In the Chapter Box Five of Gaston Leroux's book, Madame Giry mentions that when she tended to Box Five, 'the voice' would often request a footstool for his lady. She also says that "Some evenings, I find flowers in the box, a rose that must have dropped from his lady's bodice… for he brings a lady with his sometimes; one day, they left a fan behind them." This has always intrigued me. What really happened the fortnight that Christine spent with Erik?

The Ghost's Lady

Dear Diary,

I have admitted all to dear Raoul this night! On the roof of the Opera house, beneath the great statue of Apollo, I confessed the truth of Erik, the Opera Ghost, and his connection to me.

Priests say that when you confess a burden, it will be lifted from you and you will feel lighter and at ease. Then why do I feel as if more weight has been cast upon me? Perhaps it is the guilt I feel at betraying Erik's secrets. Perhaps it is the lies of omission that hover still on my lips.

I spoke to Raoul of the Angel, and the lessons he gave me; of how he took me to the underground house that fateful evening, and declared that he was not really a ghost, or an angel; that he was Erik! I spoke of Erik's dreadful face, of the shocking death's head that sits upon those bony shoulders. I spoke of the fortnight I spent with him, singing and walking and rowing on the lake. What I did not speak of was the joy I took in these simple acts… the pleasure in singing with him, our voices rising and falling in a harmonious duet; the courtesy he would show me when we walked together; the way I would read to him, and he would make funny little comments about the characters in the book! It confuses me now, dear diary, to remember such contentment when I should remember mostly fear and apprehension.

I remember one evening, he convinced me to accompany him to that evening's performance of Mozart's Don Giovanni. I mentioned that it reminded me of his own masterpiece, Don Juan Triumphant; but he implored me not to speak of such things and ruin an idyllic evening.

He took me to the notorious Box 5 by way of a series of trapdoors; I must admit that my poor young mind was quite perplexed by it all, but before I knew it, we had emerged somehow from a secret door in one of the marble columns in the box! "Are you quite comfortable, my dear?" he asked me after I had settled myself into a seat in the front row; I told him yes, but that my ankle hurt a little from the fall I had taken the previous night when walking along the banks of the lake. Immediately he gave several little taps on the door of the box, and requested a footstool from the box keeper, Madame Giry. He brought it to me at once and I thanked him for it.

I remember, diary, how strangely content I was that night. It was pleasing to sit quietly with him in the dark, so aware of his presence at my side, and watch the opera, and he would lean over to me every so often and tell me to take note of a particular singer; "See the way she lifts her chin as she sings the lofty notes?" he would say. "You must avoid such errors, my dear." And I would nod and smile at the natural tutor in him. He is always shaping, molding, working and creating to make beautiful things. He has changed my voice from the ordinary to the extraordinary! I believe I must also confess that he has changed more in me than my singing.

But I mustn't speak of such things, not even to write them in the secret of my own diary! It all makes me so confused; this strange man seems to have an unnatural effect on me.

I believe that is why I feel guilt about what I told Raoul; I told him of my instinctive fear of Erik, the trepidation that always seems to rise in me when I am with him. For some reason, I felt it necessary to hold my tongue and to not speak of the natural contentment and happiness I feel when I am with my poor angel. But see, there! I write of him as an angel! So you understand how it is hard for me to know whether it is happiness I feel when with Erik, or fear. Perhaps it is a strange blend that a silly girl like me cannot understand.

I must leave off my writing for now. I am performing Faust tomorrow, and I must rest. I will not speak to Erik of the promises I shared with Raoul; it was just so much easier to talk of light and happy things up on the rooftop, instead of confiding with my childhood friend of the confusion I have been pondering over of late. I can only pray that I will be able to sort out my muddled feelings. Erik is the source of so much uncertainty.