A/N—In which things happen around the Opera….
The Usual Disclaimer—these characters are not mine, belonging as they do to the heirs of M. Leroux, to Sir A. L. Webber and the RUG, and to Susan Kay. I thank them for the privilege of their use. All errors concerning the Paris Opera, Paris, music, religion, military history, and the French and Farsi languages are unfortunately mine, and for that, I do apologize.
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A Second Chance
Chapter 7
Copyright 2003, 2004, 2016 by Riene
Love isn't always a victimless crime
Some make it through, but some don't survive
Human emotions are not always kind
So soft do you whisper, so soft your goodbye
One less companion to haunt you at night
Like a ghost I will flee you, with the moon on the right
No more confusion you left behind
So soft do you whisper, so soft your goodbye
One little reason why all of your feelings have changed
I thought that true love was yours and mine
'Til the end of time…
Was it all in my mind?
What will you leave me to help me survive?
A picture, a flower, a tear from your eye?
What will I ask you that might change your mind
And wait for your answer, a tender reply
So soft do you whisper, so soft your goodbye.
-Randy Goodrum, So Soft Your Goodbye,
as performed by Maura O'Connell
He awoke in the stygian darkness to knives of pain and rolled over, instantly regretting that choice. Clutching his skull, he lurched to a chair and willed the throbbing to ease. These attacks would surely kill him some day, Erik thought bleakly. He lay still and waited for the nausea to pass.
Alone in the small flat, Christine finished the myriad small chores of the morning briskly. Rehearsal today, a small amount of shopping on the way home, a bit of sewing to do, and perchance a quiet evening were in order. The weather seemed a trifle warmer, perhaps only a shawl would do.
The daily post arrived just as she was about to hail a cab for the Opera. Sorting through the letters and circulars, one envelope covered in foreign stamps and familiar handwriting stood out. Thrusting the others down into her handbag to read later, Christine carried it over to the garden bench in the watery spring sunshine..
My Dearest Christine,
We are docked at the Port of Gibraltar, in southern Spain, and how I wish you could see it. It is much warmer here than chilly France. The sun shines on the sea, the birds call overhead, the flowers are already blooming. The marketplace is fascinating with the local people selling all manner of goods in the shops and stalls. I will try to find a small gift for you, my love, so be on watch for it.
The Guyenne is making good time toward the Mediterranean Sea and the wind has been in our favor. The men are in good spirits; my captain is hard but fair, and well respected.
I cannot help but think of you and wish you well. Please write as you can, and know that if you ever need anything, you may go to Philippe. He is proud but would assist you for my sake.
The sea is not as blue as your eyes.
All my love,
Raoul
Smiling through tears, Christine gently replaced the letter back into its envelope and pulled the shawl more tightly about her shoulders, thinking. Dear Raoul. The letter would have taken some time to reach her. The Guyenne would be long past Gibraltar now. It was kind of him, but circumstances would need be truly desperate before she would ever go see Philippe.
Their last interview still rang in her ears. He had come to her dressing room after a performance, proper in his coat and hat, and told her in no uncertain terms that she was not to see his brother Raoul again.
"The de Chagny family is old and respected. We trace our blood back to the Crusades," he had sneered. "I will not allow it diluted with that of a chorus girl, one who is not even French. I have arranged a commission for Raoul with the Navy. He will be gone soon, and forget you even sooner."
Raoul was gone too soon after that, and life at the Opera had resumed its dull but steady pace. Repairs continued on the stage and stalls, the management sought to hire replacements for the singers, dancers, and stagehands, some of whom had not returned, some of whom had not survived that night of fire and chaos. For a while, the voices in her head had been silent.
His hands pawed her breasts, his lips left a trail of saliva down her neck, but always, always just out of view. Even the scent he wore was unpleasant, cloying. Christine repressed another shudder and scrubbed furiously at her skin until it was bright red. Not even the hottest of baths could dispel the feeling of contamination. His mere touch left her feeling soiled.
"Come," she called distractedly, in response to a soft tapping, and Meg's impish face appeared around the door.
"I came to see if you had time to go across the street to the café or boulangerie."
Christine nodded. "Yes, let me finish up here."
Meg watched as she pushed back the basin. "Rehearsal with Luigi again?" she asked sympathetically.
Christine grimaced. "How I detest that man."
"He is horrible," Meg agreed, then sighed. "But he is so good-looking."
"And unfortunately, he can sing," Christine said ruefully, drying her hands. "I think we are stuck with him. What does your mamman think?"
"That she will beat me if I am ever alone with him." Meg smiled and leaned forward, eyes sparkling with mischief. "The dressers say he pads his costume's codpiece."
"Meg!" The two girls tried to smother giggles. "Truly?"
The little dancer nodded. "Perhaps his voice is all he has?" They collapsed in laughter and headed out the door.
Over café au lait and pain du chocolat, Meg studied her friend shrewdly. "What's wrong, Christine? You seem distracted."
The younger singer squeezed her friend's hand in apology. "I am sorry. I'm just thinking." She dug in her small handbag and handed Meg a very official looking letter. At Christine's nod Meg opened it and began to scan the contents, frowning.
"Your rooms, Christine!" She raised sympathetic eyes. "Where will you go?"
"I'm not sure yet," she replied thoughtfully. "It's all so sudden." A memory, unbidden, came to her of standing with Raoul in the rain only a few months ago, as the village priest intoned words over a casket. He had been so kind that week, arranging for the burial in the small village where Mama Valerius had lived as a child, and standing by her at the services. Christine had known she would not be able to stay in the small flat, but other events at the Opera had pushed the problem aside. She frowned. "I'll find rooms somewhere, I suppose."
Meg eyes danced. "I shall ask Mamman if you may sleep on our sofa in the meantime."
Christine laughed softly. "Poor Madame, how she'd hate that." The two girls smiled at each other, remembering their teenaged years and Meg's exasperated mother.
"We were très horrible, were we not?"
"I am certain she wanted to skin us both alive," Meg smiled. "I cannot imagine why she didn't."
The wooden step pivoted beneath his foot and M Firmin crashed heavily to the floor, barely catching himself on the rail.
"Richard!" cried André behind him, hurrying up to where he lay, clutching his chest. "What happened? Are you all right?"
"The damned step, it just spun when I stepped upon it!" gasped Firmin. "Help me to stand, Gilles, I beg you. I fear my knee is wrenched."
André tread carefully the remaining stairs and offered a hand to his partner. Firmin staggered to his feet, sweating and puffing. "Give me an arm, Gilles, I cannot walk."
Shooing away the gaping onlookers, slowly the two men limped back down to their office where Firmin demanded a restorative glass of brandy and a footstool for his aching knee, and the Opera doctor summoned.
"I could have been killed, André," he muttered. "You must get the workmen to see to those steps, and check all others. It's like some damned trick that he would have set up."
André fervently crossed himself. "Do not even say that, my friend. He is dead, let the dead remain buried."
Firmin reached up, seized the other man's arm. "Is he dead, André? Truly dead?"
André pushed him back down to his chair. "That is the brandy talking, Firmin; you have had enough. Of course he is dead; the men saw to that. Now rest, the doctor will be here soon, and you should not agitate yourself further."
A swish of taffeta at the door announced another arrival. Mme Giry stepped into the office, frowning. "What is happening? The corps are wild with rumors of an accident." She put her hands on her hips and gazed disapprovingly at Firmin, still clutching a huge snifter of brandy.
M André bustled forward, taking her elbow in an attempt to remove her from the office. "It is nothing, Madame Giry. M Firmin slipped on the stairs and has wrenched his knee. No one is dead, it was just an accident."
"It was that damned ghost, I say," Firmin muttered, and Andre turned back exasperated.
"Firmin, you must stop saying that! You will get the entire ensemble worked up over nonsense! He was just a man! He is now dead! He cannot bother us again! Tell him, Madame Giry!"
Adele Giry surveyed the two managers coolly and raised an eyebrow. "He was a man, it is true. Perhaps now he is truly a ghost. I cannot say." On that cryptic utterance, she flipped her braid over her shoulder and left in a swirl of black skirts.
Backstage the story passed from ear to ear quickly. Two workmen were dispatched to see to the wooden stairs, and upon examining the loose step merely shrugged. The holes were there but the screws were not, but it might have been an oversight, who knew?
Others took the opportunity to gossip with the more recently hired members of the Opera House, reveling in the chance to spread and perhaps embroider the scandal and tales of last autumn and winter. The stories even reached the ears of the principals, but Gabrielle Krauss merely raised her eyebrows and murmured, "Oh, indeed," in a gently dismissive way. "Nonsense!" trumpeted M. Giraudet. Léon Melchissédec had shaken his head and refused to comment, but Luigi Bartoldi had found a willing informant in the shape of a junior stagehand only too eager to talk.
He slid the bottle across the table invitingly and waited as Jules took a long swallow. "Now, what is this I hear about an "opera ghost?" Luigi said carelessly, and Jules leaned forward. Fools, they were. The more he expressed disbelief, the more they spoke. Emboldened by liquor and impressed with his audience, the young man related the events of the previous autumn and winter. Eyes glittering, Luigi absorbed it all.
"It was not of my doing," Erik said levelly, steepling his fingers.
Mme Giry faced him across the silent storeroom. "Erik, you must be more circumspect. M Firmin already suspects," she said worriedly.
"Pah. He is a fool." But Erik's eyes glinted strangely beneath the mask.
"I saw him emerging from the third level this morning, with the workmen. He said he had gone to be sure the 'work they had done' was still secure."
"The more fool he if he thinks there was only one entrance below."
Adele Giry shivered at the cold arrogance in his tone. "It is best he think so."
"Your concern is touching," he sneered, and Erik disappeared into the shadows.
No, he thought, no one knew of the many passages, alcoves, hidden rooms of this building, none but him, the master designer who had kept work crews shifted so that no one team ever completed a section or discovered his ultimate purpose, of designing a labyrinth, a place of safety and retreat.
Seething, he stalked the upper levels of the silent Opera House. That they sought to violate his sanctuary once again was infuriating. Was there to be no end to this hellish interference in his life? Pain lacing through his body forcing him to slow and lean, gasping against a wall. The lure of old vices, opium, morphine, brandy, called to him seductively. Merciful oblivion, for a few hours, until he woke again from nightmares, alone in his cold bed, the jeers and blows of frenzied hatred still echoing in his mind. Forcing his thoughts from such horrors, he straightened, leaning on the cane. Perhaps the night cold of the Opera rooftop would numb his aching body.
She stood, leaning one temple against the gilded statue. The lights of Paris dimmed into a golden haze below as the lowering mist clung like tiny beads to her skirt. It was quieter up here, away from everyone, from the incessant babble of voices, the sideways looks, the not-quite-veiled innuendo, the unending tittle-tattle of weeks past. The day, another long day of vocal practice, bickering amongst the cast, parrying the hands and subtle comments of Sr. Bartoldi, of too little food and too much coffee, of obdurate silence from the mirror, weighed her steps like chains. She rubbed her temples, feeling the gathering tension. There was no point in explaining; she didn't understand it all, herself.
Perhaps it was the soft susurration of his cloak against the snow that alerted her to his presence. She could feel his malevolent yellow eyes boring into her back, but she tightened her clasp on the statue and steeled herself to not turn around. After a moment he came to stand just behind her, staring out at the city below.
"No, don't look at me," he said harshly, and she forced her gaze back to his feet. Was that the edge of a stick by the boot, just hidden in the velvet folds?
"Go inside, Christine," he said mockingly. "The night air isn't good for your…health."
Fear can turn to love, you'll learn to see, to find the man behind the mask…
Christine shuddered, turned, gathered her skirts, and fled.
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