The shyness of the lad—I was almost saying his innocence—was remarkable. He was petted by his two sisters and his old aunt. He was a little over twenty-one years of age and looked eighteen. He had a small, fair mustache, beautiful blue eyes and a complexion like a girl’s.
Philippe was very proud of Raoul and pleased to foresee a glorious career for his junior in the navy in which one of their ancestors had held the rank of admiral. Philippe wanted to show him Paris, with all its luxurious and artistic delights. Philippe himself had a character that was very well-balanced in work and pleasure alike; and he was incapable of setting his brother a bad example. He took him with him wherever he went. He even introduced him to the foyer of the ballet.
On that evening, Philippe, after applauding the Daae, turned to Raoul and saw that he was quite pale.
“Don’t you see,” said Raoul, “that the woman’s fainting?”
“You look like fainting yourself,” said the count. “What’s the matter?”
But Raoul had recovered himself and was standing up.
“Let’s go and see,” he said, “she never sang like that before.”
The count gave his brother a curious smiling glance and seemed quite pleased. They were soon at the door leading to the stage. Raoul tore his gloves without knowing what he was doing.
They reached the stage. Raoul was leading the way, feeling that his heart no longer belonged to him. Count Philippe followed him with difficulty and smiled. The count was surprised to find that Raoul knew the way. He had never taken him to Christine’s himself and came to the conclusion that Raoul must have gone there alone while the count stayed talking in the foyer with Sorelli.
Postponing his usual visit to Sorelli for a few minutes, the count followed his brother down the passage that led to Daae’s dressing-room and saw that it had never been so crammed as on that evening, when the whole house seemed excited by her success. The doctor of the theater had just arrived at the moment when Raoul entered. Christine opened her eyes. The count and many more remained crowding in the doorway.
“Don’t you think, Doctor, that those gentlemen had better clear the room?” asked Raoul coolly. “There’s no breathing here.”
“You’re quite right,” said the doctor.
And he sent every one away, except Raoul and the maid, who looked at Raoul with eyes of the most undisguised astonishment. She had never seen him before and yet dared not question him; and the doctor imagined that the young man was only acting as he did because he had the right to. The viscount, therefore, remained in the room watching Christine as she slowly returned to life, while even the joint managers, Debienne and Poligny, who had come to offer their sympathy and congratulations, found themselves thrust into the passage among the crowd of dandies. The Comte de Chagny laughed.
He turned to go to Sorelli’s dressing-room, but met her on the way, with her little troop of trembling ballet-girls, as we have seen.
Meanwhile, Christine Daae uttered a deep sigh, which was answered by a groan. She turned her head, saw Raoul and started. She looked at the doctor, on whom she bestowed a smile, then at her maid, then at Raoul again.
“Monsieur,” she said, “who are you?”
“Mademoiselle,” replied the young man, kneeling on one knee and pressing a fervent kiss on the diva’s hand, “I am the little boy who went into the sea to rescue your scarf.”
Christine again looked at the doctor and the maid; and all three began to laugh.
Raoul turned very red and stood up.
“Mademoiselle,” he said, “since you are pleased not to recognize me, I should like to say something to you in private, something very important.”
“When I am better, do you mind?” And her voice shook.
“Yes, you must go,” said the doctor, with his pleasantest smile. “Leave me to attend to mademoiselle.”
“I am not ill now,” said Christine suddenly, with strange and unexpected energy.
She rose and passed her hand over her eyelids.
“Thank you, Doctor. I should like to be alone. Please go away, all of you. Leave me. I feel very restless this evening.”
The doctor tried to make a short protest, but he thought the best remedy was not to thwart her.
And he went away, saying to Raoul, outside:
“She is not herself tonight. She is usually so gentle.”
Then he said good night and Raoul was left alone. This part of the theater was now deserted. Raoul felt a terrible pain at his heart and he wanted to speak to Daae without delay.
Suddenly the dressing-room door opened and the maid came out, carrying bundles. He stopped her and asked how her mistress was. The woman laughed and said that she was quite well, but that he must not disturb her, for she wished to be left alone. And she passed on. One idea filled Raoul’s burning brain: of course, Daae wished to be left alone for him! Had he not told her that he wanted to speak to her privately?
Hardly breathing, he went up to the dressing-room and, with his ear to the door to catch her reply, prepared to knock. But his hand dropped. He had heard a man’s voice in the dressing-room:
“Christine, you must love me!”
And Christine’s voice, infinitely sad and trembling, as though accompanied by tears, replied:
“How can you talk like that? When I sing only for you!”
Raoul leaned against the panel to ease his pain. His heart, which had seemed gone for ever, returned to his breast and was throbbing loudly. Surely, if his heart continued to make such a noise, they would hear it inside, they would open the door and the young man would be turned away in disgrace. What a position for a Chagny! To be caught listening behind a door!
The man’s voice spoke again: “Are you very tired?”
“Oh, tonight I gave you my soul and I am dead!” Christine replied.
“Your soul is a beautiful thing, child,” replied the grave man’s voice, “and I thank you. No emperor ever received so fair a gift. The angels wept tonight.”
Raoul heard nothing after that. Nevertheless, he did not go away, but he went to the dark corner, determined to wait for the man to leave the room. At one and the same time, he had learned what love meant, and hatred. He knew that he loved. He wanted to know whom he hated. To his great astonishment, the door opened and Christine Daae appeared, wrapped in furs, with her face hidden in a lace veil, alone. She closed the door behind her, but Raoul observed that she did not lock it. She passed him. He did not even follow her with his eyes, for his eyes were fixed on the door, which did not open again.
When the passage was once more deserted, he crossed it, opened the door of the dressing-room, went in and shut the door. He found himself in absolute darkness.
“There is some one here!” said Raoul, with his back against the closed door, in a quivering voice. “What are you hiding for?”
All was darkness and silence. Raoul heard only the sound of his own breathing.
“You shan’t leave this until I let you!” he exclaimed. “If you don’t answer, you are a coward! But I’ll see you!”
And he struck a match. The blaze lit up the room. There was no one in the room! He went into the dressing-closet, opened the cupboards, hunted about. Nothing!
“Look here!” he said, aloud. “Am I going mad?”
He went out, not knowing what he was doing nor where he was going. He found himself at the bottom of a staircase, down which, behind him, a procession of workmen were carrying a sort of stretcher, covered with a white sheet.
“Which is the way out, please?” he asked of one of the men.
“Straight in front of you, the door is open. But let us pass.”
Pointing to the stretcher, he asked mechanically: “What’s that?”