Fantôme – Chapter 9, Part 3

As Raoul entered the hallway behind the footman, he was hit by an overwhelming floral scent. The gentleman was over six feet tall and spoke lightly accented French – though Raoul couldn’t place where those vowels and those burrs in his ‘r’s might locate his origins. He had only a moment to ponder, however, before the red-haired behemoth bowed Raoul’s entry and closed the door to the salon behind him – leaving Raoul trapped in this high olfactory fray.

Most everybody associated with the Opera all but lived there – and who can blame them, for would not the salonnières and the composers and the rakes live there, too, if possible, that they might hear music every day and see dancing and flamboyant costumes and society at every corner? – but Christine, like all stage denizens, did in fact have a registered address: Place des Vosges Vingt, in the Marais, not far from his own humble little rooms. The urgency was gone from his gait as he had strolled across the Pont des Arts and down the Rue du Renard into this quiet little square. He breathed in the smell of the shrubs and the laurel in the park, airy and piquant, and imagined hearing a songstress tuning up for her daily scales, voice carried on the breeze.

In Madame Valerius’ room, though, there was no roughness to the scent; it was heavy and narcotic and powdery. Raoul bowed deep – low enough that the lady in the chaise would feel the full effect as if she were standing. Despite her stout frame, Madame Valerius seemed frail, her hand shaking even as she gestured for Raoul to take the seat next to her chaise, below a vast bouquet of iris and rose.

Raoul’s quest for others who cared about this honest and tender orphan girl had brought him to the home of her guardian. As a ward, though Christine had no family she found herself in the bosom of a kindly woman who was willing to take on the mantle of – if not mama, then perhaps cousin and chaperone. She clasped Raoul’s hand to hers and they both fell to the Persian blanket which she wore over her knees.

“Ah! Vicomte! I have nothing but respect for your sister-in-law; I know her salon rivals mine, but her reputation as a woman of sound and exquisite taste has reached me, and I never choose to feel rivalry where one might feel kinship.”

“Then I must pay you a compliment in kind, Madame, for I had a brief acquaintance with your husband through friends. It was more by reputation than in person, but I have known his own excellent taste, and I know that it is thanks to you, Madame, that he was able to pursue scholarship, and that we are all that much richer for his contribution.” Raoul inclined his head most gently as he spoke and felt the lady’s grip gently tighten around his fingers as she nodded with him.

“Thank you, dear boy. It is kind of you to speak so well of an old lady’s poor, dead husband.”

“Madame, it is deserved; for the friend I spoke of was Elias Daaé, and I know that your husband’s kindness is a legacy that lives on through your patronage of his daughter, my own childhood friend Christine.”

“Oh!” exclaimed the old lady with a joyous gasp, “Oh! I never thought I should be so lucky as to be able to open my home to one so divinely blessed!” At this, Raoul gave a coy smile, for he, too, believed Christine heaven-sent. Madame Valerius turned her rheumy eyes to his smile, and she smiled also.

“Ah, I see it is the charming young Christine that brings you to speak to a lady whose youth was before even your grandparents’ finest days.”

“Madame, I’m afraid I have done you ill by that, for you are certainly due a visit for your respected Salon more than for your Ward, but charity compelled me to pay a call on Christine, and charity forces my hand where conviviality does not. I heard that the girl is unwell, that she has not been seen at the Opera for some days.” Madame kept hold of Raoul with one hand but with her other she grabbed a rosary from the side-table.

“Unwell!” she cried, “Unwell!”

“Please, Madame, do not let me agitate you.”

“It is a matter of great pride to me, my boy, and I am honoured that somebody in my household should find herself in such a situation. Yes, for as close as I am to death I must take it as a sign of the gates of heaven opening to me, as they have to Christine.”

“Madame, you perplex me – you talk of Christine as though she were dead, but with such joy I cannot believe it to be the case!”

“Oh Mary, Mother of God, guide me in my speech,” Madame Valerius said softly, clutching the crucifix at the tail of her beads, “O clement, O loving, O sweet Virgin Mary. That we may be made worthy…”

Raoul obediently crossed himself.

“Please, Madame – you need not begin, for I think I understand you. Christine has told me about her visitation from the Angel of Music, and I think that must be to whom you allude?”

“Christine and I have had fireside chats since she lived with me, about faith and music and prayer and  servility. She is a smart girl, wise beyond her years, and has always told me that it is through the songs her father taught her that she prays. Though I have always served God I feel that my faith reached another level the day that she sat by my feet, here in this room, and told me that she had heard the Angel of Music as her father promised her she would. I counselled her then, as I have ever since, that an Angel sees things ineffable she must be devoted to practise as He guides her. It was with the support of my Faith that she, after the great tragedy which befell last week, went with the Seraph. I heard His voice, and I could not but be reassured – this girl was surely divinely blessed. I was taken into her dressing-room, and heard his tutelage, which was surely sound and knowledgeable, as she would have received from my husband, and I heard his voice sing solo, apart from the Heavenly Choir, and perfectly harmonise with Christine’s, and I heard the selfsame beatific voice swear a heavenly oath that she should return from Heaven within the week. Yes, my boy – Christine has gone with the Angel, and perhaps sings in the Heavenly Choir herself on this day.”

Several beats of silence passed before Raoul could gather his thoughts.

“Madame, I am in awe of your faith of the good in the world.”

“It is not the world, dear boy,” she returned, wryly, “but God, who is good in all things. A messenger of God cannot but be good, and whatever comes of Christine’s career or marriage shall pale in comparison to her eternal life. When I am gone to Heaven, I shall take the Angel of Music into my arms and thank him for hearing her prayers.”

Raoul saw the lady staring into the fire, and did not know her contemplations but respected her enough to refrain from asking. Perhaps it was an imagined Heaven that she saw, in which her husband awaited, in which music even beyond our earthly joys can be heard. The fire’s crackle was the only sound in the quiet room, and Raoul couldn’t help but remember his thoughts of how Christine’s scales would fill this serene square with joy. When he finally realised what he must say his voice was hoarse and croaky:

“Thank you.”

The pair sat in pleasant, companionable silence for several minutes more before he spoke again.

“Madame, before I take my leave may I make you more comfortable?”

“My boy, please could you wheel me closer to the fire? Malcolme obliges me very well, but I fear I shall run him ragged and find myself at a loss for such a fine footman if I am not careful.”

“Here – by the fire I shall leave you. Allow me to pass you a little posy, since I see how much you love your flowers, and if you allow me I shall bend down and wrap your feet with care.”

***

I cannot say exactly when Raoul made the connection, for the reading of minds is not in the power of a journalist, but it is in all his actions forward of this moment. Raoul knew, I am certain of it, that the Angel of Music and the Phantom of the Opera were one and the same. How far he thought that the spirit was corporeal, or how much he believed that this was a demon or nightcrawler who must be wrested from its hold in a Parisian institution is less clear, but from this point onwards, dear reader, we must be ready to enter the lair of a vampire or the catacombs of hell, for the young Vicomte was alert to the danger his love faced and ready to vanquish the Fantôme for once and for all.

His brother, however, was not so generous. In quite his worst handwriting – this note must have been dashed off in haste – we see his thoughts.

“É – nothing to fear. The singer is sly and coy, and my brother has cried like a poet (the joys of youth!) about some tenor who is giving her lessons. I have taken him out to wine and table – brotherly duty and all that. Yours – P”