Faust was an ironical but appropriate choice. When Moncharmin declared that Faust would show at the end of the week he could not have known the true suitability of his selection: a story of a man cursed to ever desire but never have, to love a woman who becomes an angel, to die damned (depending on the version, of course). Since the gala, Richard and Moncharmin had noticed that a kind of revival of Faust was in order since the crowd had fallen in love with it so passionately; whether it was Christine that the audience loved, or the music, or the scandal of a protege overtaking an established diva, it mattered little to the management. However, soon, the casting proved an ordeal; this opera ghost impostor simply would not rest until he got his way: first box 5 and then the cast. Both Moncharmin and Richard began to feel increasingly indignant that their opera house was not their opera house.
And Erik, continually irritated by the insipid attitudes and decisions of the management, wrote note after note, eventually descending to frank threats. His anger, formerly cooled by his success in Perros, had stirred once more at the thought that his Christine should be once more shelved as a novelty piece, to play Siebel yet again. He wanted his darling jewel to be shown as the best of the best, not as an additional player. It would not do. Erik spent hours late into the night with his pen and ink, writing numerous notes-some to Carlotta, many to the management, and one to the boy, warning him to cease his pursuit of Christine. This one he planned to deliver himself to the vicomte, with all the ominous power that he conjure.
Christine was writing notes too; or rather, she only wrote one brief letter to the vicomte. Following her trip back from Perros, Christine had cloistered herself away at the advice of the voice and by her own will. She had no desire to see anyone at all. Indeed, she fell a trifle ill a few days after her encounter with the angel at her father's grave. The event had so impressed on her the gravity of her situation and her need to remain obedient to the angel's will. Yet, the strain had become too much; she grew paler, and one morning could not go to lessons at the opera house. In vain, she had tried to rise out of bed, but she could not find strength to sit up. The voice had not answered her when she called out to him, and Christine dared to imagine that he was not actually there with her in that moment. It was a strange kind of feeling to be out from under the watchful eye of a heavenly being. Immediately, Raoul's kind face floated into her mind, and she took up pen and paper to write. Her letter, gentle, subtle and endearing, warned Raoul to save his own life by staying away from her. She tried not to be too fond; sentiment would not aid things:
"If you love me, you will not seek me out."
How hard it had been to pen those words. She did want to see him; she wanted to speak with him, to hear him laugh again, to remember her father with him. She wanted him to want her, to desire her company, to delight in their time. And she knew that he already did, even though she had been horrid to him at times: in his growing affection, so clear, there was immense danger.
As Christine wrote, she often paused, almost as if she heard something and was on alert. It was all most distressing: to fret that an angel would and could descend in holy anger at any moment. She felt as if she were sinning deeply, as if she really were Lucifer plotting to discredit heaven and shirk her divine calling. For her dear little Catholic heart, the guilt proved immense. But the impulse to reach out to Raoul in her own small way felt too powerful, and no one interrupted her writing.
Once she had finished, she had fallen back asleep.
In her dreams, she was in the dressing room, singing with the voice, when suddenly hands seized her and bound her to a chair. Chords held her so tightly that she found it hard to breathe, and the voice kept singing. She called out to him to save her, but he kept singing his tantalizingly beautiful song.
When she woke, she found that even though tears streamed down her face she felt so much better-or at least better than her dream. Dressed in her warmest coat, she set out to post the letter to the vicomte herself and then attend her rehearsals at the opera house. Mamma Valeris would object, but Christine knew that she needed to at least attempt an appearance. She was in no place to begin behaving like a diva.
The moment she stepped out the door, Erik saw her. He had sped to her apartments in a panicked fury the moment that he determined that she was not coming to lessons. A million things had gone through his head; his heart had pounded so heavily at the worst of his thoughts-that she had run off with him. The terror and anger of that idea had driven him from the opera house to find her, a trace of her. He knew of where she lived, but he had no way to get in; of course, if he had been any other gentleman, he could have easily abated his fears by simply calling on her. But his mask made things so dreadfully complicated. His flesh coloured mask, one of many kinds that he kept, would only keep attention away if he walked the margins of the streets where no one really looked. And even if he made it to Christine's apartments unnoticed, he would have to peek into her window like a common fiend. Insufferable! So he waited across the street, watching for a sign of her.
After hours of lingering in the shadows, his patience was rewarded.
Christine, dressed in dark blue velvet and a blue mesh veil over her face and hat, came gingerly down the steps. He had never really seen her outside the opera house, Perros aside. More, he had not really seen her in the daytime. The light of the sun, something he shunned, only brought more beauty to Christine. No surprise. She was a child of the light.
She walked with fragility as if she feared the wind might blow her to pieces like piecrust. Erik felt vastly confused, and he hounded her every step, keeping a short distance, but just enough to avoid suspicion and attention. Now that they were both in the daylight, on the street, in the air, away from the opera house, Erik's heart twisted with longing that he had known but not so clearly or potently felt. So suddenly he wanted to speak to her like any other man, to walk up to her, bow, say, "Good afternoon, Mademoiselle," and offer her a flower from a stand. It was not enough to be the voice anymore. He wanted so badly to walk with her down the streets, with her little hand in the crook of his arm, resting there like a dove. He wanted to talk about the weather, the latest news from the paper, the gossip from social circles. He wanted to look into her face, knowing that she knew who he was and had not run away once she knew him. He wanted her to smile at him and to laugh at a clever joke that he made. He wanted a human life! The longing was so powerful that it took much of his strength not to run up to her and beg her to speak to him, to know him, to do something! She was so fragile and precious. It was no wonder that many loved her. She was meant to be loved.
He followed her as she took an unexpected turn; where was she going?
As Christine made her way to the post, she fumbled with her hand bag and did not see where she was going.
"Christine!" Raoul collided with her on the street-a chance encounter, yet not so surprising since it was close to the opera house.
Raoul, in his grey top hat and silver cravat, looked as if he had a multitude of questions for her: he tripped over his words,
"What happened...you...why did you...when..."
Christine, having collected herself from the shock of seeing Raoul so suddenly, merely smiled faintly and pressed her letter into his hand. Speechless, the vicomte looked down at the thin envelope and then back to her face.
"Good day." she said, skirting the boy and making haste for the market.
Raoul, poor boy, wavered on his feet as he decided whether to pursue her or open the note. He chose the latter, wandering off reading her words with a troubled yet fond expression: as if he might cry there on the street from love.
And Erik saw it.
His fury was wrought to its highest as he looked on the vicomte holding the lovely little letter from his Christine; she had clearly abandoned her fidelity. Certainly she had spent the morning penning the vicomte instead of coming to lessons. And the boy was such a fool! Erik did not know where to direct his anger. With a jealous convulsion, he watched Raoul amble away in the opposite direction to Christine; Erik muttered all manner of foul things as he glared at him. It would not do to murder a man in daylight.
When Raoul had turned the corner, Erik's gaze turned to Christine, but to his immense horror, she was no longer there. She had kept walking, and Erik like a fool himself had neglected to keep an eye on her.
Panic once more spread to his limbs: where was she? Where?
He could not rest till he had found her again! A strange mixture of dread and desire filled him as he pursued fruitless avenues in search of where she had gone.
"This will not do!" he panted, nearly sobbing. "Not at all."
Rationality found him soon enough, and he returned to the opera house to see that she was indeed there at rehearsals. His relief was followed by a dark thought: if he could bring her down to him soon, then he would never have to suffer this. If he could speak to her and tell her everything, explain his lie and his love, then she would surely have pity on him and perhaps love him like she loved the voice. If he could beg her forgiveness and only ask that she know him for himself then he might be able to win her heart and not just her soul. Of course, the question of his face would be difficult, but if he explained that it must be ignored, that the mask must ever stay, then surely she would begin to see him beyond all that. Surely she was good enough and merciful enough to pity him and love him despite his sins against her.
During rehearsal, she did not sing well as Siebel, but he put it down to her strain of cultivating a beautiful young lover. This simply would not do.
He needed to act soon.
His eye roamed to the chandelier, and a small smile came over his face. O yes! It would work so well with the threats he had promised the managers; the chandelier he had already rigged to fall at his will and in his time, at the right moment. He was waiting to display his retributive powers to them, and if the chandelier made a large enough catastrophe, he might steal away Daae, and no one would notice. Perhaps it was well after all that Christine would not be playing Margarita for this performance. She would be carried off to no one's real concern: the vicomte would be upset, but Erik would not keep her forever, merely a fortnight. That space of time would be enough to cultivate true loyalty and understanding, if not pity and love. Yes, he was sure it would work. If such a disaster happened, his devoted and faithful Christine (though a portion of his mind scoffed at this) would rush to the dressing room to see if the voice was harmed or vanished. And he would be there to take her.
Of course, she had incurred his anger at her infidelity, but it was not her fault in his mind. For Erik, the blame lay solely on the shoulders of the handsome vicomte who so easily seduced his little bird with his soft eyes and sincere smiles. No, once Christine knew Erik, surely she would see that despite the lie he was a man, just a man, one who loved her more than anyone would love her. He would carry her off for love!
And the plan worked.
She came rushing in, white as a lily, fear in her eyes, still dressed in her Siebel costume, a charming thing with a green brocade vest, linen trousers and buckled shoes. Her golden hair had fallen about her shoulders.
"Voice! Voice!" She cried out, in panic. "Where are you? Are you alright? O the chandelier fell! It has crushed someone! A woman has died! Shall we all die tonight? O it is awful! Where are you?"
She was in a fitful state. He began to hum. She heard it.
From the dark, Erik sang soft and full, directly behind the mirror waiting:
"He who believes in me shall never die. Come, rise, walk, live. He who believes in me shall have life everlasting."
The song ensnared Christine, and a moth to flame, she came. Easily, Erik pressed the trigger that he had labored tirelessly to perfect; the mirror slid into three parts, creating a kaleidoscope of light. Christine crossed into the darkness, looking as if she were ascending to heaven itself, when really it was the opposite.
But the mirrors closed; darkness overcame the music and the light. Erik heard and saw her grope around in the dark, calling out confusedly for the voice. He simply watched her, almost afraid, his heart pounding at the reality that they were within feet of each other: no barriers.
Then, with a firm hand, he grasped her wrist.
And Christine, the little lamb, made to scream, but his hand cupped her mouth, as her fright ripped away her consciousness.
For the first time, for the precious first time, Erik cradled her fainting form in his arms, holding her as if she were a treasure, a fragile beloved, a much desired thing.
"My dear," he whispered to her unhearing ear: "Forgive me."