Yesterday Never Dies, page 2
“It’s foolish of you to make a game of it, my friend,” he said. “You know me well enough to know that I can’t resist a challenge. If there’s a mystery here, I’ll not rest until I get to the bottom of it. Do give my regards to Monsieur Dupin, when he arrives...if he arrives. I consider him a dear friend too, of course, even though there’s a sense in which he got me into this mess.”
“What mess?” I asked, utterly confused.
He stood up, shaking his head. “No, no,” he said. “If you won’t confide in me, I’m not going to confide in you. It is, to borrow your phrase, none of your business. Bonsoir.”
And he left. He closed the door very quietly—which was perhaps as well, as the curtain was going up, only a couple of minutes late. Giacomo Meyerbeer was no longer in Chapelain’s box, and the company obviously felt ready to begin, in spite of the inevitable first night nerves.
Alas, I was no longer in a fit condition to pay much attention to Robert and Bertram’s unfortunate encounter with the minstrel; my mind was all at sea. Fortunately, I had seen Robert le Diable before, and knew that I would be able to pick up the plot easily enough, once I had collected myself—not that Robert has much of a plot, being even more of a hotchpotch than most operas.
Oddly enough, I knew that Dupin had seen the opera before too, and until he had been so insistent that I take a box for tonight’s performance, my impression had been that he did not care for it overmuch. When I had invited him to accompany me to see La Damnation de Faust a year before, he had been rather rude about “devil operas” in general, and he had been unimpressed by my insistent claim that Berlioz was an as-yet-unappreciated genius. Although he seemed to have made more of an effort to reacquaint himself with modern music after the unfortunate affairs of the lost Stradivarius and the haunted cello, he was still a trifle sensitive about the darker properties of music, as outlined in the book that had once obsessed him—Les Harmonies de l’enfer—but which he now seemed reluctant even to open.
Why then, had he been so enthusiastic to see this particular play on this particular night? Whatever the reason was, did it have something to do with Groix’s presence—and, for that matter, the presence of Chapelain’s masked lady?
The deepest mystery of all, of course, from my own point of view, was why I could not even begin to venture an answer to those questions. Why, if Dupin had had a particular reason for wanting to be here tonight, in company with me and an empty seat, had he not told me the reason? If “something was going on,” why was I not party to it?
And where was Dupin? If it was not a summons from the Prefect of Police that was keeping him away, when he had seemed so enthusiastic to be here, what could it be?
I knew that racking my brains over such questions was futile, not merely because I had no chance of working out the answers at present, but because I knew that I only had to be patient until I was able to ask Dupin, perhaps in the interval or—if Saint-Germain turned out to be right about the possibility of him not turning up at all—tomorrow. The sensible thing to do, for the time being, was to concentrate on the opera. That was, after all, why I was here.
I tried to do that, but my ill-humor overflowed, transforming itself into criticism of what I was seeing and hearing.
I was not one of the many music-lovers who considered Meyerbeer to be the greatest composer of the era, of a stature only slightly less than his great forebear Rossini. Chopin, who had allegedly taken great inspiration from the original version of Robert, way back in 1831, had, in my opinion, far surpassed him, as had Berlioz, not to mention Wagner. It was no surprise to me that, in spite of its awesome reputation as the grandest of early grand operas, few works had been more extensively revised in its various revivals than Robert le Diable, sometimes involving music written by other hands—much to the composer’s displeasure.
The problems with the piece had, I knew—although it was all ancient history from my viewpoint, unfolding long before I had come to Paris—arisen long before its completion. Meyerbeer and Scribe had initially planned it as a three-act comic opera for the old Opéra-Comique in 1827, more as a parody of than an homage to the first of the great “devil operas,” Weber’s Der Freischutz, which had had a phenomenal success at the other Opéra in 1824. The Opéra-Comique had run into acute financial difficulties, though, and when the collaborators had finally been able to go back to the piece, Meyerbeer, Scribe, and Casimir Delavigne had been commissioned to rewrite it as a five-act grand opera instead.
Eugène Scribe was by now famous as a writer of “well-made” plays, but he had not been able to do much, even with the help of Casimir Delavigne, to adapt a short comedy that had already played fast and loose with its supposed legendary source into a substantial drama. What remained of the original plot had evidently been twisted out of shape, and the story had been blatantly padded by the addition of the entirely gratuitous sensational episode that had done much to secure the work’s success: the so-called dance of the nuns, the highlight of the third act.
I could not help thinking, churlishly, that it had been unjust as well as foolish for Scribe and Delavigne to identify the legendary Robert the Devil—as featured in the folktale prominently reproduced in the Chronique de Normandie and various other metrical romances, about a boy sired by the Devil who eventually represses his inherited evil ways to become a good Christian—with the historical Robert the Great, Duke of Normandy. The identification had apparently been forged by mistake, because seventeenth-century reprints of the “original” Robert le Diable had often been juxtaposed it with Richard sans peur, a completely different story about the son of Robert the Great.
Having researched the question in a desultory fashion the first time I had seen the opera, I suspected that the confusion might extend even further, given that the name Robert had also been attached, by subsequent Norman chroniclers, to the much earlier Viking founder of the province that had become the Duchy of Normandy: a pirate who had sailed up the Seine to attack Paris and run riot in the surrounding territory on two occasions, and whose real name had been Hrolf. At least Hrolf really had undergone a repentance of sorts, promising to convert to Christianity as the price for being granted legal title the province of Normandy by Charles the Simple—the least of Charlemagne’s namesake descendants—although he had subsequently reverted to the bloody worship of his pagan gods.
I tried hard to put such pedantic ruminations out of my mind, however, and concentrate on the opera itself.
As I watched the first and second acts unfold, gradually revealing Robert of Normandy’s difficulties in wooing Isabelle, Princess of Palermo, his accidental disruption of his half-sister Alice’s romance with the minstrel Raimbaut, and the virtuous Alice’s attempts to redeem him from the road to ruin along which he is being prompted by his “friend” Bertram, I could not help seeing all of it as a mere prelude to the dance of the nuns—much more so at any rate, than a preparation for the denouement, in which Bertram, who is actually Robert’s father, fails to keep the bargain he has made with the Devil to deliver his son’s soul, and is dragged off to hell, like all the other devil-led fools of the genre, in imitation of the prototypical Don Giovanni.
The dance of the nuns actually adds nothing to the opera’s plot, being merely an arbitrary intrusion of a scene in which Robert has to recover a magic branch from the ruined convent of Saint Rosalia, in order to render himself invisible—which will allow him to gain the access to Isabelle that he has been forbidden. The ballet does, however, add a strong, and arguably unhealthy, dose of eroticism to the story, because the ghostly nuns dance in remembrance of a debauched past grotesquely unbefitting their vocation. Knowing that the erotic ballet was to come, it was difficult to see the machinations of the first two acts as anything but teasing foreplay, or mere delay. I told myself, however, that it was merely my annoyance at Saint-German and Dupin that was making me impatient, and that I really ought to try to enter into the true spirit of the piece, savoring the music as if I were hearing it for the first time.
I could not do it. Other thoughts kept getting in the way, in spite of all my efforts—not merely the question of where Dupin was now, but the question of exactly when and where he had seen the play before. Obviously, it had been before my arrival in Paris, and if it had been at the Opéra-Comique, it must have been before the fire in 1838, quite probably the 1834 revival to which Saint-Germain had made oblique reference. That had been some while before Lucien Groix had worked his way up to his present position, but he and Dupin had already been old friends. Was it possible that Dupin and Groix had seen the opera together thirteen years ago? Did that have something to do with the singular circumstance of Groix coming here tonight, expecting to see Dupin?
Tormented by such unanswerable questions, I could not even keep my eyes on the stage. I looked across at Chapelain’s box repeatedly—and then looked away again, ashamed of my rudeness, scanning the upper galleries as if I were merely parading my gaze around the entire house. In spite of the poor light, I was convinced that I saw Saint-Germain on the far side of the upper gallery, in one of the worst seats in the house. That would have been extremely atypical of him, but the abormality did not make me any less certain of the identification, which I checked with further glances every time the lighting of the stage was bright enough to allow the possibility of a glimpse.
My restlessness lasted all the way to the interval, when I remained in my seat rather than going down to the foyer, hoping that Dupin might appear at any moment, having been waiting outside for the opportunity to come in without creating a disturbance—but he did not, and after ten minutes, my patience ran out.
If the Comte de Saint-German and Lucien Groix thought that it was acceptable behavior to burst into other people’s theater-boxes uninvited, I thought—atypically, I ought to say—then why should I not do the same? If all the other mysteries of the evening were insoluble, one, at least, was within my potential grasp.
Pierre Chapelain and the masked woman had also remained in their seats, and showed no sign of budging—so I got up, stamped around the circular corridor behind the boxes, and barged into theirs.
CHAPTER TWO
THE PHANTOM OF THE OPERA
Having seen me leave my box, and perhaps having deduced my reason for doing so, Chapelain was by no means as startled by my appearance as I had been by Saint-Germain’s or the Prefect’s—and unlike them, I had had the grace to knock and wait to be admitted.
Chapelain’s greeting, although polite enough, was more than a trifle frosty—perhaps because he had caught a glimpse of Saint-German in my company, although I remembered that he had seemed sulky even before then. He was obviously curious, though—perhaps almost as much as I was.
“Is Monsieur Dupin not with you?” he asked.
The question was in no way surprising in itself, but the fact that it had been asked before I had been introduced to the masked lady was. My surprise must have shown, because Chapelain blushed, thus revealing an honesty of expression that neither Saint-German nor the Prefect had condescended to do.
“My apologies,” he murmured, “but you will appreciate, I think, that as a physician, I have a duty of confidentiality to my patients, and I regret that I am unable to introduce you to my companion.”
I had, in expecting the introduction, reflexively turned toward the lady, who was studying me carefully from behind her mask. “You are a friend of Monsieur Dupin?” she asked. Her voice immediately dispelled any suspicion that she might be an American, although it was very difficult to identify an alternative place of origin from such a brief sentence
“Yes, I am,” I told her.
“And he was supposed to be here tonight?”
“Yes, he was—and still is, although he is very late. Do you know him, Madame?” That was slightly impertinent, but I thought that the circumstances permitted me a certain license.
“We met once, very briefly,” she said, “in 1834—here at the Comique, as it happens...or rather, in the old theater...in the Green Room.”
That surprised me; I had not thought Dupin the sort of person to visit the Green Rooms of theaters in order to socialize with the artistes after a performance. Lucien Groix, on the other hand, in his younger days....
I ventured a further impertinence. “I would be happy to remember you to him,” I said, “if I knew your name.”
“If even half of what Monsieur Chapelain has been telling me about him is true,” the lady said, with a slight chuckle, “he will be able to deduce my identity from what I have already told you. Monsieur Groix could not stay for the performance, I assume? Pierre tells me that he is now the Prefect of Police. And poor Professor Thibodeaux is dead, alas.”
It was not the first time I had heard the name of Thibodeaux mentioned, but I could not for the life of me remember when I had heard it before, or in what context. The calculus of probability suggested that it must have been Dupin who had mentioned it to me—but he mentioned so many names, while he was using me as a sounding-board in helping himself to organize his ideas.
My own powers of ratiocination were no match for Dupin’s, but my long acquaintance with him had taught me something of his methods, and perhaps even communicated a little of his ingenuity...or perhaps not.
“Perhaps it was in memory of Monsieur Thibodeaux’s death that Monsieur Dupin asked me to hire a three-seater box, but to leave one of the seats empty,” I suggested.
The lady’s surprise was half-masked, but Chapelain’s was not. “But what about Groix?” He said. “Was he not taking the third seat? I assumed that he was making his apologies to you, because he had been called away.”
I realized my mistake too late, but tried to gloss over it as best I could. “The plot thickens,” I remarked—in English, because the phrase has no exact equivalent in French. I switched back to French in order to explain my meaning, however, even though I had deduced by now from the lady’s indeterminate accent that it was probably not her first language. “Monsieur Dupin did not ask me to invite Monsieur Groix, and I had no idea that the two of them had seen the opera together thirteen years ago, or that there had been a third party present.”
“But surely Dupin told you...,” Chapelain began—and then shut up abruptly, not so much because it was obvious that Dupin had not told me what he thought I ought to know, but because he had realized that he could not tell me either; the information had evidently come from his patient, and was thus protected by the veil of confidentiality.
“Did you deliberately leave a seat in your own box empty?” I took the risk of asking.
The question was aimed at Chapelain, but it was the lady who answered.
“Our intended companion is slightly indisposed,” she said. There was a slight edge of sarcasm in her voice. The masked woman was not showing any obvious signs of physical illness, but there was definitely a certain strain in her attitude and her voice. I thought that she might perhaps be nervous, in spite of her determination to appear calm—more fearful than expectant, I guessed. I knew that I had taken impertinence far enough already, however, and could not possibly raise the subject of her possible anxiety. Chapelain was, in any case, eager to change the subject
“I assume that you did not invite Saint-Germain to your box either?” he said, bluntly.
“I certainly did not,” I replied, “and I apologize for having unwittingly permitted him to use it in order to spy on Madame. A braver man would have thrown him out on his ear.”
“A less polite man, perhaps,” said Chapelain. “I don’t blame you—but I would not like you to take the wrong inference. He was not spying on Madame.”
I stopped myself querying that statement just in time, as my fledgling talent for education caused me to glance at the empty chair. Saint-Germain had been disappointed because the person he had hoped to see in the box was not here. Who could it possibly have been? I had an inkling—but that was certainly not a question I could ask Chapelain.
I was tempted to fish for more information about the mysterious Thibodeaux, but it was neither the time nor the place—and, as if to confirm that, the bell rang to request the audience to take their seats again. I bowed to the lady, shook Chapelain’s hand, and apologized for having disturbed them. Neither made any reply, thus suggesting that I really had disturbed them, and that they would rather I had not done so. A glance across the auditorium told me that Dupin had not arrived. His unavoidable delay had obviously been more protracted than he had hoped.
As I opened the door to the box, however, I almost collided with someone coming in—a young woman wearing a domino identical to that of the woman who was still in her seat. In spite of the mask, I recognized her immediately; it was Jana Valdemar.
Because her head was down and the range was too close, she cannot have seen anything, to begin with, but my stereotypical black jacket, shirt-front, and cravat.
“I’m truly sorry, Pierre,” she said “But I feel a little bet...oh!”
She had looked up. Evidently, she had not only realized her error but had recognized my face. Her exposed cheeks were pink, and she froze, utterly nonplused.
Instinctively—we were, after all, in the corridor of a prestigious theater, where etiquette rules supreme—I bowed. “An understandable mistake, Mademoiselle,” I murmured—and, moved by an irresistible influence, continuing murmuring, with urgent rapidity: “Obviously, since you are masked, I have no idea who you are, but it might interest you to know that the Comte de Saint-Germain is in the house, sitting in the upper gallery on this side of the auditorium. He came into my box uninvited before the performance and stared into this box, but I doubt that he will do it again. If you are discreet, you should be able to remain invisible.”
Then I stepped aside, holding the door open for her. I caught a glimpse of Chapelain standing up inside and looking out, a picture of anguished embarrassment. I nodded to him again, closed the door behind Jana Valdemar, and hurried back to my seat.
As I passed the stairway leading up to the gallery in which I had glimpsed Saint-German, I looked up reflexively. I did not see Saint-Germain, but I did see Lucien Groix standing at the top peering into the gallery as if he were looking for someone. I could not believe that he really had been following the fake Comte, given that he did, indeed, have agents to do that sort of thing for him, but he was nevertheless there. Why? Clearly, in spite of the fact that the regime and the administration were falling apart, Monsieur Groix still had time to “waste” at the theater.
