lovers and adeptes de célébrités clamoured for tickets to the next few Opera performances, trying to catch the girl before Carlotta recovered from her mystery illness. Countess d’Chagny made it known that she would be there every night that week, and hosted luminaries in her box with pride, even brokering another box for those persons she cut in favour of a higher class of friend.

There were, however, a few loose threads that were the gossip in the Opera taverns: candies had been found in Box Five, the same as the Ghost gave Madame Giry every Christmas, and it was clear that no person had so much as ruffled the curtain after the managers left. Beyond that, of course – who had poisoned Carlotta? Nobody suspected Daaé, not even Carlotta herself, who knew she had not let the viper or anybody associated with her (like that cheerful dancer she seemed friendly with) anywhere near her. It was a question not easily answered.

Moncharmin and Richard stayed silent publically, and the staff did not speak of the incident at all in the Opera building, but all around them the very wind seemed to breathe a threat too real to be spoken.

Fantôme.