Fantôme Chapter 8

Carlotta was back on stage as soon as reasonably possible. It only took a night for her cheeks and tongue to recover, but it was a few days before her nerves were steeled to face her humiliation and go back to the stage.

The managers supported her, of course: whilst Paris was abuzz with stories of Christine Daaé (and, the gentlemen had to admit in the privacy of drinks-hour, she had been excellent), people came from London and Rome to hear Carlotta, and the Managers were not willing to lose the pull of their world-class Prima Donna. Nervous as they were, they did not show it in front of the singer (for both gentlemen knew how skittish women can be), and each morning came to her rooms with treats: fine pastries and Jersey butter fresh from the boat, a bottle of English Bluebell perfume, some fine dancing slippers (which Moncharmin did not tell her had been chosen by La Sorelli). They courted the lady like gentlemen of old, patronised her, and daily told her how the Opera missed her until her nerves were steadied for a return to the stage. Carlotta was in her element: she saw herself as a fine ornament, made to be praised and adored and showered with gifts. Others less kind might have said that she was like a spoiled little child at Christmas.

In the meantime, Daaé sang, and music-lovers came repeated nights. The conessieurs and critics of Paris were cancelling engagements to hear her (Richard did not tell Carlotta he passed his evenings sharing this reverie with the most influential of his friends). The little de Chagnette led another band who attended nightly, standing at the back of his sister-in-law’s box even when she had no seats for him and looking for all the world like he wanted to ride with Daaé on Faust’s magic carpet and escape Paris society. Still, it was only a look, and they are intangible and passing; he behaved as the perfect gentleman to the Comtesse’s guests and his rivals for the service of Christine. No swords were crossed, nor words either, and chatter began about the eligability of this upright young noble, and which of his sister’s charming friends might cure him of the infatuation he so clearly felt for the singer. Those conversations were ringing out loudly with peals of laughter all around the city, but there was other talk made in hushed tones. Quiet as the whispers were, rumours flew nonetheless. Not around the Opera – the workers were careful not to give the ghost a reason to be angry with them now that his existence was confirmed to them. Perhaps little Meg Giry whispered what she knew to another girl, and that ballerinette whispered it as currency to a teacher, and that teacher whispered it in spite to a stagehand, and that stagehand took it to the pub after work. Perhaps the managers were careless with those red-ink letters and Monseiur Remy swiped one and showed it around. However it came to pass, the whole Opera came to know of the threat against Carlotta and eyebrows raised when faces saw the managers take yet another be-ribboned parcel to the singer. They saw atonement in every package and apology in the praise – Carlotta saw it too, of course, and felt vindicated, forgetting that she had been so vehemently for crushing the Daaé threat in her self-pity. La Sorelli, from her dressing-room next to the Prima Donna’s, was the one who brought the news on Thursday: tomorrow would be Carlotta’s night.

“…And I do hope for her sake,” Sorelli said to the girl who brought her morning coffee, “that she returns with a triumph, for I do not think she loves that Maharaja, and I think she would prefer to retire to Spain. I think a soldier would suit her: stoic and tall. Anyway, she is a fine singer, and it would be a shame to curtail such a fine career for an allergic reaction.” Of course, Sorelli was wise, and only gossiped when it served a higher purpose. On this day, the coffee-girl shuffled away and served strong tea to the men downstairs and told them what she had heard. Meaningful looks were passed around as nothing was said about the threats, about trouble being returned a thousandfold. Eventually, the heady atmosphere was broken with a prudent remark by a nameless man: “Of course it is typical of La Sorelli to be so diplomatic. We all know that she prefers Daaé, but she is a true lady with nought but compliments to pay aloud.” This was met by a chorus of “ayes” and the discussion moved easily to discussions of what made a noble lady, la Sorelli’s numerous attractive attributes, and jokes about a few men’s wives. With that knowledge disseminated, the workers all paid extra attention, hammering set pieces with an extra nail here and watching the hot-water-urns for tampering there. Superstitious as they were, there was no need to invite the ghost in or make it easy for him to run rampant.

By Friday night, Christine Daaé was pale. Back in her breeches, backstage her lips were seen moving in silent, Swedish prayer. Carlotta wore a brand-new dress with a fine Kashmir shawl and watched the girl sing Siebel with an unreadable curl on her lips. The ballerinas warmed up in tense silence, with even calm and collected Sorelli unable to take her eyes off Carlotta. All around the theatre the garden set brought an intake of breath… and a sigh of relief as Carlotta’s voice rang out, clear and true, into the night. Up in Box Five, Richard’s eyes were closed and his head leaned back in reverie as he tried to supress the idea that whoever wrote that pesky note had been right about Daaé being better than Carlotta, and Moncharmin leaned over the balcony surveying audience reaction. He had already pointed out all the important faces to the fabulously wealthy English Duke sat next to him so it was simple work to dart his eyes back and forth between his most honoured patrons. Carlotta was thoroughly enjoying the jewel song, adorning herself in trinkets before the audience who smiled back at the haughty belle. Her voice called, “Non! non! – ce n’est plus toi!” but, in the breath before she could begin the next line with joie de vivre and alacrity, a rich and round male voice rang out heavy from the rafters in response: “Non! non! – ce n’est plus ton visage!” A thousand gasps went up around the House, and the orchestra came to a staggering stop. Richard heard a faint creak, and then the voice spoke again: “Madame Carlotta, you have got your wish: here you are, bringing down the house!“

A piercing scream rang out from Box Three, where the eagle-eyed countess was stood, pointing upwards. Confusion followed; running, shoving, leaping over seats, kicking bodies in the way. Some were slow in their confusion, turning to ask what was happening or taking a while to follow the source of the scream and where her finger led – most were pulled bodily aside, arms wrenched painfully and legs swept off the floor, bodies on bodies, but one. One was unlucky. In amongst twisted ankles and smashed noses and indecorously tangled limbs there was one whose blood flowed over 300 lbs of solid gold and began to pool in a dark, sticky mess on the floor. One whose eyes looked vacantly forward at the stage instead of at the carnage. One whose slumped body lay underneath the ornate chandelier of the Paris Opera, neck broken, jaw shattered, ribs crushed. Their hand was pierced by pricket where they had held it out in front of them in a futile bid for protection, a last grasp at life, their face forever an interrupted scream where bone had given way to a great and terrible force. There were many injuries, obvious and unseen. Endless traumas, to be relived in the dreams of the witnesses. One death.

The countess fell backwards into her chair, staring blankly. Onstage, Carlotta was on the boards in a dead faint. A flautist was hysterical, hit in the hand by a hot hunk of glass, screaming that he’d never work again. Most were silent, unable to comprehend the scene that lay before them, unsure of what to do or anything that could be said or where to look.

The newspapers would report it as a horrible accident. The chandelier was heavy, built for the previous Opera and perhaps never fully secured. We had been lucky before now, it might have happened at any time.

People could forget the voice they had heard before the fall, dismiss it as a rumour or a shared delusion, but they could never forget the sound that rang out in the silence after it happened: one, two, three, four, five, six sharp, echoing clangs from bolts, thrown down to the prone body of Carlotta. Then the heavy thud of the ornate bolt-cover clattering down next to her. It wobbled and rolled before falling flat, a dissonant note heard all around a House built to carry sound. A horror that could only be understood as an admission of murder.