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
