The sapphires hung from her ears and poured around her neck like a chain of blue fire, imprisoning her and weighing her down. Yet they were beautiful, so beautiful: a princely gift for a single performance that must burn in the place of a thousand nights upon the stage. The glorious music of her song — his song — filled her memory and her senses, longing to be set free. She needed to do this. It needed to be sung: wanted to be sung, drawing her onwards like an intoxication entirely outside herself, and calling alike to the artist in her and to the woman.
She was Christine: she was herself, not Christine Daaé the great soprano, not the possessor of a peerless instrument, not the wife of Raoul, not — least of all — Madame la Vicomtesse, not even Gustave’s mother... not only, not always. She was not music’s slave, or the requisite of any man.
I want to be me... just for once. I want to sing this for its own sake, for my own joy. Not to please a master or repay a debt, but to spread my wings and simply fly again. But I cannot.
The glorious leash around her neck told her that, binding her as firmly as the slender band clasped ten years ago on her finger. And... the gift of that ring had been asked, and consented. These chains were implicit, and all the heavier for that.
She rose, slowly, and lifted a hand to the dressing-room door, some part of her half-expecting to find it locked as before. Hoping, almost... But of course it was not. The handle turned easily under her grasp, and at the end of the short corridor beyond there was a sidelong glimpse of the brightness that must be the stage. The alluring melody sang in her ears.
She had promised it. She had sworn that the music would live again — one last time. How could she deny him that? She had already given her word; surely Raoul, of all people, would understand.
And all the time her feet were taking her up towards that lighted island of performance behind the curtains, almost jerkily, as if she were a marionette.
Ten years.... We grew up, Raoul, you and I. We’re no longer those children who cared so passionately and were so easily hurt. We learned to deal with disappointment and live with less than perfection. We’re... hardened against it. But he — doesn’t have that protection.
In a way, the two of them were older now than that other could ever be: it was as if all his cruelties and manipulations were nothing more than the tantrums of a brilliant child. Beneath it all, beneath the arrogance and the genius, he was still the broken creature she had found on the night she returned beneath a moonless sky...
But Raoul would not, could not see it like that, she knew. And it was not fair to ask it of him. Of any husband... any man. Her hands were clutched together at her waist, twisting over one another.
And — let’s be honest, Christine — she knew it was not just a question of healing, of setting right a little of the world’s monstrous wrong. It was not restitution that her old mentor wanted, and he had made that plain enough. It was utter, unchallenged possession.
When she heard his voice, she was caught out of herself, into an ardent world that they two alone shared. But to surrender to that call and make him whole... would take everything she was, and everything she had.
“Miss Daaé —” The stage manager touched her arm, indicated the spot where she was to stand. Beyond the curtain she could sense the buzz of an eagerly-awaiting audience out front, and overhead the gantry shifted and creaked as massive lights were trained round to follow their marks. Long practice twitched her gown into its most becoming folds, settled the jewels around her throat, and poised her figure perfectly for the opening bars; but her heart twisted within her, and her fingers knotted painfully, wrenching over and over as if she were a sleepwalker trying to awaken.
Ten minutes ago — she had been on the point of leaving. Ten minutes ago — ten years ago — ten minutes ago her husband’s mouth had been warm against hers, not in the arrogance of demand but with that hesitant, almost shy tenderness of which they had been starved for so long. She’d begged it of him, silently, across the years as the wall had come down imperceptibly between them; had tried to reach him with touch and understanding as he withdrew behind bitterness and drink.
Ten years ago they’d clung together for comfort, and young desire, and the sheer joy of living; of loving and being loved. Ten years ago the world had been theirs in all its infinite possibility, before routine and unhappiness had dulled it. Ten years ago Raoul de Chagny had found her again, and loved her more than life itself.
And ten minutes ago he had found strength for her sake to tear down pride and the past; and love that had seemed a poor withered thing had blossomed in a flush of new hope like a meadow after rain, with gentle, aching kisses that held heartbreak and promise. The tendrils of that long affection were entwined through her whole life, deep-rooted for all their seeming fragility. The bruised and clumsy heart he had laid at her feet enclosed the twinned half of hers, tossed so lightly so long ago into that keeping — in return for the warmth that was his own.
Once upon a time when their story had only just begun, they’d been so sure of the happy ending... and maybe the moment was not gone, after all. She would not let it go. Love would not let you go; love was stubborn and endured. Oh, why did it hurt so much?
Hands clenched at her sides, head bowed, she scarcely heard the final warning as the curtain rose, and the first glow of blue light began to wash over the backdrop behind her. Somewhere beyond the footlights was a vast wave of faces hushed in anticipation; she saw nothing, heard nothing save the music unfolding inexorably, to keep her moving on until there was no choice—
But there was — there was! That lyric itself bore the tale for them both... Oh Raoul, of course I’ll come with you. Just give me a few minutes — let me get through this, and we’ll go at once. As soon as this song is over.
She raised her head at last, seeking for him in the wings as she took her first breath; but here at the back of the stage she could see nothing. When she came forward — then would be the time. Then their eyes would meet and she would be able to tell him. The song itself would tell him.
I can’t betray him now, Raoul: not after all that we’ve been. I’ll sing this song for him — but I’ll sing it to you, only to you. And when you hear me tonight, you’ll know...
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