Disclaimer: Psst. Leroux's novel is in the public domain which is why all the other stuff out there manages to exist. As to all that other stuff, I dare not infringe upon their copyrights!
WARNING
I DO need to warn everyone though, that I went on a typo correcting binge between the dates of and 4/13 and 4/18/2008 and while I was re-reading for those errors I noticed some empty spaces, some little incongruities, and some things that would be more fun if I did them a little differently, so I added a word or two here and took out a word or two there... minor stuff, I thought... But you know the butterfly effect? The theory, not the movie... How if you change one miniscule little thing here, over time the effects are magnified? Yeah, well... it started to happen. So adding a single paragraph in chapter 19 or a few sentences in chapter 22 had this ripple effect that spread to other chapters.
Most of the early changes are minor ones, but then they get bigger. Sadly, I had to remove some of the happy thoughts, and I apologize to those of you who really liked them. Happy thoughts may come back later, but they really didn't fit quite where they were. I think the new version is much better.
Affected chapters: 19-29, though skimming for differences should be enough to keep you from being confused.
It had been several weeks since the day she spoke of her son and her husband, and she hadn't mentioned them since. He hadn't mentioned Christine, either, and he realized that though he had often though of her, he had never mentioned her at all to his Friend. That was how he called her, both in his mind and aloud—his Friend. He couldn't bear to speak her name aloud. It felt like a betrayal of Christine, but it was clear to him that she was at the very least his friend. She wasn't an enemy; she wasn't indifferent; she had helped him when he was in terrible condition; she had returned when she said she would, and she seemed to care for him. And they had shared one kiss—he would not do that again!
Not that it wasn't wonderful...There were so many breathtaking things about it. There was having his arms wrapped tightly around the waist of a woman, the simple fact that a woman--any woman--was close to him, that she had not drawn back in loathing, had not run away. Then there was the feeling of her body pressing against his. There was hearing her breath, looking into her eyes. There was the softness of her lips on his—such lips as he had. His eyes were closed, but he felt her with every nerve, with ever pore. What started as a consoling embrace became a tender kiss then suddenly an urgent, powerful pull that drew them into one another, hands frantically grasping, hearts pounding, souls burning. But he drew away, touched her lips with his fingertip, turned away left her standing there, wondering.
Yes, they had shared a passionate kiss, which seemed to suggest far more than friendship, especially considering he had called Christine his wife when they had only each kissed each other once on the forehead, but he wouldn't—he couldn't—go further than friend again, and even "friend" could be dangerous. He couldn't trust her, and he couldn't trust himself. It was simply too much.
After all, he had made that mistake with Christine. In calling her his bride he had convinced himself that it was possible, making her departure seem as though he had actually lost something rather than had simply not obtained something he desired. Calling Elizabeth "Friend" was easy enough, if not entirely safe. There certainly wasn't an issue of confusing her with anyone else! It wasn't as though there were many other friends with whom to confuse her! He thought back over the years and could name only one or two. Madame Giry had certainly been friendly towards him. She never gossiped about him and delivered messages for him when he wished. He had made her a promise that Meg would someday be an empress, though he had no idea how he could possibly make that happen—especially now. Yes, Madame Giry had been friendly, but she had never even seen his face and they had never had a real conversation. Most importantly there was no way to know if she sought to please him only for Meg's sake or whether there was any real caring. He wondered. She seemed sincere, but could one ever be sure?
Then there was the Persian, the daroga—the Persian chief of police—who had followed him from Persia after pursuing him to the borders of the country, seeking his death, only to declare him dead when he was not, thereby ending the game of cat and mouse. Though the game was officially over, the pursuit continued, for the Persian felt some obligation to prevent him from committing further murders—as if he had ever been murderous by choice! Yes, the Persian had also been friendly, that was true, but he had his own motivations as well. By faking Erik's death, he effectively gave himself leave to retire. Of course, killing Erik would have done the trick just as quickly, even if not quite as easily. Was it mercy or mere laziness? The Persian had seen his face and had somehow been filled with horror and pity at the same time. Pity. Was he friendly, or charitable? One couldn't be entirely sure.
But Elizabeth! She had no motivation to stay once she encountered him, especially after the way he had treated her at that first meeting! She had no reason to return to him when he requested it. She had no reason to stay, to lift him from the floor—how had she managed that?—to care for him—he thought of it now; she had nursed him when he was at death's door. She had looked upon his face and utterly ignored the horror of it. She not only had not run away, but she had dragged his pitiful body to the bed and had nursed him to health when he had all but starved himself to death. She had no reason. And then, when he was strong again, she stayed still! She stayed after he had judged her, and she had given of herself She had no reason to stay save that she wished to. Why? He shook his head; he could not fathom her! People do things for a reason. Christine had lost her father, needed a father-figure, wanted singing lessons, believed he was an angel. He had been alone, noticed her, saw that she was lonely, figured she would be easier to persuade than other women, took a chance. The Persian hoped to help his own career. Madame Giry hoped to help her daughter. But Elizabeth... what reason had she?
Nevertheless, he would never call her more than a Friend. He had had only one true love in his life, and it had ended in tragedy. Well, okay, not quite tragedy, but almost. It had certainly felt tragic to him, though perhaps he had done the right thing. Surely Christine was happy with Raoul. This was the reason she did not return to him.
Perhaps it was possible, after all, to live without love. Perhaps having a friend or two was enough. Perhaps someday, when he was ready, he would contact Madame Giry and the Persian. Perhaps someday he could get himself together enough to have contact with people from the outside world without feeling the need to strike fear into their hearts and command them. But not now. Not yet. He could not face those who knew that he loved Christine and has lost her. But Elizabeth... she knew nothing of Christine. Being around her, talking to her was (perhaps) safe.
Perhaps their strange conversations about their respective pasts—or perhaps future conversations about more pleasant topics—were enough. Enough for what? Enough to make life bearable? Worth living? He could go as far as "not quite as torturous" and that was enough for the present moment.
Thinking about the future was not an option. It caused waves of dread every time the possibility of returning to what life had been like before Christine entered his mind. Whoever once said "Better to have loved and lost than to have never loved at all" was either a fool or a liar. He felt like a poor man who had subsisted entirely on bread and water after having finally tasted the finest delicacies. Though it was physically possible to return to life as he has lived it before, he would not—could not—forget the taste he had had, and would be forever tortured by its memory. Contemplating a future of perhaps years of feeling that way was unbearable.
But for the present moment—just this instant in time—perhaps it was possible to live without love, especially at his age. Perhaps he had passed the point where love mattered. But maybe it was possible to have a friend. Maybe.