A Song in the Night
Disclaimer: The characters of Erik and Christine are the creation of Gaston Leroux. My eternal thanks to him for doing so. All other characters who appear in this story are the products of my oft-times fevered brain... :-)
Chapter One
"Pitiful creature of darkness, what kind of life have you known? God give me courage to show you—you are not alone." Christine slid the ring onto her finger and waded out into the water, stopping when she came face to face with Erik.
Going up on her tiptoes, she kissed him on the mouth then pulled back a few inches to judge his reaction. The look of utter surprise and shock on his face stunned her for a few seconds. Bravely, she reached up and touched his marred cheek, gently drawing him back to her for another kiss.
This time, Erik was a little more prepared for the sensation of her mouth on his, but not for the light, teasing touch of her tongue tracing over his lips. He gasped in surprise and her tongue slid inside his mouth. His mind whirling, absently he registered the sweet taste of her, and allowed his tongue to touch hers in return.
After a few seconds, he pulled back, his chest heaving as he tried to breathe. Staring deeply into her eyes he saw a myriad of emotions—hope, love, sadness. Heedless of the tears running down his own face, he wiped Christine's cheeks with the backs of his fingers. "Oh, Angel!" he whispered. Slowly he pulled her to him, pressing her head to his chest. He felt her arms go around him, and he nearly sobbed at the exquisite experience of being held by her.
The distant sounds of the approaching mob jerked him back to reality. Dropping the rope that held Raoul captive, he turned away. "Take him! Forget me—forget all of this!" He staggered away from them, going to sit on the swan bed and stare at the monkey music box as it played its tune.
Christine freed Raoul from the ropes and he pulled the boat loose from its mooring. "Get in—hurry!" His voice raspy from the pressure of the rope, he reached out to grab her elbow and help her into the boat.
"No, Raoul, wait. I—I have to do something. I'll be back in a moment," she said over her shoulder, disappearing into the depths of the grotto.
Hearing steps, Erik looked up, stunned to see Christine coming toward him. For an instant, hope flooded through him, and he said softly, "Christine, I love you!"
Slowly she walked to him, tears slipping down her cheeks. And I love you, her eyes told him, but not enough. Working the ornate ring off her finger, she laid it in the palm of his hand, closing his fingers over it. He looked up at her, tears running down his face. She wiped at his tears with her thumb then leaned down and kissed him, first on his marred cheek, then on his mouth. "Good-bye, Erik," she whispered, and was gone before he could blink.
On unsteady legs he rose and walked to the front of the grotto, in time to see the boat disappear around the corner. You alone can make my song take flight. But it's too late now, isn't it?
Without realizing it, Erik shoved the ring in his trouser pocket and picked up one of the heavy brass candlesticks. "Damn, damn, damn!" he raged, swinging the candlestick in time with the words. Glass shattered all around him; his boots crunched over the shards as he went to the last mirror.
It took two mighty strokes, but the glass finally gave way, revealing a passageway. Pausing, he took one last look at what had been his home for more years than he cared to remember. He started to go back for . . . For what? he asked himself tersely. There is nothing here that I want.
Three steps into the passageway and he activated the mechanism that sealed the opening behind him. Several more steps brought him to a slight incline. Erik stopped to take a deep breath. The sounds of the mob were muffled, but he could still hear the raucous noise as they destroyed his pipe organ. "Bloody bastards, the lot of them," he muttered.
Down the incline and fifteen yards, then a sharp right turn. He released the lock and pushed open the door to a small room. Once inside, he put his back against the door and shoved it closed. Suddenly, his legs gave way and he sagged to the floor. Pulling his knees up to his chin, he sat in the thick darkness, his breathing ragged and loud.
A small grate set high in the wall connected to a shaft, providing fresh air from outside, although from time to time Erik got a whiff of smoke. Eventually he got to his feet and felt his way across the room to the cot and the small table that stood next to it. Fumbling with a match, he lit the stub of a candle on the table before collapsing on the cot. "Can't stay here long," he mumbled. "Have to get away soon."
The shouts and the pounding of horses' hooves woke Veronique duPres from a sound sleep. Alarmed by the sounds, she reached for the robe at the foot of her bed, holding it in front of her as she went to the bay window of her apartment. People went running down the street, some in their nightclothes; others with trousers and coats pulled over them.
Veronique slid her arms into her robe and opened one of the windows, calling out to a man going past. "What has happened?" The cold January air made her gasp and clutch the top of her robe tightly around her throat. The wind caught a few strands of her bronze-colored hair and she brushed them aside.
The man paused long enough for her to notice that he carried a bucket in each hand. "Opéra Populaire is on fire," he grunted and hurried down the street.
Now Veronique could see the glow from the flames of the fire, about five blocks away. She jumped when she heard an explosion from the opera and hoped the wind was not blowing in the direction of her neighborhood. Another fire truck rounded the corner, its bell clanging madly, the horses' breath making white plumes in the air.
Silently she said a prayer for all those who worked at the opera, that they made it safely out of the building, and for those fighting the fire as well. Knowing she would be unable to go back to sleep, she took her cello from its case and sat down in the ladder back chair. Rosining the bow, she began to play a portion of the Brahms sonata she was working on for her lessons.
The haunting melody seemed to fit the mood of the night, and Veronique closed her eyes in concentration. Determined to play the Allegro Pìu Presto through without a mistake, she didn't hear the banging on the wall at first. When the disagreeable old woman in the next apartment finally yelled at her to stop making such a horrible racket, Veronique stopped mid-note. "Crabby old biddy," she muttered, sticking her tongue out at the wall.
The next afternoon, when M. Bertrand arrived to give her a cello lesson, she mentioned the fire to him. "Have you heard the news, Monsieur?" she asked as she arranged the chairs and her music stand. She made certain the music stand was a bit lower than she preferred; she towered over the elderly man but tried not to emphasize the fact.
"About the fire at the Populaire? Yes," he replied, taking off his coat and warming his hands at the fireplace. Alphonse Bertrand was the retired principal cellist of the Orchestre de la Société des Concerts du Conservatoire, and a friend of her late mother's. He shrugged. "It was bound to happen, sooner or later," he commented.
"Why, Monsieur? The building was not considered unsafe, was it? I thought it was the most modern building in the city," said Veronique as she raised the window shades to let in as much of the thin January sunlight as possible.
The rotund man gave her a sharp look. "Have you never heard of the Opera Ghost, ma fille?" When she shook her head, he continued, "I thought everyone in Paris knew of the Ghost. But I forget—you have been living here only for a short time." He sat on the small bench in front of the fireplace and stretched his feet toward the hearth. "I believe it was seven years ago or so, when the first note from the Ghost was delivered. He demanded that the entire cast of Il Barbiere di Siviglia be replaced, that none of them could sing in tune, much less act."
Veronique's green eyes widened and she sat next to her teacher. "The entire cast? Were they really that horrible?"
"You must remember, chérie, that much of what I tell you is hearsay, and some of it third-hand." Bertrand paused to remember, then went on, "If I recall correctly, the tenor and the baritone quit outright, but the mezzo adamantly refused to leave. Eventually, the Ghost's ruffled feathers were smoothed, and the production achieved modest success."
"But this was not the only time they received demands from him, was it?" Veronique frowned, thinking that she had indeed heard something about the Ghost and his infamous notes. But from whom?
Bertrand chuckled, "No, it was not. The manager finally realized that he must acquiesce on most things, in order to have any peace at all—and to avoid any accidents. To be fair, the Ghost's 'suggestions' were usually the correct choice. Then La Carlotta and her entourage came to the Populaire, and the opera was suddenly aflame with fire and brimstone, almost literally."
Veronique gave an unladylike snort. "La Carlotta—her, I know. She came into the millinery shop a few weeks ago, complaining loudly that the new hat she ordered was the wrong size. Not likely, when Mme. Juliette has had no other such complaints." Before M. Bertrand could reply, she exclaimed, "That is who was talking about the Ghost! La Carlotta!" Grimacing, the girl went on, "I can well imagine how she treats those at the opera house. What did the Ghost do to her? Something well deserved, I am certain."
"Oh, indeed." Bertrand smiled broadly, his blue eyes twinkling. "This I know as fact; I witnessed it myself a few months ago. I was waiting for my friend, M. Reyer, the conductor of the Populaire's orchestra. During a rehearsal for Hannibal, a section of scenery mysteriously fell, nearly striking La Carlotta as she was singing for the new managers. She fell to the floor to avoid being hit, and Sainte Mère, when she regained her feet . . ."
Grinning, Veronique murmured, "Bravo, Monsieur Ghost."
Bertrand chuckled, his thick white mustache twitching. "Bravo, indeed, for that woman's voice . . ." He shuddered in remembrance. "It raised the hair on the back of my neck, I'll tell you. Unfortunately, things escalated after that. During a performance of Il Muto, it was rumored that the Ghost killed one of the workers." Veronique gasped, and M. Bertrand nodded. "The workman's body fell from the flies with a noose around his neck, in any event." The retired cellist paused. "And then there was the business with the little soprano, Mlle. Daaé."
He said no more for several moments, until Veronique prompted him, "What about Mlle. Daaé?"
"Oh, some said the Ghost abducted her; some said she went with him willingly. She was missing for several hours, perhaps even overnight, and when she returned . . . More demands from the Ghost, and naturally, much speculation about where she had been. She refused to say." He plucked a piece of lint from his sleeve. "The performance last night was of the Ghost's opera, Don Juan Triumphant, in which he insisted Mlle. Daaé play the lead. Evidently, the managers set some kind of trap for him, which failed. He caused the great chandelier to fall, which, in turn, started the fire."
Veronique frowned, her expression troubled. "And what of the Ghost? Was he captured? Killed?"
M. Bertrand shrugged. "No one knows. Or if they do, they are not talking about it."