I started this story in 2005, and then big chunks of life intervened. In an attempt to learn to finish things I have picked it up again here in 2013, and I hope you will enjoy it despite huge plot gaps and inaccuracies, and encourage me to finish it.

The Promise

The new Comtesse De Chagny did not tell her husband the true reason for her return to Paris. Since the death of Phillippe and associated events, any mention of the Opera House sent him into a mind-fever of distressing intensity. Therefore, Christine let him believe that she was, in fact, visiting at Perros, and would return in a few days time.

For Christine, promises were promises. The naivety that led her to abandon personal safety was still part of her character. Had Raoul an inkling of her destination, this author firmly believes he would immediately jumped on a horse and ridden from Stockholm to Paris non-stop, but he did not know, and we must leave him in blissful ignorance, but with a more deeply furrowed brow, in the secluded country house he shared with Christine.

As for Christine herself, she was much changed in appearance. Gone were her romantic curls, and milky complexion. She was the very image of Parisian fashion, so much so that when Monsieurs Debienne and Poligny passed her in the Opera foyer, they did not recognise her. She was inconspicuous in ice-blue cloak and matching high-waisted gown - not quite disguising the fact she was with child. She might have been any lady visiting the Opera for the day, except that she had no chaperone.

Having slipped a note to one of the ushers, she retired in one of the many alcove seats reserved for the use of waiting patrons, and awaited the arrival of Madame Giry.

As people passed to and fro, she was sad that she recognised very few faces. The crop of junior attendants had no doubt attained their uniforms and had been replaced by a new batch of fresh-faced youths. One of them was watching her from behind a pillar with undisguised interest.

The boy seemed out of place amongst his peers. His hollow cheeks could only have been a remnant of infantile consumption, and his eyes were dark and brooding. No reaction gave he when one of the other boys kicked at him in passing – even the ticket sellers seemed to regard him coldly – he was not one of them. His expressionless gaze was unlike the simple curiosity of a child, but when Christine turned her head towards him to study him more closely, he had disappeared.

"My dear, Christine!" gushed Madame Giry, swooping into the alcove and burying Christine in kisses and folds of taffeta. "Oh I hoped you would come back to see us! And you look so well! Why, you are positively radiant!"

"Dear Madame! There is a reason for my radiance," smiled Christine, putting one half of her cloak aside for a moment.

"Oh unspeakably wonderful news! To be a mother is God's greatest gift! My Meg, of course, she glorifies me daily. She is Prima Ballerina in Othello – what do you think of that!"

"They are putting Othello on again?"

"Why yes, my dear girl, you look quite pale? Oh I had quite forgot. You must forgive me…"

"It was a long time ago," said Christine sadly, "but not all wounds have healed, I suppose."

Madame Giry sat down and took Christine's hand.

"I wonder at the wisdom of you coming here in your condition, but the news you have heard is true." She continued. "The Opera Ghost is dead. But - let others mourn. I truthfully did not expect you to come."

"I made a promise." Christine replied, simply, "and there is no other to mourn him. There was another letter I sent which would explain more - but it seems it went astray. At least my last message arrived safely."

Madame Giry looked concerned.

"Well, if I find it, I shall keep it safe. Most likely it shall arrive later. But as to our friend..."

Here she lowered her voice carefully,

"...I'm sure I don't know what he expects…expected you to do. That Persian found him, and it was he that told me to write to you, not wishing to further upset your husband."

Christine checked for the boy she had seen, but he did not reappear. Her companion continued.

"What a terrible thing, to lose one's brother. I am sure Monsieur De Chagny must have fought hard with himself to allow you to visit your old friend Madame Giry!"

Christine reddened. She was never a good liar.

"Do you have anything from the Persian for me, then?" she asked.

Madame Giry withdrew a sealed letter from the bag she always carried. It was the same bag she had once used to convey Erik's letters.

"Here. I had it from him yesterday. I pray it brings you some peace, whatever it contains." She looked as though she would stay, but Christine thwarted her by immediately putting the letter away in the folds of her cloak.

"Thank you Madame. I am in your debt."

"Me? Oh, you owe me nothing. I never heard a purer voice in all my years here, and my fondness endures. Be well my dear, and don't forget me! Remember me to your kind husband!"

Madame Giry smothered her with kisses once more, and then disappeared into the growing crowd in the Foyer.

The time of the performance was nearing, and Christine smiled as she remembered the excitement such hustle and bustle used to bring her. She sang for Raoul sometimes, when he encouraged her, but since leaving Paris behind, she felt she had also left a little of her soul. She had not sung with the same passion again.

She took out the letter, and was about to slide her thumbnail under the seal, when she caught sight of the sickly-looking boy. He had resumed his post by the pillar, and the way he watched her, with those unsmiling eyes destroyed any lingering feelings of nostalgia. She decided to leave.

In the safety of her hotel room, Christine unfolded the letter from the Persian.

Madame, it said.

The Opera Ghost was happy to remain friendless, and his confidences are kept between you and myself only. He bade me write to you as his earthly time draws to a close, and to also wish you a happier life than ever was his.

He begs your forgiveness for the injury he has caused you, but also asks that you remember him kindly and never forget the music that he shared with you. He asks that perhaps sometimes, when you sing, you will think of him and direct the song to him in whichever realm he now abides.

A tear dropped from Christine's eye to the page, smearing the ink. How well she could remember the sonorous tones that had so entranced and intoxicated her. How could she ever forget!

He will be laid in the coffin that served him as a bed, in the house on the lake, and begs you to remember the last rites you promised to bear to him personally. I am not permitted to accompany you. On this point he is most strict.

May God bless and protect you.

There the letter ended.

Christine was flooded with a mix of sorrow and relief: she was afraid Erik might have borne her some ill-will, she resolved to put the matter to rest on the morrow, and retired to bed.

Yet her dreams were filled with dread and sorrow, and the distant cries of children...