The Queen’s Eye had never been graced with such a presence,
as the aging, yet handsome figure of a woman who called herself Christine
Daae. Absently mindedly, I arose and took
her gloved hand. Upon touching my lips
to her glove, I inhaled the sweet essence of roses laced with a hint of what I
came to know as sandalwood. Why
sandalwood? According to Christine, it
reminded her of him. He used it to clear
away the stench of death. At first I
assumed she meant her husband, but she spoke of Erik.
After seating herself across the table from me, she
apologized for allowing her guards to
toss me from the gates of her château. At the mention of guards, four young, armed
men in uniforms made their presence known and hushed the tavern. As she continued,
Christine gave a rather pleasant,
half smile while recalling the incident as though it happened yesterday.
As a child, she lived in Upsala, Sweden where her father gained notoriety as an
accomplished violinist. When her mother died, she and her father
moved to Perros a city in Brittany in Northern France, with hopes of beginning a new
life. There they met Madame Valérius and her
husband the professor. When she spoke of
them or her father, her beautiful blue eyes sparkled with such love.
On a particularly windy day, at the age of nine, she and
Madame Valérius took a walk on the beach to watch the setting sun when a sudden
gust of strong wind caught her favorite scarf tore it from her neck and gave it
to the surrounding sea. The bravery of the
young boy who rescued it astounded me. At ten, I would not have jumped into any
large body of water to retrieve
a mere scarf. I commended him. In this
way, she introduced me to Raoul, le Vicomte de Chagny.
The young Vicomte and his aunt came to spend the summer in
Perros and had not expected the gusty winds which plagued the day. He felt grateful
they had or he would never
have met the shy little girl he would fall in love with. For the remainder of the
summer, the children
played together. Monsieur Daae would tell them dark tales of the land of the
North. At selected times her father
played the violin for them.
From one of their favorite stories which began, “Little
Lotte thought of everything and nothing…” the boy playfully teased the girl by
calling her Little Lotte. When the
summer ended, the lad returned to Paris with his aunt, but something kept him
writing to Little Lotte and drew him back
to Perros each year, until he tired to court her at the age of nineteen.
Life had not smiled upon Christine or her father. France did not bless them as did
Sweden. The loss of his beloved wife yet haunted
Monsieur Daae and sent him to an early grave. With her father dead, the young girl,
now eighteen seemed listless and uninterested
in life let alone the affections of a boy she’d known since childhood. Obviously
she both hurt and confused him,
forcing Raoul to leave with a heavy heart filled with rejection. Never did she
apologize for her actions. Not once did she show signs of regret. At least my mind
clearly understood the one
regret Meg mentioned did not lie with the young Vicomte.
After all this talking, Christine asked if we could resume
her tale at her château. Dives, such as the
Queen’s Eye made her uneasy. Quickly I
collected my notes and sketches and hurried away with her.
Once again, I came to visit her exquisite château, but this
time, not in a hurried manner. She
allowed me to examine the amazing statuary and fountains found about the
grounds. When asked the purpose of the
various statues. She replied, “They reminded me of him.” To this I now knew she
meant Erik.
As we wandered through the gardens, she continued to tell me
how she came to the Acadamie Nationale de Musique based in the opera house and
won the part of Marguerite in Faust. Quickly her days in the opera droned on like a
prisoner awaiting execution. One day after rehearsals she found herself
crying her heart out. Oh how she wished her father had not left her and prayed
for the Angel of Music to appear.
The Angel of Music? I had to ask what that meant, but she begged
my indulgence and to allow her to finish the story. “After all, Monsieur Leroux,
for years you
have sought the true story of the Phantom, therefore, permit me to tell it in
my fashion,” she said with a wry smile and that delightful twinkle in her
eye.
Inside the castle, she asked the cook prepare the evening
meal. She and I then moved to the
parlour where the maid served us tea and small cakes. Here she explained her father
often expressed
his love and would never leave her alone. To his dying breath, he promised to send
the Angel of Music to watch
over her as he had. The Angel would fine
tune her singing voice, bestow her with love and most certainly, protect her.
This all sounded fascinating, but how did this fit in with
the Opera Ghost? I dared not interrupt,
but I truly did not see the connection.
For two and half years life went on like this, along with
pleading to God day and night for the Angel of Music, until one day she heard a
voice which came from nowhere and everywhere. At last, God answered her prayer!
The Angel expressed how much her father loved her and wished she’d stop
grieving for him. For twenty year old
Christine, this came as a sign from heaven. Like Meg, she described the voice as
hypnotic; addicting like a
drug. When the voice sang, it grew in
power, wrapping each syllable around her, clinging to the soul like a child to
its mother.
Each day at a particular time, the voice spoke to her, and
soon began coaching her singing voice. The power behind it made the world fall
away; raising her voice to
heights unknown.
No one could explain why the girl’s voice suddenly became so
perfectly pitched and filled with such heart felt emotion. The cast and crew of the
opera stood in awe
of how her performance excelled and her popularity grew.
The disembodied voice continued coaching and comforting her
for three months when at last, she begged to see her Angel. She had fallen in love
with the voice. Surely she would love the angel himself. Her heart ached to see
his face, to feel his
touch, and to live eternally in his presence.
Feverishly I jotted down notes. A disembodied voice seducing a young girl had
to grab the attention of the busiest person. A glimmer of light shone through my
haze. Could the Angel of Music and the Opera Ghost
be one in the same? I had to know. I would not miss a single word from this
graceful lady’s lips. Had I been older
or she younger, we would have made such beautiful music together. Again I wondered
when all this happened. If she were twenty at the time and currently
she appeared as old as Meg or older. After staring at her absent mindedly,
Christine caught my eye and asked
what troubled me. I felt ashamed for allowing her to catch me staring and
interrupting her story.
At last, I asked the dreaded question. “When did all this
happen? How old are you? Meg…,” then she cut me off.
“Monsieur Leroux, it is not polite to ask a lady her age. As for when this event
occurred, let me ask
that when you write about this, do not use the correct dates. I would not wish to
be found, nor the old ghosts
disturbed.” She smiled and gave me a
knowing nod.
Surprised that her words, I began again, but she instructed,
“Whenever you begin to write, please say ‘go back no farther than thirty years’.” I
puzzled, but said nothing.
After a sip of tea and continued her story of the seductive
voice speaking to her.
Finally, the figure of a man appeared in the mirror. His song spoke of heaven and
love, lifting
her very soul to the ethereal realm of the gods. The voice drew her to the mirror.
Literally it
pulled her into the glass and carried her off into the pitch black of wherever
angelic beings dwell. But do heavenly
angels abide in pitch black? A question
which crossed her frightened brain.
A dim torch mounted on the wall allowed her to see the
death’s head beneath the fedora he wore tightly around his face. She screamed and
screamed. As he covered her mouth to muffle cries, she
mentioned the smell of death on his hands. At that moment, her heart pounded so loudly
with fear she felt certain the Angel of Death carried her off. Soon she’d be in the
company of all her
deceased loved ones. Any moment, she
just knew her father would appear in a ray of heavenly light.
Ever since her father’s death, some six years previous, she’d
prayed for death. Then she would unite
with her father and mother, never to separate again. But if Death carried her away
this night, she
repented for the sin of ignorance and pleaded with God to deliver her from the
demon who spirited her away to the netherworld.
Recalling this event caused the aging diva to take a deep
breath and steady her shaking hands and jittery nervous. Obviously, the account
emotionally drained
her, and I see why it took so many years deciding to relive the
experience. How thoughtless I’d
been! I never realized how this would
affect her. In a moment, she rang for
her maid who seemed to appear instantly. It seemed the dear woman needed something
stronger. In a matter of minutes, the maid disappeared
and reappeared with a tray baring an exquisite decanter and a couple of small
glasses.
Now I wondered if the Persian would react in a similar
manner, as I watched the handsome woman throw back a shot of some sharp
smelling liquor. It seemed most
unlady-like, but in view of the matter, I completely understood and partook of
a shot myself.
After one more swallow, Christine resumed the account of how
she fainted. The masked angel sat with
her by the fountain near his home and sprinkled water in face to revive
her. The boat ride through the labyrinth
of tunnels seemed like a blur to her. She
only remembered coming to and seeing the death’s head once again.
The atmosphere inside the lake house felt dreary and
depressing as if visiting an undertaker’s parlour, especially when she saw where
the thing slept. Within a room dimly lit
with a few stray candles, lay a rather large black coffin lined with gleaming
white satin. Again she swooned, but the
creature caught and carried her to a room set aside for her.
Two weeks she spent in this underground house, hosted by a
man, not an angel. Beneath the mask lay
a face so distorted only a corpse could compare. The flesh appeared like yellow
parchment
stretched over a skeletal structure. Where
a black hole appeared where a nose should have. The eyes sank so far into the
sockets, it almost seemed like he had no
eyes. Except for the glint of yellow in
the dark, like a cat, she almost swore he watched through empty hollows.
Her breathing grew strained and eyes wild with terror. Wringing her hands, she
feared he might
return for her. Once again, she reached
for the decanter of spirits and poured herself another glass. It took several
minutes for her to gain
composure. During which time, I
completed my notes.
All of sudden, she turned on me and raised her voice and
asked, “Do you realize I kept company with a corpse, a dead man? Without the mask,
it seemed like a skeleton
conversed with me. Death
personified!” Then she began to wail and
shriek as mourners do at a wake. This
baffled me. From the rumors, Christine
had an affinity for the ghost, but what I witnessed at the moment certainly did
not seem like love. Never had I seen
anyone so terrified in my life. Hearing
the description scared me enough, but seeing Christine’s reaction, made me
think.
“Didn’t you love him?” I asked the foolish question. A look of insane confusion
crossed her face
and made me fear for my very life.
“Love, love him?” she stared about wide-eyed. At this she let out another mournful
wail.
For the moment, she could not continue. Christine left the room without a word, but
sent the maid to invite me to stay the night. She offered me an extraordinary room
which I could not refuse. The maid brought a fine dinner to my room
which I washed down with a delicious wine. I did inquire about the mistress of the
castle, but the maid only
answered that Christine would join me at for the morning meal at seven.
As I settled into the most comfortable bed I’d ever known, I
remembered my wife. So I rang for the
butler and gave him a note for her. She
would be angry and upset, but I couldn’t let a once in a lifetime opportunity slip
by. I had to hear more of this fantastic
story. I had to understand Christine’s
reactions.
Like a child, I drifted off to sleep with visions of a
corpse playing host to a beautiful young girl. Obviously reminding me of the fairy
tale “Beauty and the Beast”.