Fantôme – Chapter 9, Part 6

Both the envelope and the letter were made from stave-paper – Christine’s tiny hand had to fit into the thin, musical lines, and where it darted about it was hard to make out. The back was the scrawled score to something neither Raoul nor his family recognised. Written only in pencil, and in half-intelligible notes, as though she had been afraid of who was reading over her shoulder and dashed the letter off in a hurry without resource, the information Raoul was seeking still blazed from the page:

22nd December

Dress as the Domino

A month! A full, wretched month! Slightly more, even. And for that month, Raoul had to put himself through the paces of normal life, try to keep a smile on his face lest his Raoul and Élise find his sullenness notable and he bring them to worry. They tried to lure him out with trips to the Opera, among other things, but whilst he would be charming and debonaire in escorting friends of his sister-in-law, there was no spark of joy as he watched Carlotta sing, and the understudy who played Siebel and Cherubino and Musetta in turn could elicit no attention from the Vicomte beyond what was polite and proper. At dinners he ate delicately, and left with the excuse of escorting the ladies to withdraw: he was never seen at port or cards for that month; instead, his servants gossiped, he had taken to keeping a journal, which he kept in his desk’s locked drawer. He also grew quite thin from walking more than anybody thought was healthy, though nobody could work out the pattern of where he chose to walk, seeming to cover the whole of central Paris without keeping to the parks in which everybody else went driving or promenading.

Meanwhile, Raoul’s tailor worked to create him a handsome black suit in a Venetian style – that is, the dress style of centuries gone – and a heavy, hooded cape of black velvet. The milliner made a tricorn, and the drawer of treasures procured from around the world by Raoul’s father provided a neat domino in black satin. Élise purchased a peruke in the brigadier style to cover the ribbons, which, when powdered, created a powerful effect with Raoul’s monochrome outfit and its shiny silver buttons. Wearing his dark military boots with such a shine to them that his servants feared for every speck of dust, and with a dark mouche cut fastidiously to resemble a sprig of lavender adhered to his face, the smiley and gentle Raoul became a stark and imposing figure.

The Comte and Comtesse went in a parody of Turkish dress: he in a red velvet fez and unbuttoned waistcoat made of kashmir wool. Both garments were heavily embroidered in gold thread with folk motifs – here a scorpion, there a mirror – which Phillippe paired with a shirt so thin one could see the dark slick of the hairs on his chest through it and boots with bells and pompoms so large one might fear he would be bruised as they bounced and clanged around his shins. His cummerbund was of the same red velvet as his hat, though unadorned, and he carried an ivory scimitar-holster with handsome golden filigree on its body. He did away with their driver for the night and rode up front, astride, with a heathen grin on his face, getting sweaty enough even in the cold that his linen shirt stuck a little to his body creating an even greater image of gallantry.

Behind him, the Comtesse, in trousers, wide and bold turquoise, looked straight from the seraglio, when in fact she wore a Poiret original. This garment was made of the finest silk that caused them to rustle in motion and, when she danced, they echoed and emphasised the ladylike flesh underneath with some glamorous magic; they never stuck or revealed, but the motion made her hypnotic. Her corset was covered closely with a bodice of cream and gold thread much of a likeness to the Parisian evening fashions of the day, her shoulders covered and her décolletage bared – though, unlike her husband, for decency she wore a slip of pleated pale cream gossamer and a heavy necklace fashioned in turquoise and gold. The Comtesse covered her face, but barely, with gold-embroidered gauze fastened to her ears and wrapped the fabric up in her hair so that it covered her head and her mouth but left her eyes, painted in heavy orientalist makeup, open to scrutiny. When she breathed, the heat ruffled her scarf, and sensual silken whispers accompanied her speech. She wore a large amount of jewellery: not only the arresting and colourful necklace, but also shining bangles and cuffs in heavy gold, and a tiara she borrowed from the Comtesse de Vallombrosa, which the other lady had worn for a Greek fancy-dress but looked well enough as Turkish also. Finishing her costume was a pair of slippers so fine they might only be worn once: the soles as well as the uppers were crafted in supple gold leather, no good against the harsh December weather but perfect for catching eyes in the cramped Opera at this unmissable party.

They arrived to the fête, of course, fashionably late, that onlookers could see the Comte pull on the reigns and alight the carriage at a jump. There was no snow, mercifully, and had been not so much as sleet for several days, so the Comtesse could lay her dainty feet on the ground and step inside, led by the hand of her husband straight to the room set aside for dancing.

Raoul stepped last out of the carriage, but his identity was sufficiently obscured that by the time he stepped inside the building of the Opera he was a perfect observer – unknown, knowing, and concentrating. The heart, in a young man, is a powerful motivator, and that letter had given Raoul de Chagny all that he needed to know: Christine Daaé was at this party. Somewhere.