Erik stood for a moment in the dark, remembering everything:
"I can only despise you unless you set me at liberty at once!"
Christine's abduction, or visit as it also could be termed, to Erik's dark house started out much like he had anticipated it would. He had refrained from speaking until she was safely ensconced in the sitting room of his house, deep in the earth, buried away from prying intruders. It would not do to have her scream. But when he had at last spoken to her-his first words of greeting-the truth of it all had come crashing down on her.
She had cried of course, and he had comforted her, explaining it all.
"I have loved you since I heard you, Mademoiselle Daae, and I saw that you were so lonely and sad. I could not let you die. I would not let the world lose an angel. I deceived you. I told you I was the angel of music. I am neither angel, ghost, nor devil. I am Erik. I...I spoke to you, and you so enchanted me. Forgive my actions. They were done out of love for you. You see, I do adore you. I despise myself, but I must love you. You are all loveliness. How could I help myself? How could I make myself known to you?"
"Yes, how? Why the mask?"
"You must never ask me that, nor ever try to see what is underneath."
He had thrown himself at her feet, his own tears coming now:
"Forgive me. I have destroyed your faith. I have trampled it utterly. But know that I have done so because I could not bear to be apart from you any longer. I could not bear to not have you know me as I am-not as an angelic being, but as myself. Forgive me. I could not help myself! You...I...I cannot help but love you, Christine." He cried.
And she stood like a beacon in the middle of his sitting room, glowing in the candlelight. Her lips were pale, her boy's costume slightly soiled from the journey underground. But above all, as Erik looked at her, her eyes sparked in a way he had never seen before. To him, she was so beautiful; he could deny her nothing. Lost in the joy of her presence and despising himself for his transgressions, he had hardly heard what she had said.
He simply looked at her.
"Did you hear me?" her voice angry. "You will take me back at once."
He snapped to attention:
"Yes, yes. Of course, my dear Christine. I do not wish to merit your hatred. Never. Forgive me...I ...I love you too well...I despise myself. Let me show you the way out."
As he rose, he regarded her with a piercing gaze, then his heart sank. She wanted to leave. He had not expected her to be pleased at his deceit. It would take more work to win her heart, to make her want to know him. It would take his music. It would take a miracle. And yet, Erik wanted to create a miraculous thing. He wanted her love.
"Well?" Christine raised an eyebrow and made for the door.
Erik smiled and looked at his shoes for a moment. Then, almost with a kind of shyness, he began to sing.
He sang not words-merely melody, a hauntingly beautiful song, one akin to the first song that he ever sang to her.
As he let his voice come near her, he saw her eyes lose their fire; she loved his voice: he could see that easily. Her mouth softened, and her brow smoothed from anxiety to a tranquil kind of rapture. Even though she had gained the door, she turned back and listened. All sense of fight had evaporated from her limbs, and as Erik dared to draw her closer with his voice, he saw the ghost of a smile. Despite all lies, he was still the voice. And she loved that at least.
Slowly, she came back to the centre of the room, listening, enchanted, bewitched. She walked straight up to him, looking him fully in the eyes, trying to see. He did not move. As if half asleep, her hand drifted to his chest, to see if he really were real. Her fingers touched where his heart pounded wildly. Then absently taking back her hand, she turned and sat down on the divan, listening rapt all the while.
He knew how to seduce the soul. She had long fallen prey to the trap of beauty.
And she stayed.
Indeed, his song became a lullaby as she drifted off to sleep, over wrought with the strain of the evening. The height of his delight came when he gathered her in his arms and gently laid her on the bed he had painstakingly procured for her. Though his heart raced as he looked on her, he quickly fled and closed her door. The angel needed to sleep. Things were progressing as he wished-as he had hoped.
The following day proved to be an utter disaster.
He had let his pride distract him as he sang Othello with her; the delicious sound of their voices mingling so intoxicated him that he hardly noticed her approach and her dainty fingers creeping towards his mask.
When she had snatched it away, he had behaved quite indecently.
In the dark of the gallery, Erik recalled his words of fury, his vicious anger as he forced her to touch and scratch at his horrible face:
"I am Don Juan Triumphant!" He had roared at her. But his rage had fallen away to extreme grief; she had seen him, and she had ruined it. Now his entire plan would change, and he would have to become a monster to her. So vital was she now to his life, to his sanity, that now she had no choice. Now she would not love him of her own will. Now he had to force her. Now for wrath and ruin of his madness. If she had not seen him, then she could have been set free, and she would have come back to him freely, with joy even. But now. Now she herself had set her own fate; now she would rue the moment she ever longed to see more of his face, to truly know what lay beneath the mask. Such grief! Such utter sorrow in his heart overwhelmed him. He did not want to be a monster. He wanted to be saved from it-to be human and loved. But now it was a completely different game.
Yet, she had spoken softly, trembling but with an earnestness that he recognized as faith.
"Erik, if I shiver or tremble when I look on you, it is because I marvel at your genius."
He hardly believed her, but the gesture had been enough. She wished to pacify him; she was not running away, madly screaming.
And the days that followed only served to enrich the falsehood that she could love him for himself. She burnt his mask (though he had many others); she attempted to smile and talk with him, if only to keep herself alive. She tried to charm him.
"Do you read, Erik?"
"Yes." He had grown so shy.
"What have you read?"
"Everything."
"What? Everything?"
"Yes, everything worth reading that is."
She was at a loss,
"What do you like? What was worth reading?"
"I have read Dante, Petrarch, the great poets, the greek philosophers; they please me, though some be fools."
"I read Petrarch once."
"Did you?"
"Yes."
A pause. A painful one, where he merely looked at her, drinking in her face.
"I didn't quite understand one of them; sometimes poetic language is lost on me."
"Which one?"
"Soleasi Nel Mio Cor"
"Ah! I know it."
"Do you?"
"Certainly,
She ruled in beauty o'er this heart of mine,
A noble lady in a humble home,
And now her time for heavenly bliss has come,
'Tis I am mortal proved, and she divine.
The soul that all its blessings must resign,
And love whose light no more on earth finds room,
Might rend the rocks with pity for their doom,
Yet none their sorrows can in words enshrine;
They weep within my heart; and ears are deaf
Save mine alone, and I am crushed with care,
And naught remains to me save mournful breath.
Assuredly but dust and shade we are,
Assuredly desire is blind and brief,
Assuredly its hope but ends in death."
She looked down at her hands, quiet.
"Do you know what it means?" he asked with a deliberate intensity.
"Well, the poet is sad to be parted from his lady." Her voice quivered a little.
"Yes, quite."
"I see."
"Yes, Christine."
How quickly their conversations became uncomfortable for her. She preferred to sing, but they could not sing all the time. Sometimes talk was unavoidable.
Sometimes he took her strolling along the edge of the dark lake, inwardly rejoicing at her hand resting on his arm.
"How deep is the lake?" She asked.
"As deep as a mystery."
"What do you mean?"
"How deep does it look to you?"
"It is dark. I cannot tell. Is it a riddle?"
"Perhaps."
"Do you think we might walk above too? On the street?"
"No."
"Why?" As meekly as a terrified child.
"Someone would see."
"What if we rode in a carriage? No one would see you."
"Why are you asking this?"
"I...I don't know...I should like to see the night sky. It is so beautiful in Winter."
"You would run away."
"No. I would not. Why would I?"
"You are afraid of your monster of death."
"I am not afraid."
"Why is your hand trembling?"
"It is cold, Erik."
"It is out of the question."
"You do not wish to take a lady in a carriage-ride?" She hit a nerve.
"Erik is a gentleman. If his lady wishes, we shall ride...But on my terms."
"Of course."
He did not know that each night when he bowed and bid her a good night that she would close the door and attempt to keep her sobs silent. Her fear and anxiety had surpassed anything she thought possible, but it was all countered and tempered with an indestructible compassion in her heart. She pitied him as much as she feared him. And though she spent all her time in inward terror at his power, rage and madness, she also heard his heart; he poured it out to her enough when she let him. She saw that he was a poor man-poor in soul.
At each chance he got, he would speak of his great and tender love: how he would do anything that she wished. Often he was simply so full of joy at having her near and alive that it was enough to simply sit silent in the same room with her.
But he would not always linger; Christine found that he would compose often and impulsively. Sometimes, mid conversation, he would start and run to his piano to spend the rest of the afternoon there, working out the melody that he felt and heard.
So, the visit of Mademoiselle Daae had become an extremely complicated affair.
But it virtually reached its end when the carriage rode by Raoul in the moonlight and when Erik remembered the masquerade ball.
In the carriage, Erik had wrapped Christine in furs and lace:
"You shall not be cold while I live," He had tucked her in as if to bind her to the carriage itself.
She had tried to smile; he caught the passing expression and felt his breath hitch.
"Your smiles are sweet rewards, my dear." He said, leaning as close as he dared.
It should have gone smoothly, but the vicomte saw them, called out, and Erik had gripped the edge of the seat so hard that Christine thought his hands would break.
"It is nothing," she said softly.
"It is not nothing!" He was so fierce with jealousy.
"You need not worry. I am still faithful."
"Dear child, are you?"
Christine saw murder in his eyes.
"It matters little. He is going away." She blurted with a tinge of panic.
"Where?"
"To the North pole."
"You know this?"
"Yes."
"Well, better to let the cold kill him." Erik mumbled.
"You need not fret." She lied so sweetly. "I am devoted to you."
He had stared at her and with his gloved hand had taken her little one in his own.
"Little song bird, your devotion is a start. I thank you."
Later that evening, the masquerade had sparked in his mind, and the time in the dark drew to a close.
"I shall escort you to the surface, Christine." He wept at her feet after bringing her tea.
"I shall come back."
"No you won't."
"Yes, I shall."
"Will you?"
"Yes."
"Swear it."
"I...swear."
Then a new different tone had come into his voice:
"Christine, I see all above. I know all. At your peril, do not stray."
She went pale.
"Do not fear, child. Here," he pulled out a gold ring. "So long as you wear this, Erik is your friend and he shall protect you. If you remove it, then you cannot be under my protection."
He took her hand and put the ring on her finger.
"O you need not fear, Christine. Simply be faithful." The statement proved more veiled than it seemed.
"When shall I return to you, Erik?"
His heart swelled.
"I shall claim you after the masquerade ball. Be ready to come to me at midnight."
"I will."
Erik recalled her tender little face as she looked at the ring with a blank kind of amazement. He smiled. His darling girl.
With a quick leap, Erik emerged in the gallery, fully dressed in his extravagant scarlet costume.
"Now Red Death shall stalk both the faithful and the fools." He said to no one in particular, "Maskless at a masquerade."