I look at the man before me. He is tall, almost skeletal, dressed completely in black. He is both majestic and tragic at once. He commands respect. From what I have heard, that respect usually changed into fear. Even now, in such circumstances as these, he is imposing. I see his mask. I know what must be underneath it. I don't care.
This man, they tell me, is my father.
He married my mother a little over 20 years ago, I believe. She contracted a fever not long after I, a daughter, was born and did not survive her illness. My father was devastated and found my presence painful reminder to him. So, in circumstances that I have been told are not particularly uncommon, he left me in the care of others and continued to make his own way in the world.
I never felt neglected by my foster family and was very well cared for them. They loved me as their own and I loved them even more so.
I was aware of my family history. A portrait of my mother is always kept in plain sight and my foster family speaks highly of her. Any questions that I had about my true family were answered honestly, never avoided; nor did they tell me any pleasing lies.
These included questions about my absent father. It was not as if I never heard from him; on the contrary, there were monthly letters from him to my foster parents that inquired after me. He never wrote directly to me, however, even when I was old enough to do so, and I never wrote to him.
He did send me gifts of sorts, however. When I was nearly ten years of age, large sums of money began to be directed to me. Part of the sums were to be used immediately for clothes and books and such, but the majority was to be saved for my later life and, in particular, my education. Nine more years have passed since then, and I am now considered a rich woman.
There was not much else that transpired between my father and I.
The situation in which I now find myself is the one exception. Two days ago, I received a letter from a man who claims to be a close associate of my father. I was to come to Paris as soon as possible. He greeted me at the train station when I arrived in the evening. He introduced himself as to me and said that he had come to know my father well in Persia. He assured me that I could trust him and escorted me to the Rue Scribe, outside the Opera. There he gave me the news that my father was dead. He lead me past the Fifth Cellar. We walked into my father's home.
There I found a woman, a young, pretty lady called Mlle Daae. She looked pale, and I could see that she had been crying. She looked upon me with curiosity and surprise. I regarded her in the same way. She reminds me strongly of my mother. Mlle Daae and the Persian gentleman led me into the parlor.
I look at the man before me, lying in the coffin. He is tall, almost skeletal, dressed completely in black. He is both majestic and tragic at once. He commands respect. Even now, even in death, he is imposing. I see his mask. I know what must be underneath it. I don't care.
I notice a small, elegant, trailing design along the edge of his mask. It is actually quite similar to the design on mine. I am surprised. I had made my mask myself, without any influence from him. At least, that's what I had thought. Much more has transpired between us than I had one assumed.
This man, I know, is my father.