A Second Chance Chapter 10, a phantom of the opera fanfic

A/N—In which Christine is worried.

o}—'-,- Roses to the mystery guest, to MomoxDerpy, and Mominator for their deeply appreciated reviews of Chp 9! As for this chapter, I am aggravated with it, even after some weeks of edits. No doubt I'll rewrite this at some point, but for now, the tale must go on.

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.

Please read and review.

A Second Chance

Chapter 10

He lay beside her, leaning on one elbow, just watching his beloved. In her sleep she moved closer to him, soft and warm, the floral scent of bath soap lingering on her skin. Idly, his fingers stroked the curl twined around his finger, then carefully bent to kiss her rose damask cheek. Her impossibly blue eyes opened, smiling up into his, and she turned toward him, blushing. Her nightgown had ridden up around her hips in the night, and her long bare dancer's legs wrapped around him. He felt a familiar tightness start in his groin. She raised a gentle hand, caressing his cheek, and then her eyes widened, horrified, as the skin sloughed off in her hand. Pain laced through him as Erik felt his face crumbling, the flesh withering, rotting, as Christine screamed and screamed at the leering corpse above her.

He thrashed into wakefulness, limbs bound, and his heart, already racing, slammed painfully against his chest. Slowly consciousness returned. The sheets were tightly tangled about his legs; he freed them and swung bony feet to the floor, sitting hunched over, willing his heaving chest and frantic heart to slow. One day these nightmares would surely cause him a mischief and he would truly die in his sleep, he thought wearily. The old Persian robe was twisted about him as well; he stood and adjusted it, noting again how loosely it fit. I am wasting away.

Sleep would not come again this night, he knew; to remain here was pointless. Stiffly, Erik rose and limped out to the library music room to his chair, but the coals were furred with grey ash and gave no warmth. Wearily he rubbed his face, feeling the weight of years of pain and isolation. The familiar room was no comfort, filled as it was with too many other broken things.

The petals fell out in her hand, dried and withered to a dark purple, the faint spicy scent still lingering. Carefully Christine poured them back into the envelope, and smiling, opened the folded page.

My Dearest Christine,

I hope this letter finds you well and happy. What news is there of the Opera, of Paris, of you? Evangie writes of nothing but fashion and her latest purchases for their home when I am wanting news of you, of France.

We are assigned patrol duties of the Mediterranean. I would like to show these islands to you someday. The Greek and Roman antiquities are astonishing, so much that one thinks the Persians or Carthaginians had attacked only yesterday. The colors are so vivid, blues and greens, sand and umber, scarlet and yellow. I have enclosed a flower that you might see a small part of my world.

We were treated to a horse-race last week in the city of Bizerte, a demonstration of the natives' best riders. It was quite amazing to see. They are a handsome people and very skilled. Several of the younger seamen wanted to ride but the captain would not allow it, fearing a trick.

The Guyenne is having some trouble with her boilers and I fear another refit when we return to France. The men remain in good spirits and the weather has been pleasant, fortunately. There is still substantial unrest in outlying areas of Tunisia, and many rebellions against our forces. I can foresee us being stationed here in our support role for some time.

Please reply to this address, and I will get your letter eventually.

Know that I am ever,

Your

Raoul

Tears blurred her eyes as she folded the letter, placing it carefully in her reticule. Her café au lait had grown cool but she sipped it anyway, her thoughts a thousand miles away to the south.

"Mlle Daae!"

The voice came from a cab that had pulled up near the sidewalk café. The door opened and a man in a brown city suit stepped out, smiling. It was M Fourier.

"This is serendipitous!" he exclaimed, approaching as she stood to greet him. "I'm just on my way to view a flat. We've had a most interesting property become available," the agent explained. "I'm not certain if it would be feasible for you, Mlle Daae, but it certainly meets your requirements. If you've time, would you care to come view the property?"

Christine smiled at him. "I'll have to be at the Opera in an hour, is that enough time?"

"Most assuredly," he nodded, and waited as she paid the bill.

The cab bounced along at a good rate, and soon they alighted in front of a long row of buildings. M Fourier stepped down and extended a hand to Christine.

"Please wait here; we won't be long," he said to the driver, who touched his cap and nodded.

M Fourier unlocked the door, gesturing for her to walk in ahead of him. "Up the stairs, please?"

Three flights of stairs opened into a wide landing with graceful wooden banisters. The five rooms occupied a corner of the building, and were once an office suite, he explained. Christine wandered through them happily imagining how they could be redone as the estate agent chatted behind her, taking notes.

"…water laid on in two rooms….gas lines in all rooms…easy to add electrical wiring…option of two more rooms…."

This room would make a good kitchen, she thought, and this one could be expanded into a bathroom. This room would make a perfect bedroom with the headboard here, and this, a second bedroom or perhaps a study? The largest room had windows facing two sides, a fireplace, bookcases, and a spot which would be ideal for a grand piano….in short, a perfect salon…with dining area there, sofas and chairs here.

"….no one below in the offices in the evenings, which would be ideal if you needed to practice or hold soirees…"

A pretty wallpaper would brighten the room, she thought, and floating draperies at that window. Christine leaned on the windowsill and looked out across the city. Distantly she could see the spires of churches and the dome of the Opera House, and with a sigh turned regretfully back to M. Fournier.

"It's exactly what I would want," she smiled wistfully, "but I'm sure it's beyond my price range." He quoted a lease price that made her wince.

"I thought it might be, Mlle Daae," he said, "but I thought you'd want to see it, and I needed to look at it again in person so we could advertise it properly." He stowed the notebook in his breast pocket and walked toward the door. "If you change your mind, do let us know."

A series of mishaps and misfortunes continued to plague the rehearsals, and superstitious crew members began to whisper of ill-luck, a cursed performance. A sandbag fell, another split open, counterweights were stacked incorrectly, a costume torn, an understudy sprained an ankle, a set of art prints ruined by a leak. More than one person's nerves were on edge and tempers flared easily. It was rumored M Dumont had taken to keeping a bottle of gin in his office.

Christine perched on box in the sidelines, watching the dancers on stage during the Act II full rehearsal. Madame Giry moved around them with narrowed eyes, offering a sharp comment here, a touch there. The completed backdrop swayed slightly from the motion, a lovely scene on the banks of the oued el-Kédir near Cordoba. Celebrations were taking place; the supporting cast cavorted among the festivities. Gabrielle, in her role of Hermosa, entered stage right, mocked and jeered at by those who perceived her as a lunatic, but she moved on, her face serene and unruffled. Leon, Hadjar, the brother of the king, ordered the others to leave Hermosa alone.

"Consider as saints the madmen, otherwise be cursed," he cried, quoting the Quran, his elegant basse voice rising above the others. Gabrielle –Hermosa responded by comparing herself to a swallow flying to heaven.

"Pitié, car je ne suis qu'une pauvre hirondelle," she sang in her full soprano.

Crouching high above in the rafters, Erik nodded in grudging approval. The man had a fine voice and moved well around the stage. Gabrielle Krauss was a welcome replacement for La Carlotta and would hopefully be joining as a principal.

Below on the stage, chaos had ensued as the hundred virgins, ballerinas and cast, were brought in. Charles Dumont, the director, shouted and gestured, realigning the elaborate procession as the exasperated lighting director moved the huge lamps about in an effort to accommodate the demands. The Opera Ghost allowed himself a smirk at the pre-production disorder, noting Christine remained unflustered throughout the repositioning.

Luigi swaggered on stage, disguised as an African soldier, flexing his muscles. Leon-Hadjar, examining the captives, noted the unusual man, then recognized him as a Spaniard, Manoël, who once saved his life. Hadjar professed his intent to repay the debt to the other man, and Luigi, as Manoël, demanded his fiancé.

"Sr Bartoldi," Charles Dumont said irritably, "you are not ordering this man—he's the king's brother. You're begging for help to save the woman you love. Now again, from where Hadjar comes to you." Behind the director's back Luigi rolled his eyes heavenward and assuming a more subservient tone, explained to Leon-Hadjar that his fiancé was among the virgins who would be sold at auction today, and that he hoped to buy Xaïma's freedom. Hadjar assured him of his assistance. Far above, Erik grimaced at Luigi's characterization. Once, the managers would have received a scathing black-bordered letter about his utter lack of acting skills. However had the man been hired?

Christine's golden soprano rose below, and Erik leaned forward attentively as she sang of Xaïma's fear and distress. Hermosa made her way to the frightened girls, wandering among them looking into their faces, and acted as though she recognized a bewildered Xaïma.

In the ending scene, Leon-Hadjar passed a large sum of money to Manoël and the bidding for the terrified girls commenced. M Giraudet arrived with a flourish, leering and arrogant as he viewed the girls, causing more than one of them to burst into giggles and the director to throw his hands in the air in fury.

Erik's eyes narrowed as Luigi maneuvered his way near Christine. Though he seemed to be promising her safety during the auction, the young singer shot him a truly venomous look. He observed Luigi's satisfied smile as the man allowed himself to be dragged away by the soldiers. Christine was pulled forward and fell to her knees, her head bowed, as the auction proceeded. Manoël and Ben-Saïd bid against each other, but the king's bid was higher, and Xaïma was led away, sobbing as the ensemble sang the finale, "A cent dinars d'or."

Rehearsal finally over for the afternoon, Charles Dumont dismissed the cast with veiled threats about the sanctity of the next day's practice. The ballerinas, freed of their role as modest and frightened virgins, scampered away laughing shrilly. Luigi sauntered off stage, Gabrielle departed calling for the wardrobe mistress, Leon and M Giraudet left amiably together, and Christine stood talking to Meg until M Reyer ordered everyone off the stage so that the chorus might practice just once more. Erik slipped quietly from his perch, glad of a chance to stretch his long legs again. It took mere minutes to descend and stand behind the mirror of her dressing room.

She had already changed into street clothes by the time he arrived. He watched her silently as she gathered her things and methodically tidied the small room. There were smudges under her blue eyes; she was pale. The long hours were taking their toll and she had, he knew, recently accepted an invitation to sing at the Conservatory and also for a private dinner concert. There would be little rest for his angel in the coming week.

Christine looked up, surprised, as he released the catch on the mirror, impassive and frowning.

"Erik?" she asked hesitantly.

"Would you have dinner with me tonight?" he asked abruptly, "Or have you other plans?"

"I'd like that," she said simply. "What did you have in mind?"

"I have somewhat replenished my larder," he said dryly. "I can offer you cold chicken, salad, bread, and wine, if you are interested."

She stretched wearily and he heard several ligaments pop. "That sounds lovely. I'll bring dessert. And a decent canister of tea." She sent him a sidelong glance of amusement, wondering if he would remember their frequent discussions over his choice of tea, but he merely raised an eyebrow, refusing to be drawn.

"Jusqu'à plus tard," he said, and was gone.

The boulangerie near the Opera was popular with students, cast, chorus, and crew. Christine made her choice, a bittersweet chocolate torte, knowing that Erik did not generally care for sweets, and had the clerk box it well. They met in the quiet chapel near the Rue Scribe entrance and made their way slowly through the tunnels, slipping between a nearly-unseen crevice and carefully treading where the stone became uneven natural rock, a route that took them the longest way to the underground house.

She touched his arm gently. "Erik? Where is your boat?" He turned and looked back at her.

"At the bottom of the lake, I presume," he said bitterly. "I have not yet been able to locate it."

So many things seemed so irreparable, she thought sadly, walking beside him. Many of his possessions had been later dredged up from the lake, water-logged and ruined. He had raked them out, white with anger, and disposed of them somehow. Slowly he had been replacing the barest of necessities, but without enthusiasm or interest.

That Erik had invited her to dinner at all was unusual. Early on last autumn, he had taken to sitting with her at meals but never ate and only rarely would sip a glass of wine, and then only when she was not looking. His complete indifference to regular meals or even the most basic nourishment had presented difficulties in the past. The mask, she assumed, made eating difficult, and possibly his misshapen mouth. Food held little interest for him, especially when a new book, composition, or project captured his attention. His kitchen, rudimentary at best in the days before the mob, was now all but impossible, reduced to a simple gas ring.

Tonight he had taken pains to spread a cloth over the battered table, had chilled the wine, and laid out a variety of items—bread, butter, cheese, grapes, cold chicken, and salad-in readiness for their meal, and Christine found herself oddly touched. She set the box containing the torte on the sideboard, glad she had thought to bring him a small treat.

He sat, as usual, to her right, the masked side of his face in shadows, contenting himself with a glass of the wine and the occasional sliver of cheese or grape, watching as she ate less than what he would have liked.

At her insistence he had consented to try the torte. She cut him a small sliver and brought it to him, then busied herself clearing the table, not looking as he sampled it. Sarcastic comments rose in his mind, but were firmly suppressed. She is trying as well, he thought, and rose to take the platters from her hands.

After dinner they carried their tea into the library music room. There were two chairs again, placed before the fire as they had been last autumn, with a low table arranged between them. A book of poetry lay near his chair, The Rubiyat, a new copy of what she knew to be an old favorite. Erik knelt and reached for coals and kindling, expertly building up the fire into a bright blaze. After a minute he rose, lighting the candelabra behind them, relieving some of the flickering shadows in the room. Christine cradled the teacup in her hands, grateful for the slowly growing warmth.

Erik returned to his seat, carrying a small glass of sherry, looking toward her questioningly. She had been unusually quiet this evening and now sat, toying with her spoon, her lower lip caught in her teeth, staring pensively into the flames. He leaned forward, careful to keep his voice soft. "You seem distracted tonight."

Christine looked up, flushing. "I'm sorry Erik," she said, contrite.

"What were you thinking of?"

"My flat," she frowned. "And what I am going to do." At his uncomprehending look, she smiled slightly and patted his knee. "I forgot you don't know of this."

"Go on," he said, waving long fingers impatiently at her.

"The little flat where I live, lived with Mama Valerius, is in an older part of the city, a building that will be torn down soon. You know how the City is being rebuilt because of the war and Baron Haussmann's plans? My street is one of the next ones slated for demolition. I must find other lodgings, and soon."

His dark eyes searched her face. "This concerns you."

She nodded. "I don't know if you are aware of it, but it is very difficult for a woman to find rooms. Few people will rent to an unmarried woman, and with no husband or father, I cannot sign a contrat de location, nor can I purchase property. Assuming I had the money."

He frowned. "And money is an issue?"

Christine smiled wryly. "Erik, do you have any idea what dancers are paid? It's not much. They did increase my salary last winter, and I'm singing at other events, but I've nowhere near what is needed."

"Where do the others all live?" he asked curiously.

She frowned, thinking. "Mlle Janvier lives with her elderly parents, Mme Krauss lives with her husband…he's in business of some sort and I believe they have a large flat near the gardens. M Giraudet is a widower and has rooms somewhere. Leon and his wife have a house—they gave a lovely dinner party last month. I am not sure about M. Lassalle."

"What will you do?"

She rested her cheek on her palm. A small frown creased her forehead. "Meg has offered me room if needed, but I'd rather not sleep on her sofa. I have applied at the Conservatory, but their rooms are full. I even went to talk with an estate agent—that's where I was that morning I was not at rehearsal." She fell silent, her face troubled.

"Was the agent able to be of assistance?"

"M Fournier did show me one suite of rooms that might be perfect," she smiled wistfully, "had I money, furnishings, and a patron."

Erik's fists clenched. A patron? Though he knew many of the women of the Opera had patrons, somehow he had never considered Christine, his Christine, becoming like La Sorelli, just to survive. Controlling his voice, he asked her about the flat the agent had shown her and listened attentively while she animatedly described the rooms, then fell silent again.

"They do sound ideal," he mused, "but you would be there alone."

Her eyes were sad. "I would be alone no matter what. What choice do I have?"

Erik studied her face, choosing his words carefully. "Christine, you are welcome to stay here."

She did not turn her gaze from the flames, but smiled faintly. "I don't wish to sleep on your sofa either, Erik, but thank you for the offer."

"Your old room is here."

She shut her eyes briefly, then turned to him. "Erik, I…can't. It isn't right. You've given me so much, and I'm more grateful than you'll ever know, owe you more than I can ever repay."

He moved restlessly as if in protest and she shook her head. "It would be so easy to say yes. But I can't. As Mme Giry reminds me, it's not appropriate as we are both unmarried."

"Damn Madame Giry," he said irritably. "And damn all proprieties. It did not matter before, and you are safe here."

Her midnight blue eyes looked into his steadily. "There is also now Raoul," she said quietly. "And…I think I'd best go home." She rose, her dancer's body unconsciously graceful, avoiding his gaze.

"If that is your wish," he said tightly, standing, "I will escort you above and see you to a cab."

She put a hand on his arm, sensing his displeasure. "Erik…I…don't be angry with me. Please." Her eyes were troubled. "It is dangerous for me to come here, dangerous for you. They can't know you're still here. I couldn't bear it if anything were to happen again, because of me. Luigi overheard me talking with you the other morning and is asking questions. You must, must be careful."

His dark eyes searched her face, and he covered her hand with his own. "I will take care," he said quietly. "You need not distress yourself on my behalf. Now come, it is getting late."

Thank you for reading, and please leave a comment. :)