Unmasqued

After the ominous rumble, Carlotta paused, hitching her breath, casting a wary glance behind her… but she was standing far in front of the backdrops, even in front of the proscenium, nearly upon the gaslights that studded the edge of the stage. She picked up and carried the next few notes, even as the grumbling sounded again and a flicker of a shadow blinked over the stage, sending her fuchsia gown into shades of dirty pink.

Faust approached her, and sang his lines.

Carlotta opened her mouth and began to sing her reply:

And a deep languid charm

I feel without alarm

With its melody enwind-

But-it was horrible!

The audience stood as one, gaping at the people around them. The managers turned to each other, clasping the other's forearm, their mouths wide with horror, eyes goggling, jowls shaking.

It was inconceivable… but the last syllable had come from Carlotta's mouth, not as a beautiful, clear note… but as the sound of the croak of a frog.

Her face was the picture of a terrified, bewildered woman. Her hands rose to her throat as if to ascertain whether it was still hers. She looked at Piangi, the man playing Faust, who was staring back at her as though she had grown a second nose.

"Impossible," Richard gasped to his partner. "She has just been singing so perfectly. All night."

"It was an inhuman sound. It must have been… it had to have been a mistake."

"She has sung the most intricate and beautiful notes… How could this be? She has never faltered, in all of her performances."

They turned back to the stage, holding their breaths. Moncharmin noticed to his dismay that the draft seemed to have gotten colder. More sharp and eerie. And the breathing… it was closer. Louder. He swallowed deeply and began to wish quite vehemently that they had not made those jests about refusing to pay the ghost's salary.

The orchestra began to play. The buzzing of the people had risen, and now ebbed back into silence. All waited expectantly.

Carlotta, looking not quite as triumphant as she had appeared earlier, drew in her breath to sing. Richard held his own breath, waiting…

Oh, how strange, like a spell

Does the evening bind me.

"Go on, go on" Richard hissed, his heart beating so hard his fingers jolted on the box's railing.

And a deep, languid-CROAK!

I feel without CROAK! CROAK!

The croaks echoed with hoarse ugliness through the auditorium and Carlotta closed her mouth, clapping her small hands over it as if to push the awful sounds back in. Her eyes bugging, she picked up her skirts and ran offstage as the audience erupted in a mass of whispers and titters.

From behind them, the managers heard a low, rumbling laughter. "The way she sings tonight, 'tis a wonder she doesn't bring down the chandelier!" It was the ghost! Behind them, speaking behind them in the very same box!

Moncharmin and Richard dared not turn to look behind them, but Moncharmin glanced quickly up at the chandelier as if expecting it to tumble to the stage. It swayed gently, but did not appear to be in danger of falling.

"What shall we do now? The show is ruined," he said to Richard.

"He wants Daae to sing. We shall give him Daae, then," the taller man replied, more bravely than he felt, and hoped assiduously that the ghost had heard him and would leave off. He stood at the edge of the box and called out into the auditorium. "Please, ladies and gentlemen… the show will go on. We shall present to you Miss Daae, performing the remainder of the role of Marguerite for your pleasure."

Thus, moments later, due to some quick work on the part of the stage manager and the director, the newest star of the Opera House, Christine Daae, stepped into the circle of light left empty by Carlotta.

She looked angelic and fragile. Her long, dark hair was left unbound and curled in a gentle, delicate swath that hung to the middle of her back. Her pale blue gown was not nearly as ornate and fancy as that of La Carlotta, but it suited her innocence… and clearly displayed the woman inside. The neckline plunged to a deep vee between her breasts, lifted high and steady by her corset. Her long, white arms were bare from the shoulders down; only the narrowest band of blue rosettes formed the sleeves that rested just below the juncture of arm and shoulder. The delicate curve of her collarbone, the dip at the base of her throat, were shown in fine relief by the yellow light above.

But her face. It was her face and voice that captivated the audience. A woman had never sung so purely, so cleanly and perfectly in all the Opera House's history. The rapturous expression on her beautiful countenance bespoke of some ecstasy that was beyond the grasp of the audience, but that clearly moved her. She sang as though she could never stop, as though she would never tire, never run out of words or notes.