THE LOSS
Author's note: This story is mainly based on Leroux, but I have compressed the events following Christine's kidnap from the stage during Faust.
The Opera House roared with applause as the cast took their bows. One of the managers came on and presented Christine with a beautiful bouquet. She accepted it gracefully, drew a single white rose from it and gave it to the tenor who had sung Faust. He bowed over her hand as he took the rose.
The curtains fell, but the applause continued. Some of the other cast members nudged Christine forward, while others held back a curtain so that she could step out again. "Give them one more, Christine," whispered the girl who had played Siebel, "or we'll never get out of here tonight!" Christine giggled, then smoothed her features to a more dignified smile as she walked out in front of the curtains and took her final bow alone as the applause thundered even more. She never tired of this, and she took care to ration her performances, so that the audiences would not tire of her. A successful singer needed many skills.
Her eyes scanned over the hundreds of faces, wondering where Erik was, knowing she would not see him. He no longer insisted on using Box 5 when she performed. He had told her that, though it was an excellent place to listen from, it had a poor view of the stage, and he wanted to see her as well as hear her. These days, he had many masks and disguises which let him sit unnoticed in the crowd, in the balcony or orchestra seats. But if the whim took him, he might be up in the flies, or working the lights. She glanced briefly at the gloriously painted ceiling and its magnificent chandelier. No, probably not there, not this time.
But it was time to pay attention to her job, and that included not milking the applause for too long. Still smiling, she left the stage, ignoring other flowers which were thrown. She had let it be known that she accepted no gifts from strangers, but there were always some who hoped to attract her attention.
Still floating on the excitement, she made her way to her dressing room, exchanging words of thanks and goodnights with the other cast members and staff whom she passed. Then, after changing into street clothes, she walked down to the back door of the Opera House. There she met the stagehand who always escorted her home. It was not far; round a corner, across one street and a short way along another, and she was at the entrance to her building. She thanked her escort, who was a little shy in the presence of the prima donna, but seemed to think he should make conversation. "Are you comfortable here?" he asked tentatively. "They tell me your apartment is in the basement…"
"It's very quiet," she answered. "I work late at night, sleep late in the morning. But my room is at the back, so the street noise does not disturb me. It took me some time to find a place which suited me, but this is perfect." She smiled and wished him goodnight, then greeted the concierge who guarded the entrance, and carried on down the stairs to her door, humming the music from that night's performance. Marguerite. Whenever she sang that role, she always remembered the dramatic occasion when Erik had snatched her from the stage, remembered her anger and fear. His near madness, the tormented cries of Raoul and the strange Persian man in the torture chamber, Erik's dire threats to blow them all up along with the Opera House. Menaced by such a disaster, she had had to yield to him, and yet… and yet… even though he had won, she could still pity him. How could she have known that that pity would be a stronger weapon than any of his? But even as she remembered the pain of that night, she also remembered her joy when he had let her go. All of that, the bad and the good, was burned forever into her memory…
O-O-O
Note: Sorry for such a short first chapter, but it was just the way this story worked out. More tomorrow.