Fantôme – Chapter 9, Part 7

Catch up with Fantôme from the beginning

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Christine, Phillippe had said, was toying with Raoul; how, though, could a woman so below his rank, so patently unmarriageable, be toying with a powerful Viscomte with connections? Perhaps, the reader may think, she was playing with fire.

Raoul, the reader may suppose, was perhaps the one toying with her: since his family and social world would never approve of her as a match, not even thirty years from now, not even if she was by then the greatest coloratura alive and courted by the Prince of Wales, he could not marry her. Nor could he remain a bachelor, for the gossip would be unseemly and after a while his reluctance could bring disgrace to his family, and no good woman would want to marry somebody publicly enamoured of another – not even for prospects like he could offer. Christine could expect neither security nor longevity from the Viscomte, so what could be the outcome of their affair but heartbreak? Better, perhaps, not to start it, for both their sakes; but, my dear readers, that is never the course that true love takes. The affair between Christian and Raoul began instantaneously, by mutual consent, and as such Raoul was now cast as the hero and Christine as the Prima Donna, singing for her life.

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Raoul, as a military man, was used to being one of a troupe from his regiment days, and whilst he had of course caroused in Lille and Königsberg, he had often stayed in and heard the wildest exploits second-hand. As the younger brother he was used to sitting in the shadow of the more important man, and he enjoyed his role as a polite, bland figure of little interest, but tonight the eyes found him. It was not to be debated that Raoul cut rather a dash in his costume: the tight trousers clung to his taut horseriding thighs, and more besides; the cut-off point of his mask, tight to the face, made his cheekbones look sharp and emphasised his masculine and angular jaw; the far-back shoulder-seams of his jacket made the most of slight Raoul’s slim shoulders and slender waist; and of course the impeccable tailoring on such an impractical outfit made him look rich. Beyond Raoul’s own attributes, it is of course true that mystery fans the flames of desire; together with his striking presence, the well-kept secret of who was behind the Domino mask made the Viscomte truly the most desirable man of the evening.

Raoul felt his cheeks redden more at every eyelid that battered his way, every indiscreet matron who beckoned him, every whisper that fluttered behind a fan accompanying an unbroken gaze in his direction. He felt foolish; this style of party was not for him, and he did not wish to illicit any rumour. He was quite unaware of how far from recognisable he was, and feared to be associated with the large array of bohemians – artists, models, famous drinkers – who lined the walls and stalked the dance floors of the Opera, fearing to bring his family and his regiment into disrepute… but also feeling shy, and awkward, and unsure how to conduct himself without social niceties to guide his actions. There must be more avant-gardes than ever before this year, as the papers had been beating a fanfare about for weeks. Perhaps the new managers wanted the party to rage like fire across the papers and the salon gossip… or perhaps they wanted to enjoy the debauchery for themselves.

There was an orchestra in every room, of course, but they were students of the Opera’s school, giving the professional musicians a break from their duties to enjoy dancing and socialising and freedom. One reason this Christmas party was more anarchic and celebratory than even the Carnival or End-Of-Season summer parties was that staff of all levels were invited to make merry, as their Christmas-present, and the sponsors and the patrons of the Opera relished the chance to hobnob with the rough hands of the carpenters and the delicate workmanship the costumiers had reserved for themselves. The masks made it harder to tell who was of what station, and thus all the more fun for all concerned.

Not quite every citizen of the Great State of the Paris Opera was present: La Sorelli had forbidden the managers from inviting the ballerinettes, but they tried their best. The girls dressed as cherubs, styled their hair like old-style paintings, and wore costume jewels they had sequestered away from the wardrobe department to wave at all and sundry from an inaccessible upstairs balcony. Guests laughed at their pouting faces but praised La Sorelli, herself dressed, of course, in folk-dress from her native Lazio (including an unusual headscarf that lay flat on her head) for her guidance of the young girls. She, too, laughed a pretty, mellow laugh, and said “One day they shall be free, as the rest of us are, to make mistakes; but I hope they make them freely, and do not find themselves at the mercy of an unmerciful world.”

Raoul moved from room to room, inciting further gossip by looking at every costume before leaving without speaking to anyone. Eventually he found her: another Domino, dressed in white.

Christine’s dress was of pure white taffeta silk, with gothic arches and many types of flowers and tiny chevrons embroidered in white twist in every stretch and fold. She was dressed, like him, in the style of centuries past, so her skirts were unfathomably wide and little heeled slippers in unblemished silver silk could be seen, as could her striped white-and-palest-blue stockings. Raoul had to stop himself imagining the blue ribbons tied over her knees, with who knows what embellishment. She paired this ensemble with a hooded cloak in snow-white velvet and, of course, the mirror to his own mask: the white domino, plain and simple, with no clear ribbons or pins holding it down on her face. She said nothing to him but touched her white-gloved finger to her lips and beckoned him, slipping into the back rooms of the building that was her home.

They walked further than he anticipated. He thought she would get him alone and then speak, but she walked on, silently, like a ghost stalking the corridors. She didn’t turn back but he was certain he could hear the tread of his boots over carpet and boards as he could hear the swish of her gown in the still rooms. Soon he could no longer hear music, but still she walked. She took him to a wall with the back of a gas lamp, and he thought this strange corner must be their destination, but she shook a metal contraption and a ladder clattered down from above.

“Come, my love.” she whispered, and began to climb, in pannier skirt and all her finery.

When Raoul stuck his head through the oval window, he understood why she had asked they wear such heavy, excessive costumes: she wrapped her cloak around herself as she sat down, finally, in the brisk twilight air… on the Opera’s roof.

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