Unmasqued

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 Ecole Navale Imperiale," 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 Daae 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 Daae 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.