The house on the lake was in tatters, so destroyed was it that it barely resembled her fading memories. She could barely stifle the melancholy sob that threatened to escape her throat. All the beauty, knowledge and accumulated relics—they were all destroyed in a rage born from the blackest despair, most likely because he thought I would never keep my promise and return, Christine thinks to herself. A tear forms in her right eye, overflowing the delicate lower lid and trickling down her cheek.
The man whom Erik would refer to as Daroga or a "great booby", the same man everyone else simply referred to as le Perse, took notice of her presence. He looks up at her from a lone surviving stuffed chair, and says, "Mademoiselle Daaé?" Christine nods without saying a word. He then gets up and motions for her to follow him. He leads her to the Louis-Philippe room, where once she stayed, the memory still vivid in her mind, although even then it was already fading.
"He is dying, mademoiselle," the Persian speaks. "As I suppose you probably already know." She knows this deep in her heart, and has since she saw the ad in the Époque. "He would like to see you alone, one last time before he is totally gone. He has something to say or give to you that he refuses to tell to me about."
She walks in the room that once was filled with fresh flowers for her as he plunges again into yet another terrible coughing fit. She runs to his side, weeping openly tears that she had long ago denied could ever happen again. He has his mask off, she notices as he turns his terrible head towards the sound of her quiet crying, dark, lifeless eyes wet with unshed tears. Unlike the times before that she had seen him, she does not flinch. The corners of his twisted mouth turn in a tiny, pained smile.
"Do not…do not cry, …ma cherie," he whispers pleadingly. Gone is the rich and sensual voice that could overpower a hundred men or calm the most troubled heart. "It will be…over…soon, …I believe. No more…will you need…to think…of me again, ma petite… Remember…that from now on, your…family…" He coughs again and she dutifully rubs his bony chest to massage the ache away. "Your family…will always have…a guardian angel…watching over them."
"I brought you the ring you had me keep, Erik," Christine sobs.
"You may do as I instructed…when I am dead… But," he sighs. "I will give you another ring, a special ring, imbued with a strange magic and a…link…to my eternal soul… A token—if you will—of my…everlasting…love for you…and a sign that I am… watching…over your…family." He is quiet and so still that she thinks he has finally passed on, but he grabs her arm in his deathly sold hands and says, "However, if you or your descendents should ever break your promise by losing, selling, or damaging the ring, I cannot be…responsible…for what will happen. A curse placed long ago…will be…fulfilled."
And with that, his grip relaxes and the little fire remaining in his eyes went out. He was dead, after all this time, and all the pain and hardships he had to live through. Acting upon his final wishes, she completes them silently, with the help of the Persian for some of the more laborious tasks set out, weeping the whole time as only those touched by a greater, darker love of the most terrible kind cry when they lose the one that had touched them.
Christine and Raoul were married and traveled to the great northlands, producing from their love, many strong children. The strongest of the bloodlines that could be traced down the generations to two families: one in America, in hiding from their own relatives and the French police for a grievous crime done out of spite and bitterness, and the other, still in France, holders to the titles, lands, and fortunes, still grieving the loss of their first-born son, the culmination of the line with the strongest of the de Chagny blood running through his veins.