Author's note – This idea has constantly haunted my mind for a while, so I finally decided to translate it from my mind onto the common piece of paper. I adore Emily Bronte's literary works, especially Wuthering Heights, which I believe, along with The Phantom of the Opera, to be one of the greatest – and darkest – romances ever in black and white. I hope you enjoy reading this piece of literature as much as I have had the pleasure of writing it.
Disclaimer – Much of the dialogue in this story the literary genius of Emily Bronte. Some of the dialogue is mine though, to better suit the ordeals, conflicts, etc. I have put the characters in. The beautiful characters, alas, are not mine, either. They belong to the brilliant mind of Gaston Leroux. The song titles and certain situations belong to the musical genius of Andrew Lloyd Webber.
Another annoying author's note – This chapter takes place during the several months in between the All I Ask of You scene and The Ball Masque. This chapter also requires Christine to obtain certain knowledge of Erik's past, told to her by mother figure Madame Giry. Christine refers to Madame Giry as "mommy" in this story. This chapter is told in first person according to the views of Madame Giry.
I sat alone in my private apartments at the opera house. The evening was dark and dreary. The wind screamed a mournful melody while beating its harsh fists against the windowpane. I sat next to the glowing fire in the fireplace. I nursed one of the young ballerina's newborn children while its mother was traveling abroad on tour. After my young watch fell into a deep slumber, I watched as the glowing embers in the fireplace died low. It was then I heard Christine enter my chamber. She was deathly pale, and looked as though she had seen a ghost I daresay, yet there was a light and youthful bounce to her step that dismissed any of my concerns. I motioned her to sit in the chair next to me; she did so, and gave me a sweet smile. Christine was the first to utter a word that night.
"Mommy will you keep a secret for me?" she asked, and lifting her winsome eyes to my face with the sort of look that turns off a bad temper and melts even the coldest of hearts.
" Is it worth keeping?" I inquired less sulkily.
"Yes and it worries me, and I must let it out! I want to know what I should do – To-day, Raoul asked me to marry him, and I have given him my answer- Now tell me which it ought to have been, consent or denial."
" Really, my dear Christine, how should I know?" Christine withdrew a breath as if to speak, yet stayed silent until blurting out hurriedly, "I accepted him mommy, now, be quick, tell me whether I was wrong!"
"You accepted him? Then what point is there in discussing the matter? I cannot retract."
" But say whether I should have done so – do!" she exclaimed in an irritated tone; chaffing her hands together, and frowning.
"There are many things to be answered before that question can be answered properly. First and foremost, do you love the Vicomte de Chagney?"
"Of course I do, I can't help it," she answered.
"Why do you love him Christine?"
"Because he is handsome, and pleasant to be with."
"Bad," was my commentary.
"And, because he is young and cheerful. And, again handsome."
I let out a good-natured laugh. Christine and I continued the interview as sisters would, eager for all the details of the others lover. Yet, I resigned myself from that status, and tried to act as motherly as possible.
"Bad still," was my answer.
"And he will be rich, and I shall love to be the greatest woman in all the neighborhood."
Christine said this statement full of childish glee, and began humming a fast little tune from Il Mutto. This gave me a moment to register my apparent shock upon the instant my ears heard the statement, while confiding in the fact, that Christine had delivered the sentence not understanding the full implications of what she just said, and how one would react by deeming her character.
"Christine," my voice sliced the childish merriment as it was suspended in mid-air, my tone as strict and stern as ever.
" Is that really what you want? Well, marry the Vicomte then. All seems smooth and easy, where is your obstacle?"
" Here!" replied Christine, striking one fragile hand to her breast. " In whichever place my soul lives-in my heart, and in my soul, I am convinced I'm wrong!"
I stared at her. "I can't make it out."
"It is my secret; but if you will not mock at me, I'll explain it; I can't do it distinctly-but I will give you a feeling of how I feel."
Her countenance grew sadder and graver, and her clasped hands trembled.
"Mommy, do you ever dream queer dreams?" she said, suddenly, after some minute's reflection.
"Yes, now and then," I answered.
"And so do I. I've dreamt my life dreams that have stayed with me for ever after, and changed my ideas; they have gone through and through me, like wine through water, and altered the colour of my mind. And this one-I am going to tell it- but take care not to smile at any part of it."
"If I were in heaven, mommy, I would be extremely miserable."
Though this sentence seemed to myself of the subject at hand, she continued.
"I dreamt last night that I was there. Heaven, that is. I was only going to say that heaven did not seem to be my home; and I broke my heart with weeping to come back to earth: and the angels were so angry that they flung me out, back under ground, and I found myself lying atop the swan bed in Erik's lair, where I awoke sobbing for joy. That will do to explain my secret, as well as the other. I've no more business to marry Raoul de Chagney then I have to be in heaven; and if that wicked, vengeful creature that resides in my Erik's soul had not brought him so low as to murder Joseph Boquet the night of Il Mutto I wouldn't have thought of it. I was to frightened and confused, I sought shelter from the smoldering storm, even now I am frightened, scared to death. Remember Erik was angry with me mommy, for seeing his real face, for brining an end to that beautiful and agonizing charade of an angel of music and his adored pupil. That is why I could not join Erik now, so he shall never now how I love him; and that, not because he is handsome, mommy, but because he is more myself than I am. Whatever are souls are made of, his and mine are the same, and Raoul's is as different as a moonbeam from lightening, or frost from fire. My great miseries in this world have been Erik's miseries, and I watched and felt each from the beginning; my great thought in living is himself. If all else perished and he remained, I would continue to be; and if all else remained and he was annihilated, the universe would turn into a mighty stranger. I would not seem to be part of it. My love for Raoul is like the foliage in the woods. Time will change it-as winter changes the trees-my love for Erik resembles the eternal rocks beneath-a source of little visible delight, but necessary. Mommy, I am Erik!"
After uttering this sentence, a overwhelming throng of salt tears and sobs followed, and I could only stare, after hearing that moving monologue of her soul, and try not to allow the tears pour out of my own eyes. I meant to embrace her, to tell her I could find Erik, take her to him, despite her fear and the present circumstances at hand, but upon my doing so, she fled the room, and locked the doors to her apartment.