Disclaimer: The Phantom of the Opera and its characters are by no means my property. They respectively belong to Gaston Leroux, Andrew Lloyd Webber and Susan Kay

Summary:This is the story of the Phantom of the Opera rewritten by my care mixing some of the film, book and my imagination. Romance, jealousy, betrayal, cape and sword are waiting for you. Will Erik finally succeed to conquer his bride? Will Raoul let himself being supplanted by a ghost? Will Christine found the courage to follow the impulses of her soul? When the music, mystery, passion compete for the hearts of the tortured lovers, will Love succeed to overcome the obstacles and bring out the truth to light? An Angel could love a beast?

Source: The Phantom of the Opera, Gaston Leroux; ALW's The Phantom of the Opera, Andrew Lloyd Webber; Phantom, Susan Kay

Cast: Gérard Butler_Erik; Emmy Rossum_Christine Daaé; Patrick Wilson_Raoul de Chagny;Miranda Richardson_Mme. Giry...

Author's note: This fiction is the English translation of my French story "Ni Ange, Ni Fantôme". For other authors, if sometimes you find similarity with other work, I apologize as it is not made on purpose. I write and read for some years and sometimes it happens that I have the same idea than other writers. So, sorry again, don't take it wrongly! Otherwise, you can still remember that only the best are imitated! Don't hesitate to leave a review. It will be most appreciated! Your obedient servant, Taedium Vitae...

~ Tædium Vitæ ~

Nor Angel, Nor Ghost

« Il ne m'a manqué que d'être aimé pour être bon ! »

Le Fantôme de l'Opéra, Gaston Leroux

~ Chapter 1 ~
– The Opera Populaire –

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Paris, 1879
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The Palais Garnier, realm of music, of dream, of illusion and excess, witness of innumerable tragedies unfolding as much on stage as in the wings, guardian of thousand secrets and mysteries, cradle of romantic and dramatic loves often forbidden, arose majestically in all its opulence amidst the Grands Boulevards of Paris, the City of Lights. The Opera Populaire as the Parisians liked to call it was the finial of architecture and modernity. Under its classical and sumptuous mask of marble, gilt, and sculpture hid kilometers of girders able to bear the furnace of a fire, destiny too often reserved to the theater that swarmed of gas pipe supplying the limelight. Some said that it was a city in the city with its thousands of doors, its hundreds of rooms, attics, tiny rooms, cupboards, its various rich foyers, its imposing and unforgettable grand escalier, its seventeen stories of which five laid under earth and its gloomy artificial lake. This Palace of marble and gold was for many an architectural masterpiece known in the entire world. Such a place of magic and of splendor comprised inevitably its share of rumors, anecdotes, stories and legends.

The Phantom was the most ancient of these myths. The Opera was his domain, from the top of the Lyre brandished by Apollo to the dreary depths of the underground lake. Whoever dared enter in the labyrinth of his realm took the risk of never resurface. Everybody knew it, from the littlest rat to the highest director, without forgetting the machinists, lighting engineers, seamstresses and others staffs that worked in this tremendous ant hill. All of them knew him, but no one agreed about his appearance. Some people talked of a shadow without face dressed in black, others of a masked gentleman in evening suit and a machinist who had crossed him fortuitously at the corner of a corridor described a skeletal specter with a skull head and with a skin as yellow as an old parchment. Nobody knew where he came from, or who he was. He was simply part of the edifice since the first day of its inauguration. Some rare old ushers even told that he already haunted the monument during its construction.

However, there was a fact on which everyone was consistent. His directives, whatever they were, must be followed to the letter or a misfortune would occur inevitably. Although often severe, irascible and unpleasant, he was also of good advice and relevant judgment concerning the management of the Opera. A persistent rumor circulating among the corps de ballet said that he knew everything about music and no lyrical work had secrets for him. Other claimed even that Mr. Poligny had more than once relied on the orders and infinite knowledge of the Ghost to improve the production, the orchestration and the songs of several compositions.

The Phantom reigned in master over this universe of semblance and dreams. He was for some people a topic of joke used to frighten the ballerinas and for others, it was a taboo word that was evocated like a malediction or the Devil's name which was better let silence. He sharpened the curiosity of young ones and aroused anguish in the old ones, but everyone knew they had to respect and fear the power of the Specter and his magical lasso. In spite of his reputation of infamous tyrant, he could show some kind of temperance and magnanimity. It was considered that no pure, innocent and loyal soul should dread his wrath. Only those who dared to defy him, mock him or venture in his domain of the lake exposed themselves to encounter an unfortunate, sometimes even baneful fate. More than one accident had been imputed to the Phantom and he was suspected of being responsible of at least one death in the Opera. Everybody had heard the story of the carpenter who had had the audacity, in the early days of the theater, to approach the underground lake and had been found dead on the shore on the side of rue Scribe. When the corpse had been discovered, some policemen asserted to have heard the voice of a woman singing laments as if a mourner was standing on the edge of the dark waters. The case had been classified as an accidental drowning, but the employees understood without a doubt that the entry of the realm of Shadows where the Ghost dwelt was fiercely guarded. More than once, the bewitching singing of a woman was heard near these deadly waters. Quickly, everyone knew that a siren inhabited this area, protecting the Specter's domain by drowning the careless ones in the obscure depths of the lake. Therefore, the grating of rue Scribe was sealed and blocked up since that day to avoid that any curious dimwit tried to infiltrate this deadly cave. There was another entrance in the depths of the fifth cellar of the Opera, but it was almost impossible to find, so its existence, after many years, was nothing more than a memory in the minds of the elders.

Over the years, the Phantom became a simple regular of the Opera in the same way than the counts, barons and others bourgeois pacing the edifice during gala nights. Each employee was accustomed to his presence which seemed to them as formidable as familiar. The direction had to put up with this Revenant to whom they had to obey without balking if they didn't want to give representations in a cursed auditorium. On their arrival at the head of the Opera, the managers Misters Poligny and Debienne had not much believed in this Ghost story and had neglected his threats and demands. But after the first opening night during which more incidents occurred than it did in one year and after one month to suffer harsh reprisals every day, the administrators reconsidered their opinion. Since then, they didn't try again to defy the Specter and submitted to the slightest of his demands, thus establishing a relative peace within the Opera. It was preferable to grant a few minor concessions to a Ghost than to risk various catastrophes that would assuredly cause the ruin of the Academy of Music. After all, the permanent reservation of a box and a simple monthly salary seemed a derisory cost to pay to obtain a serene climate inside this edifice already sufficiently chaotic even without a Ghost.

X X X X

Still wearing her simple ballerina costume, her ballet shoes, and her long blond hair tied in a neglected ponytail, Meg climbed the wide stairs that would lead her to the vast hallway where the dressing rooms of the singers and of the prima ballerina of the Opera were lined up. When she reached the last step, a cold draft brushed her nape chilling her blood and freezing her breath. With a nimble pirouette, she turned around to see only the half-light of the gallery she had just climbed. With an uneasy pout, she tightened her shawl around her quivering shoulders and resumed her way by accelerating her pace, persuaded to detect a presence near her.

Meg believed in the Phantom of the Opera and knew every rumors and anecdotes that surrounded this peculiar character. On her arrival at the Opera in company of her mother, the ballet mistress, that everyone called soberly Madame Giry, she hadn't believed in this fanciful story of a disembodied Spirit that haunted the monument. However, after many months to roam the nooks and crannies of the building, she had begun to have suspicions. Many times, she had been able to glimpse an enigmatic shadow vanish around the corner of a corridor, mysterious footsteps making creak the catwalk above the stage or the humming of an invisible organ resounding in the cellars of the Opera. Her doubts faded totally the day that she surprised a meeting between her mother and said Phantom. She had heard nothing of their conversation and had barely discerned the shape of the Specter, but when she saw him disappear in the wall like a shadow and her mother's face go pale with fright, Meg understood that she had just confronted the Ghost for the first time. The day after this encounter, Mister Poligny had announced to Meg she was promoted to the title of coryphée, and she had wondered if these two events were linked or if it was a rude coincidence.

Making use of trickery and perseverance, she had tried to trick out some information from her mother to know if the Phantom had made use of his magic to recommend her to the direction, but she had refused to answer her. Meg suspected her mother to be acquainted with this creature and even to be his emissary, given that she knew more than anyone about him and many of his secret letters were entrusted to her hands for delivery to the directors. Nonetheless, Madame Giry negated any link with this Revenant whenever her daughter pressed the issue and she admonished her harshly if she became too curious. All that Meg needed to know was that she had nothing to fear of the Phantom or of his misdeeds as long as she remained discreet about his existence and that she showed him respect. If he had permitted to the little dancer to be noticed and promoted, this Specter wasn't maybe as bad as people pretended.

Arrived at the end of the long corridor, she opened a small door on a dark and narrow stairway that climbed about fifteen tall steps that she took with an agile stride. She followed a dusty and dimly lit gallery flanked on either side of small cubbies, cupboards and tiny rooms where various old items and props that nobody used were amassed. Finally, she reached the last door of the corridor which, unlike its neighbors, was painted with a pattern of intertwined roses and ivy to form an artistic decoration. As she raised her hand to knock on the door, Meg heard the murmur of a crystalline feminine voice followed by the rocky tone of a man, which made her eyes widen in amazement. After three short knocks on the door, she entered the dressing room and discovered Christine rising suddenly from a chair placed in front of the large mirror that decorated the back wall.
- "Excuse-me, Christine! Am I disturbing you?" Meg stammered by inspecting the room to seek the source of the man's voice.
- "No, come in, please!" invited the little brunette.
- "But you're alone! I had thought hearing a man with you!"
- "A man? In my dressing room? Marguerite Giry, some decency! I don't lock myself on the sly with a man in my boudoir!" quipped the singer with a huge jubilant smile, her eyes sparkling with happiness to see her dear comrade.
In truth, Meg was the only and unique friend that Christine possessed in all the Opera and even in all Paris, so that they had become as inseparable and close as two sisters. The reason of this isolation was due to her ambiguous condition within the Opera. The young girl had a somehow peculiar status among the artists, given that she was just as well a dancer than a soprano, which made her integration difficult and problematic. Indeed, among the corps de ballet, she was hated, because she was considered like a prima donna with her own dressing room as uncomfortable as it may be, but, she was equally shunned by the cantatrices that treated her like a simple dancer. Except for Meg that ignored these details, Christine was totally alone. The vagaries of life had transformed as the years go by this little Nordic fairy in a solitary woman.

Christine had no family. Her mother had succumbed to a vicious pneumonia when she was still a child and that she lived in a little hamlet in Sweden. Her father, Gustave Daaé, was a simple peasant that possessed, without boasting, an undoubted talent for music. The stroke of his bow was known through all expanses of Scandinavia and he was always requested to make dance the couples in weddings and in feasts. But, the poor fiddler had been for ever scarred by the loss of his spouse and decided to sell his plot of land to get away from his dark memories and to seek fortune in the cities along with his adorable little girl that he cherished more than anything. Unfortunately, he found there only misery. The father and his daughter roamed from town to village, from fair to fair, strumming his Nordic tunes on his violin while the young maiden listened to him with ecstasy and accompanied him with her angelic song.

Despite their poverty and their wandering, Christine had lived the happiest period of her life. They possessed nothing material, but they knew and esteemed the richness of love, of heart and of music. It mattered little to the girl to have varnished shoes and bedizened dresses. She loved only her father and the melody of his fiddle. Their incessant trips had finally led them in France on the Brittany shores where they meandered from harbor to harbor and slept huddled against each other in the hay of the barns. In the village of Perros-Guirec while the father played on his musical instrument one of his melancholic melody on which his daughter danced and sang, they met an old couple of bourgeois who were moved and overwhelmed by this sad litany and the farandole of this little Nordic fairy with the face of an angel. The professor Valérius undertook to cater for the meager needs of these two extraordinary artists. He offered them the shelter of his roof and the food of his table that they accepted with pleasure. At that time, Christine's father was already feeling the dusk of his existence begin and he worried about the future of his little daughter. Constantly, he was consumed and tormented from the inside by the nostalgia of the Scandinavian sky and of those blissful days he had spent with his wife and their daughter when they had been alone in the world. Many happy years passed during which father Daaé never ceased to fiddle, to sing and to tell fairytales and stories of the cold lands to his sweet Christine who was blossoming day after day. Her progresses were unlimited and everyone who saw and heard her promised her a glorious future.

But those instants of peace were cruelly wrecked by the sudden death of the violinist during their journey to visit the capital in company of Professor Valérius. He was buried in a little cemetery in Paris next to the parc de Vincennes, near this nature he had always appreciated so much and that had missed him so much. Back in the home of Perros-Guirec, Christine seemed then to have lost her voice, her genius and her soul at the same time as her father. For days she mourned him, for weeks she remained silent and for unending years she immured herself in her loneliness and grief. Then, one morning like all the previous others that had become her existence with the Valérius couple, she decided to enter in Conservatory like her father would have wished even if her heart and her enthusiasm were no more with her. She went to Paris and left the last people she regarded as her family. She still had enough talent to complete her studies without great distinction, contenting to attend the lessons and to merely maintain this gift she possessed without trying to sublime it. During her years of study, the Valérius parents succumbed one after the other to the disease, abandoning the young Christine who seemed, since then, to wither a little more each passing day.

After some mediocre and disillusioned début in various theaters, she was eventually engaged in the corps de ballet at the Opera Garnier where she played just as well the dancer than the occasional singer, but she felt more like a specter that was haunting the premises. She was only the shadow of the joyful girl who was singing and dancing on the melody of her father's violin during her time of innocence.

Standing in her modest dressing room, Christine watched the huge gilt-framed mirror built into the wall. All these events belonged to the past, to another time, to her existence before the apparition of the Voice… before the arrival of the Angel of Music. Since He had chosen her as a disciple to receive the knowledge of His divine Art, her vain and mournful life had been completely shaken. She has return to life. She had the impression that the light was again shining on her, that she wasn't abandoned anymore and that an invisible guardian watched over her fiercely. Her father had kept his promise.
- Come, Christine! We must hurry, otherwise we will be late and Mother will punish us for our lack of punctuality, advised Meg before to catch her friend's hand to incite her to leave the room.
- "Why? What's the matter? Where are we going?"
Christine followed her pal on a few recalcitrant steps while her attention was still riveted to the mirror as if she was afraid to leave it and to not find it any more at her return.
- "Honestly, you don't have forgotten! It's today that Messieurs Debienne and Poligny remit the management of the Opera to the new directors. La Carlotta intended to give them a little ceremonial speech to congratulate them. Maman wants everybody to be present," clarified the ballerina still dragging Christine in her wake.
Finally, the young lady admitted defeat and turned her eyes on Meg that she followed obediently through the maze of corridors, doors and staircases of the edifice. After several minutes of wandering, they reached the foyer de la danse where many rats and workmen of the opera were already piling up. Meg spotted quickly her mother in her long and austere black dress where she led Christine. Despite the disapproving stare of Madame Giry, the two girls innocently smiled at her as if they hadn't noticed their lateness. Nevertheless, they saw in a glance that they were hardly the last guests. The conductor, Monsieur Reyer, the singing master, Monsieur Gabriel and even Madame La Carlotta and Signor Piangi were not present yet, not to mention the principal interested Messieurs les Directeurs.

As the waiting dragged on indefinitely, the young ballerinas grew impatient and fidgeted with babbling, so very soon a chaotic uproar spread in the foyer. When the managers in company of the missing guests stood out at last on the threshold of the hall, they were greeted by a farandole of dancers playing to chase each other with loud laughs.
- "Well, I noticed that our artists know what a welcoming show means !" exclaimed one of the newcomers with gray hair and a thin mustache scrutinizing with appraising eye the horde of elegant gams that was fleeing in front of them.
Messieurs Poligny and Debienne exchanged an annoyed grimace while La Carlotta raise her eyes heavenwards with a disdain and irritated expression. The entire corps de ballet was soon gathered around the four men and under the juvenile laughter of the mischievous little band whose curiosity had been aroused by the entrance of these new bourgeois, the two former directors desperately sought the help of the Mistress of ballet they saw on the other side of the room in company of her daughter.
- "Madame Giry, please ?" called Monsieur Poligny over the din of screams and yelps.
Straight away, Madame brandished her long silver-headed cane that she struck with a hard and authoritarian whack on the ground, silencing instantly the chatter and stopping the general upheaval. The young girls scattered to line up quietly in front of the massive mirror that adorned one of the wall of the foyer of the ballet under the watchful eyes of their instructress.
- "Thank you, Madam," approved Monsieur Debienne before clearing his throat. "As you all know, the time has come for Monsieur Poligny and myself to put an end to our collaboration within the Opera Garnier," he announced with a look as saddened as relieved. "Be sure that those few years spent with artists as talented and hard-working as competent have been of the most enriching, exciting, wonderful and rewarding. In joy or in adversity, we are proud to say that we have always worked hand in hand like the big family we are. We hope the limelight will never cease to shine for you and the fabulous Opera Garnier!"
At this eulogy, a tumult of applause and whistling rose up from the audience that Monsieur Poligny took several minutes to silence before to continue the speech his partner had begun.
- "We will never thank you enough for all the given efforts and the triumphs that you have offered us," he praised, turning to the two strangers. "The adventure is maybe finished for us today, but another chapter begins for you. It's with joy and confidence that we leave you in the competent hands of the two new owners of the Opera Populaire, Monsieur Moncharmin André and Monsieur Richard Firmin."

At the call of their name, the two men briefly bowed their head in sign of thanks and salutation to which the ballerinas responded with shy curtsies and small giggles. Quickly, all the girls' gazes turned to both men they detailed meticulously. Monsieur Firmin was tall, with a severe and almost haughty aspect, a thick mass of pepper-and-salt hair surmounted his broad forehead and a large mustache with gray tips adorned his narrow mouth. Monsieur Moncharmin seemed in comparison the complete opposite of his colleague. Although he was of an honorable size, he seemed smaller and frailer than the imposing stature of his accomplice. He had opulent and shining silvery hair, a face with plain and jovial features enhanced by a thin mustache and goatee on his chin.
- "This is a great privilege for us to resume the management of the eminent and venerable Opera Populaire. And we are deeply honored to introduce our new patron," Monsieur Firmin began.
- "The Vicomte de Chagny," Monsieur Moncharmin finished.
On the threshold of the door loomed suddenly a young man with a bright smile and an attractive and almost youthful face that long bronze hair tried to make him look older. At this apparition, a rumor of admiration spread and blazed up in the corps de ballet as a wildfire. He came in a casual and confident manner toward the four men which he shook hands with alternately in warm greetings.
- "My Parents and I are proud to support all the Arts, and especially the well renowned Opera Garnier," he declared in a warm and pleasant voice worthy of a tenor. "It's with enthusiasm and hope that I foresee our collaboration which will undoubtedly continue to make shine the Academy of Music."

Near her mother behind the row of dancers, Meg tried somehow to stand on tiptoes and to crane her neck to glimpse the handsome Viscount through the crowd.
- "Christine, can you see him? Is he really as charming as everybody claims?" asked the little blond without stopping to prance.
After several infructuous and silent seconds, she turned around to talk to her friend, but the demoiselle was nowhere to be seen. She had simply vanished, disappeared into thin air or rather in the labyrinth of the Opera.
- "Christine? Where did you again take refuge?" she muttered with an unhappy pout.
If the young soprano wasn't interested in this new benefactor, Meg wasn't going to hesitate being curious and miss the festivities to run after her elusive companion.

X X X X

Kneeling on the stony ground of the modest chapel, Christine was slowly getting back her breath after her emotion and her hasty race through the long corridors and high stairs. What a surprise! She had never expected to see him again one day in such circumstances. It's been twelve years since she had not seen him, since the days where they had met for the first time on the beach at Perros-Guirec. She would always remember the brave little boy who had run into the sea to get her red scarf that the wind had snatched from her. Raoul de Chagny… Their friendship had begun at the autumn of her ten years while the young nobleman was in boarding school at his aunt's where he learned the rudiments of navigation at the insistence of his father, the Comte Philippe de Chagny, however, he quickly abandoned his tedious lessons to devote daily to her new friend, to the chagrin of his teacher.

From the day they met, the two children never left each other. They capered on the moor, laughing, climbed trees like two squirrels, picked up large shells between the pebbles at the seashore and listened tirelessly father Daaé play his melancholy tunes. But what they liked most of all, it was the fantastic stories, old Breton tales and ancient legends of the North. Almost every day, they went hand in hand and roamed the villages in search of a fable. Nobody ever locked their door for them and everyone had always a myth to tell. The goblins, elves, fairies, gnomes, ghosts and other mythical creatures frolicked in their dreamy and innocent little soul. However, their favorite moment was still when they sat by the fire with father Daaé who told them the most wonderful stories they had heard. Sometimes it was sad and sometimes it was beautiful; however the stories they cherished the most were those where the Angel of Music and Little Lotte appeared.

Throughout a carefree year, the two children lived every moment of joy together, but the following fall, their little idyll was going to break. The boy's father fell ill and he demanded the presence of his son at his side. So he left with a farewell kiss to the girl and the promise that he would return soon to her. Three years passed before he returned in Perros-Guirec. The little dreaming boy had grown up and was now a young man while Christine, even if she looked like a teenager, had kept her fanciful and playful soul. They exchanged little more than three words of politeness as he remained with father Daaé and Professor Valérius, with whom he spoke of politics and economics. Christine had to face the fact that he had forgotten her, he had matured and that her merry playmate was gone. The Viscount remained only two days in Perros before to leave again his little comrade behind him, but she realized that this time he would never come back.

Even if she resented him for having abandoned her without a word formerly, Christine could not help but be enchanted to see him again. He had become a charming and attractive gentleman who would not leave the fairer sex indifferent. She was happy for him, he had become the man he wanted and had found his place and path in life. With a pensive gaze, Christine looked up at the lighted candle on the small altar of metal where the image of his father hung.
- "Father, you'll never guess who resurfaced from the past," she asked the static and silent effigy. "My playmate, Raoul. Do you remember the endless hours we spent all three huddled by the fire listening to you telling us your old Nordic tales? These moments were magical, precious and blessed. We were alone in the world. Raoul, my childhood sweetheart," she sighed with a dreamy look and a bright smile.
Silence hovered around her while her eyes wandered over the fresco painted on the wall before her, an angel in prayer with an ample white robe and golden wings. A breath passed across her face and made the candles flicker before a murmur rises in the narrow room.
- "Oh, Christine…"
She had never heard her name uttered in a tone as devastated, sorrowful and sad, but yet so sweet and harmonious. She would recognize this voice among thousands without hesitation.
- "Angel, are you there?" she asked, scrutinizing each wall around her.
At this moment, one of the walls shook with a thud as if someone had hit it with violence.
- "Why, Christine?" grated the Voice bitterly.
- "Angel, what's going on? You seem upset," she said alarmed, standing up on her knees, anxious to hear as much sorrow as anger in his words.
In answer, she heard the noise of a metal object crashing on the ground, followed by a hoarse and raging roar.
- "No… no! Never!" roared the Spirit.
Again, silence fell in the chapel and, whereas before it was soothing and comforting, it now seemed austere and oppressive. Frightened at the thought she had done something wrong that had offended her Angel, she called him desperately on numerous occasions. But no reply came. She hastened to kneel before her candle, clasped her hands and prayed for hours in the hope that the Angel of Music would hear her and come back.

She remained all day in the cold and austere chapel without ceasing to invoke her Genius of Music, but no voice rose in response to her prayer. After hours of fruitless waiting, she heard music and songs buzzing in her ears in the midst of her desperate and rambling thoughts. Hope clutched her heart; unfortunately she soon realized that it wasn't her Guardian, but the noise of the stage. Apparently, the gala evening was at its peak. Discouraged and destroyed, Christine's head slumped against her chest and a solitary tear rolled down her cheek like a dewdrop. For the first time since he had entered her life, the Angel did not answer her call. It was with heavy and saddened heart that she left the crypt to join her dorm where rats of the Opera were preparing to sleep after their long day's work. As she lay on her little bed and pulled the blankets under her chin, she uttered a last request to the Voice asking for forgiveness. She fell asleep with the faint hope that he would be present at dawn to give her daily singing lessons that he had never missed.

He had not come. After she awoke, Christine had hastened to join her dressing room to receive her instruction, but he never came. The Angel had simply disappeared. Had he also abandoned her as her mother and father and the parents Valérius had done before? What crime had she committed to deserve such punishment? Was she doomed to remain forever separated from those she loved? Was there no one to save her from her loneliness, to guide her and love her? She refused that this story ends like this. She was ready to endure any penance to be forgiven and brought back her Mentor. She had to return to the source of his invocation, where she's heard him for the first time. After having made some arrangements with the coachman of the Opera, she returned in the dormitory to change clothes where she was joined by Meg who sat cross-legged on the bunk next to Christine's one.
- "Christine! But where had you disappeared? You really missed everything yesterday during the gala night in honor for the managers" cheered the dancer, clapping her hands gleefully while Christine was turning her back on her. "The Phantom has made an appearance last night. In reality, he was sighted on two occasions," she exulted, beginning to wrap a blond strand of her long hair around her tiny fingers. "After your departure, the Vicomte has graciously offered champagne to the whole assembly and, according to Jammes, the Phantom had crossed the room like a shadow to steal a bottle of champagne and drop a welcome message for the new owners. Maman has found it on a chair near the mirrors. You should have seen the faces of Messieurs Poligny and Debienne when she has read them the missive. They were as pale as if they had actually seen the Ghost. As for the new directors, they thought it was a joke and they laughed a lot, but they will soon be disappointed when they will realize that it's not a joke and that the Phantom is not to be taken lightly," chuckled Meg without that Christine looked at her once. "Then, Buquet has glimpsed him in the flies during the performance, at the same time one of the capstans uncoiled, releasing one of the scene's canvases that collapsed on Carlotta in the middle of her lyrical flights. You should have seen that. It took almost fifteen minutes to the machinists to release her from the hanging while she insulted them continually," laughed Meg, holding her sides.
In front of her, Christine continued her dressing without blinking, or talking as if she was unaware of her friend's presence. With a displeased sigh, the dancer got up and approached the little brunette.
- "You are quite silent. Usually, that kind of incident make you laugh out loud. Something's wrong?" she asked, sinking gracefully on the bed of her friend.
Immediately, she noticed Christine's red and puffy eyes while she finished lacing her bodice.
- "You cried? What has happened?" she worried.
- "Nothing. All is well, Meg."
- "No, you seem upset," claimed the young woman taking her hands to get her attention. "We are friend, Christine. You know you can tell me everything!"
- "Thank you, Meg… but it's a problem I have to settle alone," eluded the diva pressing affectionately the palms of her comrade before releasing them to catch her mantle.
- "Are you leaving? But where are you going? Mom will be furious to see you missed rehearsals for two consecutive days. Do you realize that she will punish you for your lack of discipline?" Meg told, trying to reason her.
- "I know, but it's a risk I must take!" she explained, capping a black shawl around her head. "Thank you to worry about me, Marguerite! You're the best friend I can have!" Christine whispered before kissing her cheek gently. "I must go."
At these words she turned and left Meg lost in her own procrastination in the middle of the empty dormitory. The ballerina shook her head in perplexity. For several months she no longer recognized her friend who reacted unpredictably and sometimes senseless as if someone else controlled her thoughts and actions. She wondered what could be the secret she was hiding and that she could not even share with her best friend. With an exasperated sigh, she got up and quickly returned to her dance classes before her mother noticed her absence and scolded her.

Christine knew this trip by heart. It was a ritual she performed regularly and that always helped her to relieve her pain and to clarify her thoughts. Her gaze lost in the bright red petals of roses she had bought at a florist on the road, Christine let her thoughts drift slowly back to that day when she had heard him for the first time. That had happened more than three months ago, but she remembered it as if it was the day before.

For several days, she had been the target of mockery and criticism of La Carlotta and her mood had deteriorated severely, her thoughts were helpless and moody, her energy drained from her body and mind. Her soul in torment, she had gone to the cemetery to pray at her father's grave hoping that being close to him would help relieve her grief. For hours she had stayed kneeling near the monument whispering to him, spilling her misfortunes and her ephemeral joys in the hope that he would hear her prayers. Carried away by her feelings of desolation and unspeakable sorrow, she had begun to sing with all the torments that weighed on her heart. She had mourned the premature and unjust loss of her father who had been her only friend, this man who had been the center of her universe whose foundations had collapsed at his death. She had begged the heavens for a chance, if only for a brief moment, to hear his voice again, to hug him and to see his face a last time. The more she had sunk into despair, the more her words and her singing had gained in strength and intensity as if the music had suddenly taken control of her being.

While she proclaimed her sadness with all her soul, the melody of a violin was heard in the cemetery to accompany the lyrical voice of the young woman. Christine had thought at first that her afflicted reason was playing her tricks and that she was delirious, but after several minutes, she had realized that the instrument followed her words and played her melody. She had thought that a musician was standing in the area and had overheard her bitter singing by which he had been upset and had chosen to accompany her. Intrigued by this sweet and amazing melody, Christine had left the tomb and wandered in the sanctuary in search of the musician. She had chased the lament amidst the graves and each time she believed herself close to it, it had gone away and had reappeared in another corner of the park. After long minutes of pursuit, she had found herself at her starting point where the chant changed and intensified. It was at that moment, amid the silence of the dead and the mystical notes spilled by this invisible violin that she had heard his harmonious and heavenly Voice for the first time. The Angel of Music had revealed himself to her senses and had called her to him. This meeting had taken place many months ago, and since that blessed day, he had been omnipresent in Christine's existence, guiding her destiny and healing her forlorn soul. He had become her Guardian.

When the team reached the entrance of the small park, Christine thanked the driver and dismissed him, explaining that she preferred to walk home to soothe her mind. With a neglected shrug, the driver snapped the reins and drove away, leaving Christine alone in front of the tall gates of the rudimentary and silent cemetery. The paths of this tiny necropolis had no secrets for her, so she could browse them eyes closed to reach her destination without even getting wrong. After several minutes of silent wandering among the gray headstones springing from the ground like ghosts, she walked to a corner a bit isolated with rows of more sober and indigent graves. She approached one of them and knelt humbly at the foot of the tomb engraved with the name of Gustave Daaé. Breathing for the last time the flowers sweet fragrance, she carefully placed the bouquet on the ground of the vault.
- "Bonjour, papa. I brought you a small gift… red roses… your favorite flowers," she announced wistfully, then her shoulders sagged and her head bowed despondently. "Oh, Papa, I wish you could be somehow here to provide me advice. It's been several months since the Angel of Music visits me every day to teach me his Art and, under his tutelage, I'm progressing continuously and with extraordinary rapidity, so that my voice seems not to belong to me. I even sometimes do not recognize me when I sing. In his presence, I have the feeling to touch the Skies and fly among the Angels," she marveled with a faint smile. "But Papa, I think I did something wrong and have sorely disappointed him… Yesterday in the morning, I went in the chapel of the Opera to be with you, but this is my Guardian that I have found. When he spoke to me, his Voice was broken, distant, shattered… He seemed upset, then I heard a scream of rage and despair before the mournful silence fell around me," she moaned, tears begin to flow freely down her pale cheeks. "I prayed in vain to be forgiven and bring him back to me… but he never responded to my call. I fear that he has fled and he will never come back… Oh, Papa, if you knew how I regret… Whatever my sin, I am ready to endure every penitence to bring him back to me. I swear to obey him blindly and faithfully," she promised in a sad, but resolute tone. "His Voice has become to me as vital as the air I breathe… His divine song exacerbates in my heart strange and unknown feelings of which I have become intoxicated. Far from his aura, I'm just a shadow, wandering aimlessly. His silence is the worst punishment I could suffer. Without him, my life has no further purpose. I need him to teach me to live… to give me the strength to face the future… to love me."
At these words, her body bent even more to the point she was almost prostrate on the grave, hiding her tearful face against her hands folded in prayer.
- "Père, I beg you… Beseech the Angel to return to my side… to grant me his mercy," she whimpered bitterly. "Angel, my soul is weak… Forgive me…"
Her last words were stifled and strangled by the flood of tears that flowed in torrents down her distraught face. She knew that such a demonstration of disgrace and self-pity was not going to plead for her with her Guardian, but she could not restrain her tears. Her sorrow, her remorse and her shame were too unbearable for her weakened heart.

A slight breeze sprang up suddenly, bringing in its volutes the tenuous and indistinct rumor of a melancholy melody. Deafened by her sobs, Christine didn't hear at all the bitter lamentation of that sweet and mysterious chant that seemed to accompany each trickle of her tears. It was only when the complaint magnified, intensified, vibrated and unfurled around her like two familiar and comforting arms, she realized a violin poured its sad notes in the cemetery. She abruptly raised her head with hope of seeing this artist capable of making cry his bow with such accuracy and skill. The area was deserted, yet she was convinced that the player and his music were just steps away from her. It seemed as if this requiem sprang from her father's grave. Her heart skipped a beat and her breath froze on a gasp at the thought that her prayer had been heard.
- "Who is it there, staring?" she exclaimed into the wind without stopping to peer into the surroundings.
Immediately, the melody softens and embellished in the same movement as if suddenly a chorus of Cherubs approached her to whisper in her hear.
- "Have you forgotten your Angel of Music?" announced the harmonious Voice.
- "Angel, I hear you… Speak… I listen…"
- "Christine, I apologize for my improper and unworthy behavior of yesterday. The reason was that I heard your words about this… boy and I thought you had broken your promise, given in to human temptation and denied my protection. But your presence here shows me that I was wrong, that you've remained loyal to me and didn't betray me."
- "I never could! You are my Guardian… my eternal Light that guides me, glowing in the world unfathomable and oppressive darkness. I can't live without you," she revealed fervently.
- "Do I understand that you still want to receive my teaching?"
- "Yes, I implore you! I would do anything you want, if you agree to return to me."
- "Christine, if our relationship continues, sacrifices will be required from you!" he admitted gravely. "Are you ready to give up your earthly pleasures, your material possessions, and your simple mortal life? Will you devote yourself wholeheartedly to your Art, work without complaining or challenging and surpass yourself to reach the glory and know the music of Heaven? Will you bear to suffer for excel?" he asked with a cold tone in which could be guessed, however, affection and kindness.
- "Yes, my Angel, I am your faithful and devoted servant!" she proclaimed, bowing her face with humility.
- "So be it! By the oath you swore, now, you are no longer just a student, but a protégée from the Angel of Music. As such, you owe me obedience and loyalty, and in exchange, I will teach you to sing like the Immortal Seraphs!" he said solemnly.
- "Yes, my Angel, I promise !" she uttered in a glorified and pious whisper.
- "Go now, Christine! Return to the Opera and take some rest. Tomorrow will begin your Initiation. A long and difficult path lies before you, during which many sacrifices will be necessary," he concluded in a sepulchral breath as though he spoke from the limbo of another world, from the confines of Heaven.
The music that had not ceased to undulate around them during their conversation weakens gradually as if the violinist was moving away from the tomb until it disappears completely. Christine knew that the Angel was gone, but she was not frightened. He had sworn to return to her and baptized her in the sacred fire from which he had sprung.
-"Thank you, Father…" she murmured weakly before signing.

Her fears finally calmed, she rose and left the cemetery to take the road that would bring her to the Palais Garnier. For several hours, she strolled in the busy and turbulent streets of Paris, harmonizing and calming her upset thoughts and emotions. It was clear mind and a heart full of hope that she arrived at the opera where Madame Giry was waiting her with a scowling look.