8: Changes
After that, Christine came back to visit now and then. She seemed happy to be with Monsieur, and yet Madeleine was unsure about that. Something in Christine's voice and manner struck Madeleine as artificial, as though the singer were performing a role. Yet, at other times, she spoke to Monsieur with warmth and sympathy. Christine never sought Madeleine out for private conversations; if they chanced to be alone together, she was always polite, but had little to say.
Monsieur went out one day, a few days after Christine's latest visit. He was gone for many hours, and when he returned, he slammed the door and went straight to the pipe organ in his bedroom. Thunderous, tormented chords filled the house for an hour or more. Madeleine was afraid. Clearly something very bad had happened, and Madeleine guessed that it had to do with Christine. Had she thrown in her lot with that other man? Had Monsieur discovered it? What could be going through his mind?
O-O-O
He watched his own hands on the keyboard as he played. Hands with the skill to create all manner of clever devices, hands which could conjure the music of angels from the most mundane of instruments, hands which now called up discords to echo his turbulent thoughts.
So, my lady, you thought you could escape me by fleeing to the roof? How little you know me, after all, how little you know the extent of my domain. And now you prefer the pretty boy to me? You offer him your lips, which were never offered to Erik? Beware, my Christine, that the boy does not betray you as you have betrayed me. What poetic justice it would be, for you to feel the anguish that now consumes me.
Oh, but you throw me some crumbs. How kind! You give me your pity. You praise my music. How generous!
You like music, my dear? Then Erik will give you music! Music such as the world has never heard, music to ensnare you, mind, heart and soul. You should have loved Erik when he gave you the chance. But now, I promise you, one way or another, you shall be mine!
The slender hands on the keyboard changed their movements, summoning forth chords of power and triumph. Hands which could say anything.
Hands which could deliver death.
O-O-O
Christine never returned, and Monsieur changed in the days and weeks that followed. The evening conversations stopped. His absences grew less predictable, and Madeleine ceased her wanderings, lest they be discovered. He talked to himself, sometimes giving vent to malicious laughs, more often to angry curses. These were not directed at Madeleine, but she took care to do her work properly, and not to give him cause for complaint.
She soon realised that Monsieur was throwing himself into his music more than ever, composing and playing pieces which she had never heard before. This new work unsettled her. It sounded full of anger and pain. One evening, he was working at the piano while she washed dishes. The playing had paused, as it often did while he wrote, but she was startled suddenly to feel his hand on her shoulder as he turned her to face him. Her face was wet with tears.
"Why are you crying?" he asked abruptly.
"It… that music… it is so sad. Like… a lead weight, here." She pressed a hand to her chest. "So much pain…"
"Good. If it affects you like that, with your musical naïveté, it will affect even those closed-eared morons up in the Opera House. And the piece I was playing this afternoon… what did you make of that?"
"It frightened me," she replied at once. "Anger, power… like thunder. I mean, it did not sound like thunder, but it carried the threat." She wiped her eyes with an unsteady hand. "I have never heard anything like it…"
"That is because you have never known anyone like me," he asserted. "My life story is in that music, the work of years. Anguish, fury… Many things. But now I shall have it performed, full orchestra, full cast of singers. I must form it into an opera, shape it to a mould which they will understand. And then… my triumph."
He returned to work, and did not speak to her again for some time. For a day or two, he worked on one song that had a light-hearted joy which cheered Madeleine, but when it was finished he returned to the darker themes, carrying undercurrents of rage, or of cruelty. He sat at piano or organ, seemingly for days on end, with little rest. He never stopped for meals. Madeleine, unasked, would put food and drink on a tray and set it down where he could see it. When she retrieved the tray later, sometimes he had eaten, sometimes not. She was afraid for him, and it was with relief that, one day, she heard the thump of a book being closed, and his mutter of, "It is done."
Once more he began leaving the apartment regularly. At home, he sometimes spoke to her, and she understood that the opera company was rehearsing his work, Don Juan Triumphant. She thought he had used threats to enforce his will on them. He talked of various cast members, the parts they played, their foibles and weaknesses, but he never mentioned the leading lady of his opera. Madeleine felt sure that it must be Christine, but her name remained unspoken. He was exultant that his work was to be performed in this grand setting, but anger still burned in him. Sometimes he talked to himself of betrayal and revenge. Madeleine continued to keep the spare room clean and ready, but he no longer checked her work.
The day came when Don Juan Triumphant was to open. Monsieur left the apartment early, and Madeleine was oppressed with a sense of impending doom. She tidied everything and made up the fires, then retreated to her room to await events. With the door from the living room to the passage slightly ajar, and her bedroom door open, she could hear what passed, unobserved.
Monsieur returned, and Christine was with him. Even before she could distinguish the words, Madeleine knew from the voices that both were angry. This time Christine came not willingly but by force, though she spoke to him defiantly. Why had he done this? Madeleine hoped fervently that he did not have rape in mind. Reluctant as she was to interfere, powerless though she knew herself to be, she could not stand by and leave another woman to endure that suffering… and nor did she want Monsieur to poison his soul with such a crime. She stood tense and shivering, prepared to throw herself into the room if events took that turn.
But there was a diversion. Another man blundered into the scene. Alert, Madeleine was as ready to rush to Monsieur's defence as, a moment ago, she had been ready to thwart him. But there was no need. After a brief scuffle, Monsieur's triumphant laugh told her that the intruder had been overpowered. The story unfolded itself to Madeleine. The newcomer, addressed by Christine as Raoul, was in love with Christine, and she with him. Monsieur wanted Christine… could you call it love, when expressed with such violence? And now Monsieur had a hostage. Christine must yield to him, or watch Raoul die. It seemed that she would yield… there was a long silence. In that silence, Madeleine became aware of a new sound, distant, an angry growl of many voices.
Then Monsieur spoke again, but his voice now was low, shaken. Madeleine strained to catch his meaning… He was telling them to go! Both of them! To go and leave him.
Tears spilled from Madeleine's eyes. She had misjudged him. He did love Christine after all, loved her enough to give her her freedom, whatever the cost to himself. Oh God, whatever the cost…
O-O-O
In the living room, Erik slumped in his chair and drew his cloak about him. The fire burned brightly, fuelled by a thick sheaf of paper, Don Juan Triumphant consumed in the flames of hell. How appropriate. He had worked on his masterpiece for years, and had once believed that when it was finished, he would die. Now, it was truly finished.
How had his universe spun awry? His triumph shattered to disaster? Christine. It had all turned on Christine…
It began with her voice, the voice which he knew he could perfect, to carry his music to the world. If only it had stopped there! But she had awoken love in his unpractised heart, love which consumed him, built irresistible dreams in his mind. He had dreamed of her as his obedient, submissive bride, accepting him as her master in life as she had accepted him as her teacher. She owed him that, after all that he had done for her. And he could not relinquish his dream, not even after that night on the roof, when he had heard her so treacherously offer her love to the pathetic Vicomte. She would see her mistake. He would make her understand that she belonged to Erik.
And so he brought her back to his sanctum, where she had learned to love his music. But this defiant Christine, undaunted by his terrible, unmasked face, was not the passive doll-bride of his dreams. He had seen in her eyes that she would rather die than be his bride, but he could deny her the means of death, for she was in his power now. She was in his power… Suddenly the full meaning of those words sprang to his mind. He could subjugate her to his passion. If she would not give her love freely, then might he take it by force? He was horrified that he could even contemplate such an act, and yet… if a man were dying of thirst, would he refuse water, even if he knew the cup was poisoned? This thirst which burned in him…
He would never know, now, if he could have acted upon that evil plan, so destructive of his long-held dream of a perfect marriage. For her ineffectual Raoul, trying to play the hero, had thrown himself into Erik's power, giving him the final weapon he needed to conquer her resistance. Christine might have preferred death for herself, but would she stand by and watch Raoul die? How imperiously Erik had declared that, if she continued to refuse him, she would see her lover murdered. But if she would consent to be Erik's wife, Raoul would go free.
Yet even as he threw the challenge at her, Erik felt something quail in his heart, saw his dream-marriage crumble to fragments in his mind. He had hesitated at the thought of possessing himself of her body. But to compel her to the altar by threats to the boy… was that not equally a violation? Would she not shrink away from him, even while she obeyed him? What kind of marriage would that be?
Then Christine confounded all his expectations. When he delivered his ultimatum she might have argued, she might have pleaded with him. But she spoke no word. Instead, she stepped up to him, threw her arms around his neck and kissed him, the first time in his life that he had ever felt the touch of another's lips on his. Oh, that long, warm kiss, freely offered, that lissome body pressed to his. Erik trembled but could not move, could not return her embrace, dumbfounded by revelation. Christine would be his willing bride! She would try to love him! The kiss was her promise.
She released him and stepped back a little, her eyes fixed expectantly on him, without fear or horror. And Erik felt his own eyes fill with tears, felt them coursing down his cheeks. Helplessly he fell to his knees at her feet, kissing the hem of her gown. Then he glanced up, scarcely daring to meet her gaze, and she was weeping, too! Her tears fell on his face and mingled with his own, her hand reached out and caressed his cheek. "Poor Erik," he heard her murmur. "Poor, unhappy Erik."
It was that which broke his heart. After all that he had done, she could weep for him, pity him. For such a woman, no gift was too great, no effort was too much. He could not reward her as she deserved, but what he could do, would be done. He released the boy, he told them to take the boat and go. He wept again when he saw the joy on her face as she understood, yet he was glad that his last glimpse should be of happiness which he had given her. At the last moment, she turned to give him back the ring which he had once placed on her finger, and she kissed him once more, this time in farewell. Then they were gone, and Erik was left alone in the faded splendour of his lair, watching his hopes go up in flames like his masterpiece.
From a pocket in the cloak, he pulled one of his spare masks, and stared at it by the flickering light. In his lifetime he had worn many masks and disguises, but this was the Phantom's mask, crafted to fit the role when he became the Phantom of the Opera. But the Phantom's time was over. Erik would never wear that mask again. Why did death not take him now? His life was at an end. Every heartbeat, every unwanted breath in his lungs prolonged the agony. Come, kindly death…
But death is not kind, nor was the sound that penetrated his dulled senses. Voices, footsteps, sounds of anger. "Revenge," they cried. That drew him to his feet. He might choose death for himself, but never would he let that contemptible mob choose it for him. He must flee, or end it now.
Then end it.
A knife? A noose? With distaste, he thought of the mob finding and pawing over his body. That was not right. The Phantom of the Opera should simply… vanish. The lake! The black water had always been his friend. Tossing the mask on the chair, he went out to the quay, empty now with the boat long gone. There lay his grave. But bodies float…
A few stone blocks were piled by the wall, left over from some repairs he had made. Dropping his cloak, he picked up a block and clasped it to his chest. Embracing stone, when he had dreamed of embracing… No. Too much. Don't think.
Standing on the edge of the quay, he let himself fall backwards into the water, the relentless weight of the stone forcing him down. A momentary chill, a hard blow… and nothingness.
O-O-O
In her room, Madeleine sat trembling, completely at a loss. Monsieur's voice, as he spoke the last words she had heard, told her of a broken heart, a broken spirit. What would he do now? He must be feeling as… as she had felt, when the rapists had abandoned her in the alley and gone off, laughing. Usually she suppressed the memory of that time, but now it filled her mind. She had wished for nothing so much as to die. An accident had stopped her flight at the Opera House, but she recalled that she had been trying to make her way to the Jardin des Tuileries, and then to the river…
The distant voices sounded clearer, shouting and threatening. Silence from the living room, then footsteps, the front door, a splash… Oh, no! Not that, not him! With a sob, she ran through the house, rebounding from door frames and furniture in her haste, desperately calling for him and getting no answer. God, let her be mistaken… the quayside… but where…? Dropping to hands and knees, she groped her way along the edge. She felt the wet patch where water had splashed up, and her hand found Monsieur's cloak, lying on the stone.
How deep was the lake? She could not swim. Lying on the edge, she thrust hand and cane down, feeling for the bottom. The water would come up to about her shoulders, she judged. She could stand in it. And if she was wrong – what did it matter? Better to spend her life for his sake, better to lie at his side in the depths, than a lifetime of regretting that she had not tried.
Then the cane touched something else, something soft. Laying the cane aside, she slid into the water, took a breath, and plunged under. Her clothes hampered her, but somehow she reached the inert form, seized his coat and pulled. Something was holding him, then he came free. She dragged him to the surface and held up his head, but there was no response. Clumsily she pushed him up on to the quay, shoulders, chest… as he doubled over at the waist, his legs still in the water, she thought she heard a cough or a gasp, but he did not move. Gripping his legs, she pushed again until he lay on the stone, then she struggled to free herself from the biting cold of the water. Her hand found a mooring ring, and with its help, she crawled clear.
Now what? Those people… closer now, not more than one level above. Surely they would find the way here soon, and their shouts were angry. No help there, only danger. She must get him away, quickly, and she knew where to go. But how to move him? He was breathing, but made no response even when she shook him. Feeling for his head, she slapped his face, then jerked her hand back. That had felt more like a skull, under her hand… no, this was not the time. All that mattered now was to move. He was not a heavy man, but she could never carry him. Spreading out his cloak, she rolled him on to it, then wrapped it around him and used her apron to tie the cloak tightly to his body. If she held the collar, she could drag him, and the floors were fairly smooth. Pause… think a moment… retrieve the cane… she must make no mistake now. Once sure of the way, she set off quickly with her burden.
Perhaps ten minutes later, though it felt like hours, she stopped, gasping for breath, at the door which blocked the passage. She worked the hidden catches, slid the inert body through, and closed the door behind her. Would any of the pursuers think to follow the wet trail through the corridors? If they did, she had to hope that the door would defeat them. Gathering her strength, she set off once more towards the sanctuary.
O-O-O
When she had done all she could, Madeleine sat quietly and rested. The stove was hot now, and Monsieur's clothes were draped near it to dry. She had dressed him in a warm shirt and trousers, workmen's clothes from the cupboard, before she hoisted his unconscious body to the bed. She had dried her own garments, but she knew that they must be crumpled and untidy. There were women's clothes here, but they were not for her. Eventually, she heard him stir. If he was waking, he would want light. She lit a candle, and moved her chair to his bedside.
"What… what is this?" he whispered. "Surely… this is the refuge. Madeleine? How do I… how do we come to be here? No one knows this place…"
"I know it. I found it months ago, exploring, when you were away. I brought you here. I feared those people were enemies."
"Yes, they were enemies. But what did it matter...?" His voice was weak, and he seemed barely conscious. "Christine…? Oh… I let her go… I let both of them go… And then… I would not let the mob bring me to bay, like a hunted stag. I took… the nearest way out. At least, so I thought." She heard him moving again. "Did you do this…? Bandage my head? Why?"
"You are hurt. A graze, swelling, some blood… here." Reaching her hand to his shoulder, she ran it gently up the side of his head. "Perhaps you hit it when you went into the lake, or perhaps I caused it when I pushed you out."
Her touch sharpened his awareness. "Oh. And I suppose those busy little fingers of yours have been exploring the rest of my secrets, discovering this horror that I call a face."
"Of course I touched you. I dried you and warmed you and did my best to check for injuries. I found… some strangeness, but nothing of horror." Strangeness, yes. Now she understood why Christine had screamed when she unmasked him. His face reminded her of a death's-head carved on a gravestone, but she did not recoil from him, did not love him less. She had even kissed his thin lips while he lay unconscious, but this was not the time to tell him that.
"No horror…? You must be the only one…" Now that she no longer touched him, his voice faded back into its previous hesitancy. Madeleine felt that he was talking to himself, or perhaps to ghosts in his memory. "People… shrink away with revulsion. Even my own parents… could not live with a freak. I fled to the gypsies. They knew that a freak could be profitable… we toured the fairs… but always, the same story. My appearance disgusts people. Most flee in fear. Others… attack. No warning… just the hatred..."
"How can they? That is so unjust! But for myself… may I give back to you the words you spoke to me at our first meeting? I am the last person who should reproach you for your appearance."
She heard him draw a laboured breath, as he responded again to her presence. "But who helped you? You could not have done all this alone."
"And yet I did. Do you think I would tell anyone else about your secret doors, about this sanctuary? I had no help."
He sighed, his voice still weak. "I suppose you think yourself clever."
She thought for a moment before answering. "That depends on you. If, now, you decide that you want to live, then what I did was… perhaps clever, or at least resolute. For it was not easy, I admit. But if you really want death, if you would rather I had left you at the bottom of the lake… then I was not clever but foolish and selfish, acting wrongly because I could not bear to lose you. So you tell me, Monsieur. Was I foolish, or was I clever? Do you choose death, or life?"
She waited a long time for an answer, then she heard the bedclothes rustle as he sank wearily into the pillows. "I shall… consider the question… and let you know in due course."
O-O-O O-O-O
