Prologue: September 27, 1899 - Paris, France

Father Tribidoux smiled warmly as he was greeted by the solemn, blue clad sister at the entry to the convent infirmary. Removing his rain-drenched hat and coat, he shook them carefully and handed them to the sister, who added them to those hanging on a row of iron hooks behind the door. Despite the lateness of the hour, there were soft voices and light in the kitchen down the narrow hall to his left, and the scent of baking bread. Briefly he considered a detour to request a cup of tea to chase the chill of his journey across Paris, but in recalling the gravity of his visit, he decided to wait until he had returned to the rectory.

The broad hallway before him was ill-lit, yet he knew his way to the room where his parishioner waited, having spent many hours there in the past weeks. Tonight's summons had not come unexpected; the occupant of the last room on the right had taken a turn for the worst in the past days, and Father Tribidoux knew her sojourn on life's 'mortal coil' was nearly done.

Sister Joseph met him before the door, whispering a quick report on their patient's condition, adding, "She refused to wait, demanding you come tonight! I told her it was late and the weather miserable…told her you could certainly be here in the morning! But she..."

Tribidoux hushed the sister, saying, "She may be called to God before the morning. There is obviously something distressing her...some last worrisome request. She has been a constant and generous patron for the parish. I can do no less than guarantee she is at peace." Laying a soothing hand upon the sister's shoulder, he pushed open the door and entered the small, whitewashed room. Easing himself into the chair beside the bed, he clasped the gnarled hand of its occupant.

With a start, the woman lying there twisted her head to look at the priest, eyes wild and greying auburn hair pulled from its braids. Grabbing for his coat sleeve, she gasped, "Father...Father, I...I need to confess my sins."

Bending to her, Tribidoux patted her clutching hands. "My dear, you are confessed and forgiven by God. Unless you have sinned grievously since arriving within these four walls..."

"No, no Father. It was before...years ago." Sudden tears sprung from the woman's eyes, and she sobbed convulsively, saying, "I murdered a man. I killed him and allowed another to die for the crime. I murdered them both, it seems..." Her body quaking with weakness, terror and grief, she covered her face with tremulant hands.

Father Tribidoux sat back in the chair, stunned. He had known this woman for years, had brought her to God, keeping the secret of her disreputable life among the demimonde as an opera singer. He had urged her to return to her birth name and native French language.

So it was that Maria Estena Jourdain had taken a position as an aide/volunteer with the street clinic that daily visited the poorest areas of Paris, caring for the sick and homeless. Within two years she had met and married one of the volunteer doctors, Etienne Orand, an event at which Tribidoux officiated, held at St. Bertold's, the small Catholic church for which he served. This was a union of mutual and mature affection, both Maria and Etienne being beyond the age of undisciplined passions. Orand was a very rich man, possessor of a sizeable fortune along with a fine estate in western Paris, who had tired of being a work-driven bachelor. Maria had caught his eye while serving at the clinic; her modest demeanor and selfless nature contrasted widely with the usual society women 'of a certain age' who routinely all but threw themselves beneath the wheels of his carriage to draw his eye.

And Maria had flourished in her role as Orand's wife, and eschewing the brittle life of a society matron, she continued her volunteer work with the clinics.

Tribidoux had also buried her husband a very few years later, the good doctor succumbing during a city-wide epidemic of the Spanish influenza. Those were dark days indeed for the indomitable spirit that was Maria Orand.

Left without children, husband, or extended family, Madam Orand had redoubled her generosity toward her beloved St. Bertold Church, along with her energy as a advocate for the impoverished in the parish. She organized several day schools for the youngest children in poor neighborhoods, sponsored soup kitchens and bread lines, provided the start-up funding for a subsequently successful women's sewing cooperative, and still worked tirelessly at several of the parish medical clinics. Orphanages in the area knew Madam Orand well, the children clapping with joy to see her carriage pull up before their doors, bearing shoes, clothing, books and fresh fruit.

This was a woman of virtue, who once her feet had found the path of righteousness, had bloomed in the warmth of a godly life. Surely such a heart and soul were pure, bearing no stain of wickedness!

Yet Father Tribidoux knew that each life was a mystery to all but oneself and God. Looking at the dying woman who wept in mortal fear of God's judgment, he knew he had best take her request at face value, and believe that she saw herself as a murderer twice over.

Laying his hand upon the forehead of the troubled woman, Tribidoux sought to console her, saying, "Non, non, Maria…it hurts me to see you so beset. Tell me of this crime, and we will seek God's forgiveness. All things are surmountable in His eyes, my child. I will take your confession now, so you might go before God with peace in your heart."

"Yes...yes, Father, I must confess! But I must also reveal all to Christine Daaé...remove the stain I cast upon the man she knew as friend and father. Her teacher... He died by the guillotine, you know...lost his head for the death of my faithless lover. But I am the one who killed Piangi...he was the true monster...but I am the one who killed him!"

Turning to the wide-eyed cleric beside her, Maria Orand again grabbed at his sleeve. "The Opera Ghost was innocent, Father. But I hated him...for giving Daaé those things I wanted. A voice of such beauty...a talent that rivaled that of the angels. Father...I envied Christine Daaé his attentions."

Abruptly Madam Orand sang, her voice eerily pure and sweet. "Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime… Lead me, save me from my solitude…" Reduced to hiccupping sobs, Maria Orand twisted and fiercely clutched upon his arm, her yellowed nails snagging upon the wool fabric of his sleeve. Her voice harsh, she gasped, "And then he saved me...from starvation...from utter ruin! After the theater closed, Erik de'Carpentier…the Opera Ghost sent money...a great deal of money...so that I might not end up in the street. He saved me, Father...as well as every one of those who lost their jobs that night. Yet I did not save de'Carpentier. I allowed him to die for the murder I committed!"

Madam Orand collapsed upon the bed, her hands releasing Tribidoux so abruptly he nearly pitched backward off the chair. Father Tribidoux was in shock, now well aware of what…and of whom Maria Orand was speaking. 'Le Petit Parisien' had recently carried a much abridged version of Gaston Leroux's dark tale, 'Le Fantôme de l'Opéra', in a weekly serialized column. Tribidoux had quite enjoyed it, having an affinity for mysteries, especially those based upon real events. But never in his wildest dreams…

Eventually her sobbing eased, and Maria Orand pushed herself up to half-sit upon the bed, and raised her rattled face to the silent cleric beside her bed. "Father, I wish to take confession, but I also want to tell the truth to...to Christine Daaé…the Comtess de'Chagny. I would make things right before I...I die. I will never rest easy in my grave...will never go to God...if I do not. Christine deserves to know her teacher did not murder Umbalto Piangi. She deserves to know her Angel was no monster."

Father Tribidoux looked into the face now turned to his, the pure light of purpose obscuring the yellow cast to her skin and eyes...the specter of her impending death. Maria Orand would have her confession immediately, as he was sure she would not live to see morning's light. He rose and left the room, returning with a small desk containing paper, ink, quills. "I will write what you tell me, Maria."

Laying back upon her pillows, Maria Orand clasped her hands at her breast, and began to speak.

"My name is Maria Estena Orand, but for many years I was known as Carlotta Giudiccelli, Prima Donna for the Opera Populaire.

"I confess before God, with Father Arlo Tribidoux as my witness and scribe, that on the evening of November 11, 1881, during the first and only performance of 'Don Juan Triumphant', I murdered Umbalto Piangi…"