Epilogue Part I

Told by Erik

A single tear trickled down the unruined side of my face as I emerged from my place of hiding and watched the automobile disappear over the hill. Farewell Comte. Someday I should like to thank you for caring for our dear Christine, for giving her so much love. But I doubt that I shall ever have such an opportunity. And yet somehow, I knew that he understood. There was no more hatred between us, and there had not been for quite some time. He was her protector. I could no more hate the other man who loved Christine than I could abhor Christine herself.

A faint breeze stirred the leaves at my feet, sending them dancing toward the gravestone that stood above Christine's body. It was over now. I had said my goodbye and it was time to go home. I sighed heavily, and then with labored steps prepared to leave. But I would not be allowed the bliss of seclusion as I died. I would not meet death alone in the darkness beneath the opera.

Even as my heart had let my beloved go, my legs rebelled, giving way beneath me. With a cry I crumpled to the ground. I tried in vain to drag myself back to the carriage that had taken me there. The horse stamped his feet impatiently, but I had not the strength to crawl out of the graveyard, let alone to pull myself up into the empty driver's seat. My fists gave a few angry strikes at the ground and then I was still except for my heavy breathing. It was useless.

For what seemed to be a long time I remained in that position. I do not know how long; it could have been hours, it could have been mere minutes. Time had no meaning anymore. When I regained a bit of strength I began to move toward my new goal. Burning tears left their trails down my face as I heaved my stubborn body toward the foot of Christine's grave. The process was long and painful. My fingers were bleeding, leaving trails of red in the brown and golden leaves.

Finally I arrived. The last thing that I heard was the playing of a familiar song, Masquerade. The little monkey's cymbals clanged in time to the tune. And then I was plunged into blissful unconsciousness.

When I awoke again night had fallen. It was a long, bitterly cold night. The wind whipped unmercifully around the headstones and my skeletal cloak-clad form, a form that did not seem out of place in a churchyard, for it looked as though it belonged among the dead. Sleet began to fall, harsh glacial balls of freezing rain, numerous and larger than normal. I could not move and so I, along with the gravestones, was covered in a blanket that gave no warmth. I wept, and my tears froze upon my skin. Desperately, I burrowed closer to Christine's gravestone in hopes of gaining some shelter, but there was none to be found.

By some singular mercy I slept a while. My sleep was flooded with torturous dreams of Christine, but I could not feel the icy weather and for that I was grateful. Again and again I saw my beloved standing there, and I would run towards her only to be meant with cold, unyielding stone. I awoke once more to find that the sleet had dwindled to a gentle shower. But where was I? Disoriented, I placed one hand to my throbbing head as I took in the scene around me. Gigantic stone figures loomed above me. In every direction that my eyes darted I saw the same thing: the ashen forms of stone angels.

I felt myself reeling even as I lay on the ground. The figures seemed to live, to breathe, and to watch me. My terrified eyes fell upon Christine's portrait once more. Somewhere in the back of my frenzied mind I knew where I was, but the same cold stone of my dreams was before me, beneath my grasp. This was cruelty of the worst kind, to be so near to my Christine and yet unable to reach out and hold her. I was bound to her now; it was she who held my chains. My soul and even my broken body would not allow me to give her up and leave, not even to die. Never would I leave her again. Oh, but surely I would not see her again! When I passed from this earth I could not go to heaven where Christine unquestionably must be. That would be the worst of all, a punishment I more than deserved, to wander in darkness forever separated from Christine. No hell-fire could be more terrible than that.

The graven angels seemed to be closing in on me now. I crouched at the foot of Christine's grave, squeezing my eyes shut as tightly as possible and clenching my hands to my chest in a gesture of supplication, willing it all to go away. And there, in the muddled delirium of my intense grief, I cried out to my Maker. For the first time in my life I spoke to Him with no trace of anger:

"Oh God, please do not separate me from Christine! Please. She needs me…. I need her! They say that you are merciful. Show mercy to this pitiful creature now. I have lived a lifetime of hell with this hideous face that you molded. Is not that enough? Help me! All of my years at the Opera I have ruled, manipulated, and dominated, but now I am powerless to see my love even once more. I have been an appalling excuse for a man, a murderer and a thief. No priest would hear my confession with this face, and even if he would, this demon could not set foot in a church. There is no deadly sin that I have not committed. But long ago Christine told me that I was not alone, and I believed her. If you are truly out there, if you are truly merciful, forgive me. I want to be in heaven where there is music and peace. Take me home."

Gazing toward the heavens, I thought for a moment that I saw something in the clouds. The figures where faint and ethereal, wispy as the clouds that surrounded them, but I was almost certain that I had seen an angel and dear Madame Giry. Beside them stood a man with a violin whom I recognized to be Christine's father, Gustave Daaé. And there, pushing her way to the front of the little crowd, was Christine. Oh Christine! The image was gone as quickly as it had come. I shook my head in a futile attempt to clear it of such nonsense, but in my heart I hoped that I had not imagined the figures. Then wearily I closed my eyes, welcoming the comforts of death and the hope of a new life with my Christine.

Epilogue Part II

Told by Raoul

The corners of my lips turned up in a sad smile as I read the brief note. I had been correct in my suspicions. The morning following my visit to Christine's grave I received an urgent message from the groundskeeper of the graveyard. It seems that a body had been found huddled at the base of my wife's grave. Such news would have been a shock to most husbands, but the idea did not disconcert me. I had known that he would be coming.

And so it was on that damp morning that I returned to the cemetery yet again, accompanied by our second son, Christophe Philippe. His presence was a great comfort to me. He had Christine now in death as I had her in life; there was no doubt of it. But at least she had left me our children. The last days of my life would not be spent alone.

The nervous groundskeeper meant us at the gate and guided us to the all too familiar site. The disheveled shell of a man that I saw before me was hardly recognizable, save for the mask. His body was broken, painfully thin, and soaked from the night's rain. There was no bitterness left in my heart for him now, and so we buried him beside my wife in an unmarked grave. He was on her left, and someday I would take my place at her right. I knew deep within my heart that Christine would have wished it so. It was where he belonged.

Fine