Unmasqued: An Erotic Novel of The Phantom of The Opera (6 page)

“And you will continue to ensure that they do.”

“I will ensure that they have every reason to comply with your requirements. I consider it my duty to keep them satisfied…on all levels.” In the low light, her face transformed with a meaningful smile.

Maude loved sex, and she did not confine her lustful appetites to one partner, or even many. She had slept with legions over the years, and prided herself for hiding her great appetites behind a rigid, proper persona. “I’ll make myself acquainted with them first before I introduce them to some of the girls.” She looked at him
thoughtfully. “Something I would be most happy to do for you, Erik. There are one or two who could be counted on to remain discreet. Or I’ll see them thrown out on the street.”

“No,” he managed to say calmly, though his cock shifted beneath his trousers. “I’ll wait.”

With a sideways glance, Maude raised an eyebrow and shrugged. “You are becoming as chaste as Christine is.”

“Your girls might be discreet, but they will still gossip. And La Carlotta, though out of your chaperonage, has the loudest lips of them all. It is best if I remain the shadowy ghost I’ve been for the last nine years so that none can identify me.”

Yes, nearly ten years of his life—one-third of it!—had been spent hovering in the shadows of this Opera House. Hiding and lurking and pretending to be nothing but a specter. Would he ever be free to live in the light?

“As you wish, Erik,” Maude told him, with a gentle bow of acquiescence.

After she left, and Erik felt the rage of his cock refuse to subside, he wondered at his instant refusal. He could have taken her up on her offer. It would be easy and quick.

But he’d resolved years ago he would force no one to see his monstrous self. He wanted no more of the fear, of the revulsion, he’d seen in the girls he’d been forced to touch.

He wanted none of them.

None but Christine.

C
hristine sat next to Raoul at the restaurant where they supped. In a quiet corner, at a table surrounded by a large, curving sofa, the five of them ate a late meal and discussed that evening’s successful performance.

Raoul sat so that his thigh lined hers and the pointed tail of his coat flipped up over the back of her gown. He was solicitous and charming, ensuring that her wineglass was always filled with the deep golden Bordeaux and her plate had the choicest pieces of roast fowl.

Next to Raoul sat one of the Opera House’s new managers, Monsieur Armand Moncharmin, the one who had urged his counterpart to let her sing.

He was shorter and stouter than his partner, with soft, puppy-dog eyes and little jowls that added to the canine impression he presented. A shy man, he appeared too nervous to look at Christine for long, although his gaze continued to dart back to her person when
he did not expect her to be looking. This was the type of man, she thought as she slipped a grape into her mouth, who would be afraid to unbutton his nightshirt for his wife and would insist on making love with the lights off.

Next to Christine, leaving a greater distance between her gown and his trousers than Raoul had done, was the other new manager. Monsieur Firmin Richard was the elder of the two partners, and he sported a neat, slicked mustache that did not dare to showcase any of the gray that winged his temples. His eyes were sharper and more considering than Armand’s, but Christine had already heard that Moncharmin was the one who handled the money, and Richard, the dandy who actually understood music, was the one who managed the personnel.

Directly across the table from her was Raoul’s elder brother by a decade, Philippe, the Comte de Chagny. Later, Christine was to realize he had deliberately chosen that seat for the advantage it gave him. A more mature version of his younger brother, the
comte
exuded power and control from the condescending flare of his aristocratic nostrils to the thin, settled lips that curved in the faintest of considering smiles.

In his shadow, Raoul seemed little more than a handsome, earnest boy who wanted desperately to gain his big brother’s approval.

“I see from your uniform that you are a graduated member of the École Navale Impériale,” Monsieur Moncharmin commented to Raoul.

“Indeed,” replied the
vicomte
, offering a smile to Christine, then returning his attention to the short manager. “I recently graduated from my training upon the
Borda
and found myself with little to do until I was invited to join my brother at his patronage of your Opera House. I cannot but think it was a serendipitous occurrence that of all nights, he should invite me to this evening’s gala.”

“Raoul graduated near the top of his class,” added the
comte
as he set his wineglass down with a smart snap, “and then embarked on a journey around the world. His sisters and I are pleased that he has chosen to return for a brief furlough before leaving on his next journey.”

“Where shall you be heading off to next, then?” asked Monsieur Richard. “I myself cannot stomach the sea, even a short journey, for it makes me ill.”

“My brother wields enough influence that I was able to be assigned to the mission of the
Requin
, which will not leave for several weeks yet.” Under the table, he squeezed Christine’s fingers as though to let her know he would not forget her.

“Is that the ship that is to search for the survivors of the polar expedition?”

“Yes, indeed. The
d’Artois.
But I shall not be called for a month, so I will have plenty of nights to return to the Opera House.”

“Our Miss Daaé was quite a triumph this evening.” Moncharmin braved a look at Christine, then reapplied himself to his potatoes.

“Yes…but whatever happened to that Spanish singer? Carlotta?” spoke the
comte
suddenly. “Although our Miss Daaé turned many heads with her beauty and her voice, I am curious as to how such a young girl managed to snare the stage from the Opera House’s star. Unless it was part of your scheme as the new managers? Out with the old and in with the new, perhaps?”

Philippe’s gray blue eyes rarely left Christine’s person, even as he spoke to his brother or the managers. They were heavy, calculating, and disturbing. When she moved closer to Raoul, pressing her arm against his as if to melt into the protection of his person, Philippe’s mouth tipped up at one side in a sardonic grin as if he understood and was amused by it.

Richard replied, “Carlotta was overset by an accident on the stage today, and it was decided she should rest her nerves this evening.”

“An accident?” Raoul asked, concern in his face as he looked at Christine. “Somehow I had not considered the opera to be so dangerous.”

“It is no more dangerous than crossing the street, unless one is foolish enough to believe in the stories about the ghost who haunts the theater,” Richard grumbled.

“An opera
ghost
?” The
comte
was clearly amused. He drank again from his garnet-colored wine, and refilled the glass with a flourish.

“It is a foolish superstition,” Richard replied. “Sorelli has insisted on placing a horseshoe on the table of the
foyer de la danse
for each performer to touch before setting onstage. She claims it is a talisman against the evil of the ghost. A ghost which does not exist.” He shook his head, the cord from his monocle wagging in time.

The
comte
raised his eyebrows. “One does not consider La Sorelli as endowed with much common sense, although the dancer certainly is not lacking in other areas of endowment.” He watched Christine over the rim of his goblet.

She looked away, focusing her attention on Raoul’s warm thigh brushing against hers, and the fact that his face and hands were much more elegant and comforting than the intense expression on his brother’s face. She realized, suddenly, that it was fortunate that she had caught the eye of the younger brother before that of the elder one.

“Theater folk are mad—
pardonnez-moi
, mademoiselle—they have too many of these absurd superstitions. It is ridiculous. We nearly had to cancel the plans for
Faust
, which is to open next week, because of the scenery.” Moncharmin began to rapidly chew his bite of bread as though agitated or embarrassed.

“The scenery?” Raoul was mystified. “Was there a fear that it should fall? Is it not merely a painted backdrop?”

“Oh, no, no…did you not notice, my lord, that the scenery has real doors and windows? And corners and alcoves? It is the new style, to make the set more realistic, and we spent twenty thousand francs to build the Heaven set for
Faust
in order to keep our theater ahead of its competitors…and they refused to even rehearse with it.” Moncharmin’s bread was being ravaged. Crumbs sprayed. Crust dangled. “I cannot begin to understand this business.”

“It is the blue,” Christine ventured to speak. Everyone looked at her, even Moncharmin. But then he flickered away. The
comte
’s attention did not. “The blue on the scenery—the sky. No one in the theater will perform with a scenery that is blue, for it brings misfortune. Death or loss of money.”

“Death? Is that so?” The
comte
’s gray blue eyes swept over her in that arrogant, calculating way that made Christine think of the protectors. But there was not one hint of fatherliness in his whole attitude.

Raoul did not seem to notice. “How did you resolve it, then?”

“It was insisted that we add silver ornamentation to the set—another cost, of course.” Moncharmin reached to mangle the loaf of bread in the center of the table. “Another five thousand francs.”

The
comte
smoothly changed the subject. “I did not mention how delightful it is to see you again, Miss Daaé. I am told we met briefly some years ago, when you and my little brother romped at the beach in Perros-Guirec. Not a very fashionable place, but one near my aunt’s home, where Raoul was raised.”

“You remind me of a bittersweet time, Comte de Chagny,” Christine replied. That summer in Brittany was the last summer she had with her father. “My father died that following winter, when I was ten.”

“It was Madame Valerius who raised you then, was it not?” added Raoul.

“Yes, she and her husband, the professor of music at the National Academy of Music in the Opera House, were friends and admirers of my father, who was a great violinist. They were kind enough to keep me with them until I was able to enroll at the conservatoire.” From then, it was an easy path for her to find her way to the chorus and ballet corps, all the time hoping for the chance to advance further.

To find her place.

Had she found it now?

“That day you met her at the seashore, I rescued her black scarf from the surf, Philippe,” Raoul added. “Do you recall being there, now that I have reminded you?”

“Indeed I do,” Philippe replied, his attention focused on Christine. “I do remember the girl, who has now grown to be such a beautiful young woman. It is no surprise, Raoul, that you have determined to reawaken your acquaintance with her. If I did not already have a countess, I would be so inclined.” He gave a brief nod, meant to imply tribute to Christine. But she saw the look in his eyes and knew better.

From the time she was twelve and joined the chorus for a mere eight hundred francs per annum, she had lived in the dormitory at the Opera House, sharing a room with the other dancers. Living in such a casual, communal environment, she’d been exposed early on to the sexual interactions between men and women through whispered conversations, spying in dressing rooms, and her own clumsy, groping experience with one of the props boys that eventually led to her own deflowering.

And then of course, there had been Madame Giry, who spoke frankly of such liaisons and experience, and urged her girls to make
their own decisions and taught them how to utilize their feminine power to the best of their ability. And how to be certain they were not gotten with child, and what to do if they should be.

Christine had witnessed the coquettish ways dancers and singers of all ranks—both men and women—teased and flirted with the admirers who came backstage to the
foyer de la danse
after the performances. She saw the hungry way the men looked at the dancers, at times with admiration, as Raoul did with her…and at other times with a condescending desire. As the
comte
did now.

She looked at his ungloved hand holding the wineglass, three of his fingers bearing heavy, jeweled rings, and imagined that hand on her flesh. It would be cold, and demanding, she knew; it would not allow her to shrink away, to flinch. Christine watched as he trickled his fingers, blunt tipped and thick, over the side of his glass as if to call attention to them.

She tore her gaze away, and it skittered upward and was trapped. By calculating grayish blue eyes. He nodded once, then turned his attention to the others at the table. He spoke no more to her that night. He did not even acknowledge her presence with anything but an occasional searing stare. After the meal was finished, Raoul excused himself and Christine and sent for his carriage.

When they returned to the Opera House, Christine found herself looking at the huge marble theater in a different light. Since joining the corps de ballet, she’d hardly ever seen the facade of the famous columned building, for most often, her comings and goings were relegated to the back, where the dormitories were located. But now, as the sun was rising over the creamy Paris skyline, Raoul drove his carriage around the front of the Opera House, to the side rotunda where he would normally enter the building. Christine looked up at the colossal sculpture of Apollo, holding the globe of the earth up toward the sky, and she suddenly felt as though she were just as high and powerful as he.

When Raoul realized he had made a mistake, he sent her a rueful smile and drove the horses around to the back of the building. It was a long walk to the dormitories, and at last Christine realized how exhausted she was.

“When shall I see you next?” asked Raoul, stopping at her door. Although he had dragged her up against him only hours ago, and ravaged her mouth as though starving, he seemed to have shed that intensity and now looked upon her as something delicate and breakable. Something out of reach, something to be worshipped.