A/N: I was reading the Leroux novel, (my favorite version of the poto story) and I came to the tail end of the book in which Christine is instructed to choose between the scorpion and the grasshopper. She ends up trusting Erik's word that the grasshopper will bring disaster upon the opera house and turns the scorpion to save everybody's lives. What if Erik did not tell Christine of the consequences of turning the grasshopper?... Would she choose differently? For the most part, I stuck very closely to the Leroux plot, but I added a few details and cut some parts out. As for the ending …well, you'll see.
Please read and review!
The Grasshopper—Hops Jolly High
"Holy angel in heaven blessed, my spirit longs with thee to rest…"
The splendid voice of Christine Daae seemed to fill every inch of the grand Paris Opera House, enveloping each heart within the building into a whirlwind of sublime emotion. The audience members actually forgot for the moment, where they were, and instead took in the beautiful Marguerite who stood before them, arms outstretched and eyes lifted heavenward, as she made her invocation to the angels. So entranced were they, that when the gas lighting of the stage was suddenly extinguished, and the great theatre was plunged into darkness, some believed that Christine Daae had indeed been heard by the angels to whom she sang, and had been spirited away to heaven.
Only after a few moments of stunned silence, did chaos begin to reign. For, as the lights sprang into life once more, the prima donna was nowhere to be seen.
Mere seconds before she had been standing plain as day in the center of the stage, and now she had simply vanished—seemingly into thin air, as though the darkness had taken her with it when it had fled the stage.
In his box, Raoul was frantically gesturing towards the stage, mindlessly yelling out Christine's name, near tears. His brother attempted to calm him, but Raoul was not to be pacified.
"Christine! Christine! Oh dear God…where has she gone?"
Then a terrible thought struck him. Erik.
Madame Giry, who stood in her place near box five, found her thoughts straying to Erik as well. She was the only one in the opera house, (besides perhaps the Persian) who had ever communicated with the infamous Opera Ghost, and she felt her heart sink. Where had Christine gone, and with whom? At first, she considered the likelihood of the viscount having whisked her away to safety, but that hope was dashed when her gaze fell upon Raoul, looking broken, and frantically calling his love's name. There was no question then as to who had orchestrated this fantastic abduction…it must be Erik.
The Persian, was a man whom most people knew little of, having only ever observed his comings and goings about the opera house. Many people had their theories of course, as to what prompted him to spend so much time at the opera house when he had no discernable reason to be there. However, nobody seemed to know the truth about him, and they avoided him as much as possible. The most superstitious of the workers at the opera house, including the stage manager, and all the silly young ballet rats, proclaimed that the Persian had "the evil eye" and claimed that to encounter him was ill luck. It was not uncommon for someone to hastily touch their crucifix when passing him, but the Persian had never shown any signs of disliking such treatment. He treated most of the workers at the opera house with indifference; nobody spoke to him, and he spoke to no one. He was known for the magnificent jade colour of his eyes, and for his ever-present Astrakhan cap.
Even though it appeared that the Persian did not have any real reason to prowl the opera house, the reality of the matter was that he indeed had an excellent purpose for being there. He had taken it upon himself to supervise the doings of his friend, (if he could be called so) the Phantom of the Opera. The Persian had known Erik for many years, and he alone knew Erik's' tricks and secrets. He also knew of Erik's strange infatuation with the charming young singer, Christine Daae. This apparent love affair had given the Persian great cause to be nervous, as he had never before known Erik to take such an interest in anyone. The fact that he had been exercising his great power over the managers in order to further Christine's career, was not only completely uncharacteristic of Erik's nature, but it was a completely selfless act; something the Persian had not known Erik was capable of. Oh, the Persian understood full well that Erik was not a monster to the core of his soul, but he was aware of Erik's growing madness, and of his murderous tendencies. For years, the Persian, otherwise known as the Daroga, had been Erik's conscience, chastising him for the various crimes he had committed over the years.
Why, you may well ask, did Erik listen to the word of someone who believed his conduct to be monstrous and shameful? Was not Erik's pride too great to listen to the Daroga's council? It might have been, except for one detail…the Persian had saved Erik's life in the past, and Erik owed the Daroga much for his services.
Erik had been sentenced to execution in Persia, many years before the time of this story, for a reason which the Daroga found unjust. Therefore, he had taken it upon himself to help Erik escape.
SO, Erik had run for his life, and had ended up in Paris, where he had helped to construct the Paris Opera House. Unbeknownst to his fellow contractors, Erik's artistic mind had taken over once more, and he had built for himself a haven of sorts, beneath the cellars of the opera house, where he might live out the remainder of his days, shielded from the hatred, cruelty and burning scorn of the world.
Erik had sworn an oath to the Persian, promising to cease committing murders; a practice he had turned to a kind of grotesque art. The Persian had come to Paris to keep watch and ensure that Erik kept his oath. However, to the Daroga's sorrow, Erik had broken his oath, and the Daroga had also had the misfortune to come very close to being Erik's prey one horrible day. He could still remember it with perfect clarity…
The Persian stood on the far edge of the lake, surveying the scene before him. The little boat Erik used to navigate the waters that separated his underground lair from the rest of the opera house was tied nearby, bumping gently against the bank. Moving cautiously, the Daroga eased himself into the boat, freed it, and proceeded to row across the lake, intent upon confronting Erik about the disappearance of Christine Daae, during her fortnight of captivity.
Suddenly, a divine sort of singing broke the heavy silence of the lake, and the shocked Persian leaned dangerously over the side of the boat, wishing to investigate the source of the beautiful music. It seemed to be coming, as absurd as this notion was, from the dark water below him.
Intrigued, the Persian leaned even farther over the side, only to cry out in terror as a pair of hellishly strong arms reached up out of the water, and grasped the flailing body of the Daroga. The demon under the water began to drag the Daroga's body under, attempting to drown him.
It was fortunate that Erik had heard the Persian's strangled cry, and had recognized him in time. Instead of feeling himself sink deeper into the icy water, the Persian felt his head break the surface, and he felt the arms around him hold him carefully so that he could breathe. Erik carried the Persian back to the bank, and laid him gently upon the ground.
The poor Daroga, shaking and spluttering, took in the scene and struggled to regain his bearings. Then, Erik spoke, beautiful voice laden with sarcasm.
"Daroga! I was not expecting you! What a delight!"
Groaning, the Persian managed to stand, swaying slightly but thankfully keeping his balance.
"Erik, what in the name of Allah were you doing? From whence came that odd music? Had it not been me, would you have drowned whatever poor soul had dared to approach your home? And what of Christine Daae? What have you done to her?"
Erik held up a hand, effectively silencing the flow of questions flooding from the Persian's mouth.
"Ah Daroga, so many questions. It is a true pity then, that I cannot answer them. Be on your way Daroga, and do not attempt this foolish act again. I may not be so gracious as to rescue your miserable hide next time."
"You swore to me Erik—no more murders! This is clearly a death trap! You have not been keeping your promise to me Erik. I saved your life, did I not? Or have you forgotten?"
Erik sighed deeply, then fixed his friend with a weary gaze, as though the Daroga were a particularly irritating insect that he longed to step on.
"Tell me Daroga, what is an oath—but a promise made to be broken? Regardless, I have committed no murders. What murders have I committed Daroga?"
"Joseph Buquet! The chandelier!"
"Joseph Buquet? The fool merely suffered a rather tragic accident. As for the chandelier, it was old, Daroga. It simply fell of its own accord. I had nothing to do with it—although, it did add considerable dramatic effect!"
And here Erik laughed; a strange, mad, hysterical laughter, that sent chills up and down the Persian's spine, and made him wish for death at that moment. For surely Erik could only have the darkest and most horrific plans laid out for the future, to make him laugh so. His thoughts snapped back to the subject of the poor innocent young woman Erik was keeping locked up in his home.
"What of Christine Daae, Erik? What have you done with her?"
"Done, Daroga? I have not done a thing to her. I assure you that Miss Daae has been made very comfortable, and she will return to me Daroga…I know she will. Of her own free will will she come back, Daroga, because she loves me…yes, she loves this monster, this poor unhappy gargoyle that lives in this underground hell. She loves me for myself you know, she loves her poor unhappy Erik—"
To the alarm of the Persian, Erik proceeded to rave in such a manner for several minutes, with a strange ecstasy in his face. Never had the Daroga seen such dark, terrifying joy and adoration in Erik's eyes. It gave him a terrible feeling of foreboding; when Erik had cause for joy, others usually had cause for lamentation.
"What are you plotting, Erik? You must release the girl! She is innocent, and you could only destroy her in your world of darkness. You cannot imprison her thus Erik, and expect her to love you as you say she does. Release her, monster, and leave her be."
At this, Erik straightened, for he now sat on the edge of the boat which he had retrieved from the middle of the lake.
"Oh, Christine is no prisoner of mine, Daroga. She and I, we will join together in marriage very soon, but before that joyous time, I shall set her free…and you will see her for yourself Daroga. She will be free and she will return to her Erik…because I am loved Daroga, loved for myself! You will see Daroga, with your own eyes, you will see Christine return to me, and then Daroga, oh then we will be married. I have prepared the wedding mass, such a gay mass it shall be!"
With this exclamation, Erik burst into song, singing with all his great might; angelic voice reverberating off the walls of the underground lair, loosing his sublime yet infinitely horrifying joy.
Then Erik had stopped singing at last, and said quietly, "Now Daroga, I have tolerated you long enough. Go upon your way Daroga, and do not meddle in my affairs again!"
Turning his back upon the Persian, Erik retrieved the pole the Daroga had dropped, and began to row himself across the lake, towards his home, towards Christine.
Shuddering once more at the memory, the daroga pulled himself together and began to assess the situation at hand. Yes, Christine had come back, and she had indeed returned to Erik, quite undeniably of her own free will. But the Daroga still could not bring himself to believe that poor Christine had actually grown to love such a monster as Erik, despite the nature of his divine voice, and the obvious adoration with which he regarded her. He doubted whether anything could make her see past the mask, especially since Erik was half mad and heading towards taking leave of all his senses. Erik had always been eccentric, but who wouldn't be under the circumstances—Erik had not lived out an easy existence. Still, he had turned out as the Daroga had feared; a cruel genius who used his talents for manipulation and extortion. Now, there was no question as to who had removed Christine Daae from her place on the stage, for nobody else would attempt such an ostentatious method of abduction—Erik.
Christine Daae herself, had not been expecting the sudden interruption of the opera in which she was performing. She was under the impression that Erik would want to hear her sing the entire thing, and had counted upon that fact when she had formulated her plans to escape with Raoul directly after the performance. Now, those plans were hopelessly shattered.
She had gone against Raoul's advice, and determined to leave only after she had sung for Erik one final time. She knew that departing without giving him that last gift would surely kill the unfortunate man in the most brutal and painful way. For it would be false to assume that Christine Daae hated Erik. No—she could never hate Erik, no matter what he had done or would continue to do. Her gentle heart would not allow her to despise the demon who had made her souls soar with delight, who had made her weep with despair, who had seduced and tempted her with his music, and who had taken advantage of her innocence, not in the physical way, but in the emotional one. Still, knowing all this, Christine could not bring herself to detest the man who had done all these things, for when Erik looked at her, a strange, pained love shone in his yellow eyes, a love which could not be denied or ignored. Acknowledging this, and also acknowledging the fact that Erik had only, in his twisted manner, tried to help her and secure her love, Christine resolved to be kind to him in this last act of singing her part through to the end.
The last thing she had expected to feel during her aria were a pair of strong arms twining themselves about her waste, and the sudden darkness was equally unexpected.
Christine had tried to scream but heard a soft whisper "Hush" in her ear, before the floor vanished and she was falling…
Now, she stood pacing her little bedroom in Erik's lair, refusing to vacate it and be in his presence. Most of her deep feelings of sadness and pity for her poor unhappy Erik had been shoved aside by her righteous anger. Normally an exceedingly gentle and meek soul, Christine was driven to desperate measures. As soon as she heard Erik leave the underground lair, for what reason, she neither knew nor cared, she decided that she would not consent to be his bride, as he had requested, and she only desired a way out of this.
Cowardly it might be, but Christine felt that committing suicide was the only way out for her tortured soul, and she rushed frantically about the room, seeking something sharp or dangerous in any way with which to end her life.
Finding nothing, she let out a heart-wrenching sob and sank to the floor groaning. Was she doomed to live out her days with this wretched monster, which was so twisted and cloaked in madness and darkness that she could no longer reach his soul?
An idea came to her and, suppressing slight nausea at what she was about to do, ran directly for the wall of her room, striking her forehead violently against the unyielding stone. Fueled by her anger and despair, she pushed aside the pain and repeated the violent action, ramming her forehead again and again into the wall until the blood ran freely down her face in torrents, turning her world scarlet.
She was readying herself to make another assault on the wall when she froze in terror.
Footsteps could be heard behind her, and suddenly Erik was there, turning her roughly to face him, forcing her to show him her bloodied face, and bitterly wishing she had been able to complete the task before he had discovered her.
Erik was livid; his voice was like angry thunder as he spoke her name.
"Christine!"
Then he suddenly became eerily calm, his entire demeanor shifting so dramatically that Christine was momentarily confused, and she was sure that the change in his expression was only due to the blinding pain in her forehead and her subsequent disorientation.
"No Christine—this is not the way. No, I'm afraid you cannot escape…not quite yet. No, my love, you shall have to wait until eleven o'clock tomorrow evening before you may allow death to take you. We shall die together you and I, and by your hand too. No—be patient, Christine. Death will come soon enough. Now, come my love I will tend to you."
Christine made no protest as she was swept up in Erik's arms and carried into another room, she did not know which, for she had closed her eyes and felt nothing but pain and despair. She lay quiet, not making a sound as Erik fetched a basin of clean water and bandages. With all the tenderness in the world, he rested Christine's throbbing head upon his knee, and proceeded to cleanse her face of blood.
He patched her up as best he could, and then carried her back to her own room. By that time, Christine was slightly more alert, and the pain had lessened a little. Enough for her to clear her head somewhat, which was no blessing, for now she was forced to live through the next few hours of horror that awaited her.
Erik, determined to prevent Christine from harming herself anew, bound her wrists and ankles securely, and stood before her as she lay upon her bed, not daring to move or speak.
"Now, Christine, you have a decision to make. I have given you time enough to decide between myself and that accursed viscount. I shall give you until eleven o'clock tomorrow evening to make your choice. I will leave you to your reflections now. Until eleven o'clock tomorrow evening, Christine!"
With that last powerful statement, he whirled around and swept from the room, seeming to leave the house again, going where? And for how long? She did not know. She only hoped he would allow her some time…some time to calm herself and decide what was to be done. She hated to think what would happen if she refused to be Erik's wife. There were an unending list of horrible plans he could have concocted in the light of such a happening, and she envisioned him killing her and Raoul both, in some crazed act of furious revenge. The man was mad after all, and was a crooning angel, a powerful phantom, and a raving lunatic by turns. She found herself half wishing for the crawling, groveling Erik whom she had known during her two weeks of captivity. His worshipful attitude had terrified her then, but it was better than this awful, cold, unpredictable beast. For Erik reminded her of nothing so much, as an animal in his rage. In those moments, he was the true Phantom of the Opera, whom all feared. And yet… when he had bandaged her wounds, cradling her in his arms, he had been her angel of music once more, showing her nothing but love and gentleness. How could one man have so many conflicting personalities?
Although he was not mysterious or thrilling as Erik was, Christine found herself longing for her bright, safe Raoul. His embrace had always been warm and comforting, albeit lacking in the passion of Erik's. His smile was unfailing, and he had an innocent love for her, free of the kind of frightening adoration that Erik's held. Oh how she cursed herself for refusing to listen to his voice of reason; perhaps she could have avoided this entire mess. However, a nagging voice in the back of her head told her that Erik would likely have hunted them both down. She believed, at this point, surrounded by such a dark atmosphere, that Erik was truly capable of anything. Raoul's words came back to her then: "You are making a ghost of him". She shook her head, trying to remind herself that Erik was a mere mortal man, with no supernatural power of any kind.
As her thoughts lingered upon her fiancé, she was sure she'd imagined the voice of Raoul, frantically calling her name from within another room.
"Fool!" she scorned herself aloud, annoyed at her own wishful thinking.
"Christine! Christine, please! You must help us!"
And then another voice, only very vaguely familiar to her ears: "Mademoiselle Daae! We are in the torture chamber! You must assist us!"
The torture chamber? Raoul? And who was that other man? Then it dawned on her…the Persian. Now she remembered running into him when she and Raoul had attempted to make their way back to her dressing room, and a man had stopped them and instructed them to go a different way. But what on earth were Raoul and the Persian doing in Erik's house? More worrisome still, what was the torture chamber? A grizzly invention of Erik's no doubt. Listening closely to ensure that Erik was not near, Christine called back to them shakily.
"Raoul! Monsieur! Where are you? I don't understand…what is the torture chamber?"
"It is the room just off the room you are currently in, Mademoiselle. You should be able to see the door which leads to where we are. We cannot go back the way we came, and we are trapped. You must get the key and free us. We have come to rescue you, but we cannot do so unless we are freed."
The Persian's voice issued from somewhere to Christine's left. Turning her face towards the locked door which Erik had never consented to open for her, Christine let out a moan of despair. Her love, and this innocent man were trapped in Erik's lair, and she, bound as she was, was unable to save them from their fate.
"I know where the key is; it is in the little bag of life and death. But…but I cannot release you from that room."
"Christine, darling, you must! We cannot go back the way we came and we need you to open the door. Is Erik in the house?"
"Lord no!" Christine cried, shivering at the very thought.
"If he were, he would have heard our conversation. I do not know where he has gone, and I cannot say when he will return, but he will surely kill you both if he finds you here. I cannot release you I tell you. Erik has tied me up!"
Raoul let loose a furious growl, and the Persian went white, as he realized there was no hope for any of them.
"Christine, why has he bound you?"
"Because—because I tried to kill myself. He found me with my face covered in blood, and then he tied my wrists and ankles so that I would not be able to do so again."
The Persian felt as though the weight of the entire world had suddenly chosen to settle itself upon his shoulders, and he sank to his knees in the dark room of mirrors. The viscount, unaware of the true power of the torture chamber, was not yet panicking. He still assumed that they were trapped in a room that did not open from the inside, but that they faced nothing more sinister than that. The Persian, however, knew the nature of Erik's torture chamber, and what would happen should Erik put it to use. All they could do now was hope for some monumental miracle; something that would keep Erik from discovering their presence in his torture chamber, so that he would not activate the mechanisms that would start the tortures. For if he did that, Raoul and the Persian would surely die, and Christine would be left to the most miserable fate the Daroga could imagine. He had no doubt that Erik loved Christine deeply, and that he would never harm her, but he also knew that Christine was a creature of the light and warmth, while Erik was a lover of darkness. How long could she survive in such conditions? It would only be a matter of time before either her health, or her mind failed her. It was simply a matter of which would give way first.
The most pressing matter however, was silencing the viscount, and calming him enough that he would not give them away. The Persian concluded that their only hope for survival inside this room, would be Erik's continued ignorance of their whereabouts. As long as he had no reason to activate the tortures, they would live.
Unbidden, an idea leaped from the back of the Daroga's weary mind, and he snatched at it excitedly. If Christine could somehow convince Erik to loose her bonds, perhaps she could fetch the key when Erik was wrapped in his music or some other such absorption, and she could free them. The Persian had wisely armed both himself and Raoul with pistols before making the journey to Erik's lair, and therefore Erik would be at a very slight disadvantage if his adversaries had weapons that could not only kill him, but could also protect their necks from the Punjab lasso.
"Mademoiselle daae, not all is lost! You must convince Erik to untie you. Tell him your bonds give you pain, and he will surely relent. Remember…he adores you, and it is unlikely that he will deny you anything should you ask for it."
Christine heard, but just as she was about to respond, she heard the sound of Erik's return and immediately began to panic.
"He comes! You must both stay quiet! He cannot know you are there. I will do what I can only pray you, stay silent."
No sooner were the words out of her mouth, then the door of her room opened and Erik stepped into the room, dripping wet, to Christine's amazement. Her fright forced her to give a little cry, for she was terrified that Raoul and the Persian would give themselves away and be at the mercy of the opera ghost.
"Oh forgive me. Have I startled you, Christine?"
"No, Erik."
"Why did you make that sound? You sounded terrified."
"No—no, you did not frighten me Erik. Oh Erik, please…please, will you consent to untie me? These ropes pain me!"
Christine did her best to push back her fear and replace it with a pleading manner. She could not let Erik see that she was too afraid. Being the clever man that he was, he would certainly become suspicious if he noticed she was too jumpy.
"I cannot do that, you know I cannot, Christine. Heaven knows what you will do."
The pain in his voice when he said this made Christine's heart melt. How forlorn he looked as he remembered her attempt to take her life only hours ago. The Persian's words echoed in her head, 'remember, he adores you'. Feeling slimy and manipulative, Christine beseeched him once more in a soft, wheedling tone that she suspected would touch his heart.
"Oh Erik … I beg you to grant this request for me. I am in pain, and besides, you have given me till eleven o'clock. I swear to you that I will not attempt to harm myself again."
Indecision flickered in Erik's amber eyes, while the Persian, only able to use his ears, trembled slightly, wondering what the outcome would be. This in essence, was life and death.
With a sigh, Erik relented.
"Very well; I will free you."
Erik crossed over to Christine and began, with deft fingers, to loosen the knots that held Christine captive, talking—well, raving all the while.
"Oh Christine!" Erik sucked in his breath as he pulled the cords from Christine's wrists and examined the red, chafed flesh beneath.
"Oh my love, your wrists! I have hurt you…oh my Christine, you must forgive me. I should be killed for such an offense."
Then, Erik noticed Christine's curious stare focused upon his wet clothing.
"Ah, yes—I am all wet. My dear, it is raining quite fiercely outside. I regret that I had to leave you all alone here and go out to be wet and ruffled like this. I am in quite a state, it seems…it is the siren's doing, you know. Ignorant fool! He shall never ring my bell again! No…not anymore. It is no fault of mine that he is gone, no it is the siren's fault, you see. Not my doing but that of the siren's. If the other one wasn't such a hopeless idiot—but there you are, you may turn 'round now. Better, my dear?"
Christine flexed her stiff muscles and nodded.
"Thank you Erik," she murmured dejectedly. Now that she was free, she would have to somehow extract the key to the chamber without Erik noticing what she had done. Not an easy task, when Erik seemed content to stand and watch her.
Beginning to despair, Christine looked away from Erik and attempted vainly to interest herself in a particular spot on the wall, mind reeling. What on Earth would she do now?
Behind the walls of the torture chamber, the Persian waited patiently, but Raoul, not quite understanding all that was at stake, was growing restless, and seemed willing to start firing random shots if it would break the monotony. The Daroga did his utmost to convey wordlessly, that Raoul must remain silent, or their lives were forfeit. He cursed himself for unwittingly leading this poor young man, who only wished to save his love from the clutches of the opera ghost, into this horrid trap. To his dismay however, it looked as though Raoul would soon crack under the pressure, and make some sound that would capture Erik's attention.
Fate momentarily decided to smile upon them however, since Erik, suddenly turning to exit the room said quietly, "I will go and sing his requiem mass."
Christine wondered vaguely what Erik was rambling on about, but she could not make sense of his words. The things he had murmured while untying her had also been beyond her comprehension, and so she gave up trying to understand him, and instead formed a plan in her mind. She must obtain that key! But now…how to get her hands on it.
Erik sat before his organ in the next room and began to sing a terribly dark, but intoxicating requiem, and the music drew Christine towards his thunderous voice. The power his voice had over her was frightening, but she managed to keep her wits. As she slipped into his dark bedroom, she saw the little bag of life and death perched innocently upon the far edge of the organ. If she could just get her hands on it—Erik was so engrossed in his music that he surely would not notice its absence. Just in case however, Christine chose to divide Erik's attention, so that he would be even less likely to suspect her of what she was about to do. If she pretended to be enthralled by his splendid song, perhaps he would be busy watching her pleasure, and being entranced by the sight of her willingness to be close to him, and he would not have thought for anything else for a short while.
Again, cursing herself for her manipulation of this poor man's heart, Christine walked up to Erik, knelt by the side of his seat before the organ, and smiled with rapture up into his masked face.
Erik, though startled, relished the idea that Christine was partly his; that her soul belonged to him as much as it did to that boy, even if only because of the music. Laying her head against his knee, she closed her eyes and tried to appear enchanted by the music surrounding her. Swiftly, she reached out and plucked the little bag of life and death from its place on the organ, and tucked it hastily out of sight. Remaining where she was, she listened to more of Erik's requiem, but then pretended to come back to herself. She stood, and walked dreamily out of the room. Erik did not follow but continued to play, a warm glow growing slowly in his ravaged soul at the thought of his Christine returning just a portion of the love he offered her.
Tears welling up unbidden into Christine's wide blue eyes, she walked purposefully towards the door of the torture chamber, but stopped dead in her tracks…
The organ music suddenly became a blend of discordant notes, and Erik's singing turned into a kind of angry chant.
"What…have…you …done…with…my…bag?"
The words were uttered in the most menacing way possible, and Christine was tempted to start banging her head against the wall again. Resisting the urge, she turned to find Erik striding into the room, looking murderous. Contrary to his blazing yellow eyes, his tone was one of forced calm.
"Give me back my bag, Christine."
Drawing upon strength she did not know she possessed, Christine said flatly, "No."
"I beg your pardon?"
She shivered, trembling slightly. How did he have the ability to make a normally innocent question sound like a death threat?
"I said no, Erik. Not until you show me what is in this room. You have never shown me before, I wish to see inside of it."
Grasping at straws, Christine tried to adopt a cheerful demeanor, hoping desperately to fool the confused Erik.
"Why must you know what is in that room, Christine?"
"Oh, you know how I am. I'm very curious Erik. Please, indulge me, will you not?"
"Curiosity killed the cat Christine. You would do better to remember that."
Erik's voice carried a warning in it, and the Persian began to fear for her safety. Was Erik truly capable of harming her if she pressed him? The Persian then heard Christine's yelp of pain, and he suspected that Erik had gotten the bag back.
Raoul could not handle the stress and a cry escaped him. The Persian resisted the urge to hit him, knowing it wouldn't do any good, but he cursed the viscount for his carelessness.
"What was that?" asked Erik sharply.
"What—what was what, Erik?"
"I heard someone cry out—cry out from the torture chamber did you not hear it?"
"No! I heard nothing, Erik. Are you certain? Perhaps you are imagining things!"
Christine's laugh was a little too hysterical to be genuine. Erik was no fool, and he realized his Christine was extraordinarily pale, even for her, and that she was trembling slightly.
"You are nearly hysterical, Christine. Why, you are practically shaking. White as a sheet, my dear. You look rather nervous…you're lying." It was not a question, but a statement. He knew.
Christine's hopeless silence was enough for Erik.
"So I am not delusional then, or at least, not quite so delusional as you wished to make me believe. So, there is someone in the torture chamber, isn't there my love? Someone you know, perhaps? The one you pledged your devotion to, I gather."
"There is nobody in that room Erik. Please, come away from it."
"But you were so curious to know about the room before. Why the change, Christine? Wouldn't you like to see? Here! Come, I will show you."
"No Erik. I really don't care anymore. I don't want to know. No Erik, let us get away from this room. Please Erik, I'm no longer curious, it has passed. I don't care anymore Erik, please!"
Ignoring her protests, Erik went over to a set of folding steps and dragged them over to a certain spot against the wall.
"Christine, I do not need to open the door for you to see what is happening inside my torture chamber. Come, there is a little window which I can light, and you will be able to see inside the room. Come now, my darling, come and look. Tell me what is happening inside the chamber."
When Christine made no move to climb the steps before her, Erik casually grasped her waist and set her upon the top step. Too shocked to speak, Christine just waited, the suspense unbearable, while Erik moved away from her.
Suddenly, a portion of the wall slid aside and a window seemed to materialize in front of Christine at eye level. She peered into the darkness of the room beyond, and said without thinking twice about it, "There is nobody inside, dear."
At this, Erik laughed; a chilling laugh that made Christine tremble. "Christine, how can you expect to see in the dark? Wait, I shall assist you."
Moments later, the room was flooded with light.
The viscount was so surprised by the sudden brightness, that he made a startled noise and stepped backward. The Daroga had been expecting it, though the bright light caused him to blink rapidly. 'Oh Allah, all is surely lost now.' For the Persian was aware of what happened when the torture chamber was illuminated.
As he and the viscount examined their surroundings, the Daroga was filled with cold dread at the familiar room. He had seen the like of this chamber before, uncounted times in Persia. Countless pitiful souls had met their end in this room, and the Daroga was certain that he and his wild-eyed companion would meet theirs in such a fashion as well.
The walls of the chamber were completely covered by mirrors. Each reflective surface sent light bouncing off yet another surface. In the middle of the room stood a great iron tree, cleverly crafted to resemble an authentic tree in a tropical rain forest. The role of the mirrors all around the walls, was to reflect the image of the singular tree, and multiply it so that it appeared to the occupants of the chamber, that they were surrounded by a rain forest. The bright gas lighting, made several times brighter by the mirrors, served as a substitute for a scorching sun. The whole effect was quite spectacular, if one did not dwell on the fact that the chamber was called a "torture chamber". You may be wondering what is so very torturous about a cleverly crafted illusion. Ah, you have not taken into account the second purpose of that gas lighting. It did not only serve to light up the room, it also served to simulate the blistering heat of the tropical sun. So, picture if you will, the situation the viscount and the Persian found themselves in. They were trapped in a seemingly doorless room, ablaze with light, surrounded by an elaborate illusion of a tropical forest, with the temperature in the room growing dangerously high. You see, the iron tree and the mirrors helped to multiply the power of the heat, as well as the light and number of trees. It was enough to drive any soul that was not accustomed to it, completely mad. As you can imagine, Raoul was overcome with woe, and began running about the little room in a frenzy, slamming violently into the glass of the walls, as he mistook the images for forest glades down which he could run. Both men were perspiring, and the tortures had barely begun.
Christine let out an involuntary gasp as she beheld the newly lighted chamber through the little viewing window. Transfixed, she gazed upon the forest in wonder, pondering how she could be seeing such a thing in the house on the lake.
"Well? What do you see Christine my love?" Erik inquired from behind her.
"A forest! But how—"
"Ah, Christine, it is an illusion, you see. Here, I will explain it to you. You see an infinite number of trees, but there is really only one iron tree in the middle of the room. The walls are covered in mirrors, you see?"
Forgetting her current pain, anxiety and dread, Christine allowed herself to be impressed by Erik's artistic talents.
"You are a wonderful artist, Erik."
"One might put it that way, I suppose," replied Erik distractedly.
Christine suddenly remembered why she was looking into this magnificent room in the first place.
"Yes, it is a beautiful room, Erik. But there is nobody in it. I see no one."
Erik sighed. "Very well, Christine."
He once again lifted her effortlessly and set her gently on the floor beside him. The viscount chose that moment to call Christine's name in a state of growing panic, and moments later his cry of pain and sorrow was heard as he collided with one of the mirrors. Christine's heart seemed to shatter in her breast, and she had to fight to keep her sobs at bay.
"No one in the torture chamber, eh?"
Erik began to laugh; a horrible sound! O! A sound that was enough to make Christine want to throw herself at his feet and beg him to cease. It was the most chilling sound she had ever heard, and she longed to clap her hands firmly over her ears and run from the room. She would have willingly plunged into the lake, only to escape from the sound of Erik's mad laughter.
The effect of Erik's laughter was minimal inside the torture chamber, as the heat increased and the Daroga did his best to pacify the poor blundering Raoul.
"Christine! Christine! Why must you run from me in this dreaded forest? I see you, darting between the trees, but I cannot find you!" the poor boy cried, throwing himself dejectedly to the floor of the chamber and beginning to weep tears of frustration and longing.
"Monsieur Le Viscount, you must calm down. This is just an illusion…all an illusion. It is not real. There is no forest, no sun. We are in Erik's house…the house on the lake, Monsieur! Listen to me!"
For a moment, the viscount looked into the Persian's eyes, and the Daroga thought he had finally broken through the boy's frenzy. His heart sank though, when Raoul suddenly leapt to his feet with renewed energy, leveled his pistol at one of the mirrors, and fired. The sound of the shot was deafening, and even Erik, who's laughter had finally died away, heard the sound of the pistol firing, and the consequent sound of shattering glass as the bullet destroyed one of the mirrors.
Christine let out a low moan of agony as she heard her fiancé's frightened voice calling out her name again. "Come!" came Erik's harsh voice, and in an unusual show of violence towards Christine, grasped her by the hair and proceeded to drag the young woman out of the room. She dug in her heels and attempted to resist him, but he eventually overpowered her; for truly his strength was remarkable for a man as thin as he, and Christine was not a particularly strong person, even for a woman. She succumbed and allowed Erik to drag her into the next room, away from the torture chamber and the heat that emanated from it…away from the cries of the distraught viscount…away from her last hope.
Once they had reached the next room, Erik suddenly transformed into the angel of music once more. Taking Christine gently by the hand, he led her to a chair and made her to sit down for she "looked rather ill" as he put it. Then, seating himself in a chair opposite her, he softly began to sing. It was not a song she recognized, but it drew her to him the way his voice always had. Forgetting his recent brutality, disregarding the torture he was even now inflicting upon her would-be rescuers, she rose shakily to her feet, crossed the distance between herself and her angel, and perched herself on his lap. Finally, she let her tears fall, and allowed Erik to gather her into his arms in a comforting embrace. Sobs shaking her tiny frame, Christine Daae laid her head against Erik's chest, which vibrated gently from the song he still sang, and for a moment, gave her soul to the man she clung to.
The Persian listened as he heard Erik dragging Christine bodily from her bedroom, and all hope of being released from this hell on Earth was extinguished…unless of course, he could find the door. Thinking quickly, the Persian reasoned that surely the door must open from the inside, the door was merely concealed. If he could find the spring that would release the door perhaps he could yet save them. Telling the Viscount to lie quiet for a while, the Persian began to search methodically for the spot on the smooth glass walls that would trigger the spring that would in turn, open the door. Reassuring the weary viscount whenever he could, the Persian worked on, feeling each mirror from the floor to as high as his fingertips could possibly reach. The Daroga knew that Erik would place the spot no higher than could be reached without assistance; therefore the height would not be beyond the Persian's reach. If he could just find it…
The spell was broken when Erik's song ended for, just as the last note faded, Raoul called Christine's name again, only to be hushed by the Daroga. Still, even from where she sat in Erik's arms, she could hear the boy's cry. Her heart broke for what felt like one time too many, and she looked imploringly up into Erik's face.
"Erik please—" she murmured in a broken whisper.
His face hardened, and he said shortly "No."
Christine slid off his lap and went to sit in her recently vacated chair. Erik felt strangely hollow without the fragile young woman in his arms. He longed to hold her again, but the darkness in him won out, and he stood up abruptly.
"It is half an hour to eleven Christine. You must make your decision, and soon."
Following him meekly back into her little room, Christine collapsed weakly onto the bed, while Erik stood over her.
"I shall leave you to your reflections one last time, Christine. Here," he pointed to the two ebony caskets that stood innocently upon the mantelpiece, "are your choices." He produced a little bronze key and placed it in Christine's hand. "In one of the caskets, you will find the carving of a scorpion, in the other a grasshopper, both cleverly fashioned from Japanese bronze. If, when I return and you have turned the scorpion around, I will assume you have chosen to accept my proposal of marriage. If I find that you have turned the grasshopper, I will take that to mean that you have rejected me, in which case…you shall have your wish Christine. Your life will end then, as will mine. More pleasant than being married to me? Perhaps…remember Christine, the scorpion represents the wedding mass, and the grasshopper the requiem mass, which is not joyous in the least, and the grasshopper hops jolly high."
Turning, he strode briskly away, melting into the darkness beyond her doorway. Christine buried her face in the pillow, and began to cry once again.
Meanwhile, in the sweltering heat of the torture chamber, which was beginning to be unbearable, the Persian worked feverishly, and the viscount lay in a crumpled heap upon the floor, staring into space and occasionally calling out Christine's name. He was no longer terribly coherent, but the Persian sensed that the boy was only reacting to the heat, and that he was not completely lost. Cold comfort though it was, the Persian accepted it as a small blessing in the midst of curses.
The Persian searched and searched, feeling the walls desperately, praying he would find the spring he sought. After what seemed like ours, but was likely only a few minutes, the Daroga's strength failed him, and he fell to the floor of the tropical forest with a groan of defeat. Sensing his despair, Raoul snatched up his pistol, and placed it against his temple, ready to die rather than continue to breathe the scorching air a moment longer. As the Persian lay near the foot of the iron tree, he noticed, hanging in the branches, the Punjab lasso, which was doubtless placed there that whatever poor wretch was forced to bear these terrible tortures might end his own life whenever he wished. It seemed to beckon to the Daroga, and he welcomed the sight of it. Ah…sweet escape from the trials of this cruel life! He made to pull himself to his feet that he might take hold of the lasso, but he halted suddenly as his eyes fell upon the black head of a nail, poking out from the floor of the chamber. Putting a hand to his chest to prevent his heart from beating itself out of his very breast, the Persian reached out and applied pressure to the nail. It yielded.
Rejoicing, the Persian turned swiftly to Raoul, who had released the pistol, and was staring at the trap door now exposed to the two of them, boasting of coolness and darkness.
"I think my friend, that I may have found Erik's cellar. It is not the way out of this accursed place, but it is at least, more bearable."
Some of the lucidity seemed to come back to the unfortunate man, and Raoul pulled himself to his feet with an effort, and dragged himself over to the hole in the floor. The Persian insisted upon descending first, knowing it might well be a snare set for them by the monster.
With a sigh of relief, the Daroga slid down into cool darkness, relishing the absence of the oppressive heat, and felt his feet touch solid ground. Taking the lantern he had brought with him on his way down to Erik's home, he lit it, and surveyed his surroundings. He stood in what did indeed appear to be Erik's cellar. Barrels, barrels and more barrels filled the area, filled, he presumed, with drinking water, and possibly with wine. Erik loved his wine.
"It is safe," he called up to Raoul.
The viscount slid down after his companion, and smiled at the wonderful feeling of relief.
"So…this is his cellar. What a lot of barrels!"
Remembering their wicked thirst, the two men proceeded to pry open one of the barrels in hopes of finding something they could drink. At last, after much effort, they managed it, and, victorious, the viscount reached eagerly with his hands into the barrel.
"Mon dieu! This isn't wine or water. What the hell is this?"
The viscount held out his full hands, and the light from the Persian's lantern fell upon the viscount's cupped hands. He held a powdery substance…and then the Daroga suddenly understood. It was gunpowder. The entire cellar was filled with nothing but barrels upon barrels, of gunpowder. Now the Persian finally understood what Erik had meant when he had said "the grasshopper hops jolly high". It would hop all right, he had no doubt of it. The scorpion must be designed to render the gunpowder harmless, while the grasshopper would surely trigger an explosion of a magnitude that would sufficiently do away with the entire opera house and every human life within it. "Oh Erik…you demon!" cried the Persian furiously, whirling around to face the confused viscount.
"Do you not see? He means to blow up the entire building and kill us all if she refuses him!"
And what could poor Christine do but refuse Erik? What sane woman would ever give her "yes" to one such as Erik? The worst of it was, Christine had no idea what she was setting in motion, and she would not have time to reverse her decision once it was made. She would be singularly responsible for destroying the entire opera house, and she would not even know of the consequences of her actions until it was too late.
"We must warn her!"
The two men darted back up into the heat of the torture chamber and began yelling out for Christine or rather, Raoul cried out to Christine, whilst the Persian beseeched Erik to cease this terrible plan before lives were lost.
They were too late however, for moments later Erik's heavy footsteps could be heard, as he marched into Christine's room.
Christine had been lying upon her bed weeping, and she had struggled with herself. Though she hated to admit it to herself, Christine suddenly found herself wishing she was back in Erik's company. She did not love this new Erik, this mad devil of a man, who sought only to make life miserable for her until blessed death took them both. With shame, she recalled that it was her fault that he wished to die so badly. Had she given him her heart, he would not have been driven to such drastic measures to procure her either as his wife, or no one's wife. She finally realized, that although he frightened her, although he was murderous, terrifying, ruthless and cold, he had a tortured soul, and he had only ever acted out of a great love for her. A love which she suddenly knew, without understanding how or why, that she returned. She wanted to go to him and tell him she would be his living bride, that she would stay with him and repay him for his devotion. Raoul was dear to her, and she supposed she loved him in an innocent sort of way, but she understood that Erik would always hold her soul, and she could never leave him and hope to be happy. She was almost glad to see him as he walked into her room, with his cold hard expression in place, to match the cold hard mask he wore to cover his darkest secret.
She rose, meaning to go over and tell him of her new resolution and the feelings she had just uncovered, when she remembered the scorpion and grasshopper. She had not turned either one, so lost was she in her thoughts.
"So, Christine, you have turned neither the scorpion nor the grasshopper. I told you what I would do should this situation arise. Very well Christine, if that is how you wish it—"
Christine's happiness at seeing Erik faltered as she noticed that his voice no longer carried warmth when he spoke her name. Even at his angriest, Erik had not said her name without feeling. Now he was a shell of a man, cold and resolved.
"Erik—"
"Enough Christine! I have heard enough! I understand…after all, how could I expect an angel to love a devil such as myself? No, no you need not explain yourself Christine. You have made yourself quite clear."
He strode over to the little casket, opened one, and exposed the model of the grasshopper.
"No, Erik, listen. I wish to tell you that I—"
"Cannot love me? I know it Christine. I know you do not wish to marry me. Do not trouble yourself, I shall make this simple for you."
"But Erik, you can't—"
"Enough! At least give me this, Christine, one last moment of quiet…of peace to be here with the one soul I ever cared for. Let me have this moment to myself, with no sound to shatter it."
Christine made a move towards Erik in an effort to stay his hands, just as the Persian and Raoul cried out to him, trying to make him pay attention.
Erik made a sound somewhere between a growl and a moan of pain, and brought Christine to his breast, clasping his love to him in one final embrace. Christine, sensing his weakness, stretched up on tiptoe, and pressed her lips to his in an effort to convey her changed feelings.
Erik, shocked, ecstatic and yet broken all at once, reached out with the fingers of one hand, and turned the grasshopper. Then he tightened his grip on Christine, as he returned her kiss with all the passion he could, anticipating the coming embrace of death, which would be much less pleasant than that of his love's.
There was a strange rumbling sound, followed by an explosive roar which nobody inside the building got the chance to hear.
The Persian died on his feet, in the midst of yelling for Erik to stay his hand. Raoul died upon is knees, in the middle of a prayer to God for deliverance.
Erik and Christine Daae died in each other's embrace, Erik wishing for what might have been, and Christine still half glowing from the new found love they would never be able to share.
FIN