Chapter XXIV: The Angel's Flight

When Christine had left with Raoul, I drew an enormous sigh of relief. I realized I hadn't moved a limb for at least half an hour, and my arms and legs were aching as I slowly tried to awaken them with small movements. My first intention was to leave quietly the way I had come, or through the exit which my cousin had just used, but one look at Erik, lying face down on the floor of his lair, his shoulders shaking and his muffled voice speaking Christine's name over and over, changed my mind. I suddenly found, to my surprise, that all the fear I had ever felt for the man was gone, and now all that was left was sympathy for a fellow human being in pain. Leaving my hiding place by the wall, I walked slowly down the tunnel until I reached Erik's door. Stopping in the doorway for a moment, I looked at him. He was still lying as I had seen him before, and it said a lot about his state of mind that his keen senses didn't seem to have detected my presence. Unnecessarily, I knocked on the open door.

"Erik?" I said.

He started and looked up, quickly, like an unconscious reflex. I caught a glimpse of the most disturbing face I had ever seen. It was exactly as Christine had described it, "like one big flesh wound". It was as if someone had peeled off all the skin of his face, exposing everything that lay underneath: the veins, the red muscles, even the bones. The disfigured lips, the nearly non-existent nose, the sad pale blue eyes, painfully aware of my shocked reaction - all of this made me automatically take a step backwards and reach for the wall for support. Erik quickly turned away from me and spoke, struggling to regain his dignity:

"Meg, would you be so kind as to hand me my mask?"

The mask was lying on the floor just a few feet away from me. I fetched it, and then went over to Erik, bending down to give it to him. As I did so, I heard a strange clinking sound. Erik, hearing it too, looked around him. Too late, I saw what had caused the sound. The bottle M. Ivanovich had given to me, and which I had almost forgotten during the course of the evening, had fallen from my pocket and landed on the floor beside Erik. Before I could reach it, he had seen it and picked it up. He examined it carefully, and I could hear his sharp intake of breath as he read the label.

"What is this?" he said tonelessly. "Where did you get it?"

"I don't know exactly what it contains", I answered truthfully, "but it doesn't matter. I had forgotten I had it, I meant to throw it away."

"Where did you get it?" he reiterated.

"I don't remember", I answered, uncomfortably.

"Don't lie to me!" Erik roared, like a wounded animal. "I know exactly what this is, and who gave it to you. I have seen it myself, years ago, in M. Ivanovich's apartment. He even showed this very bottle to me once, telling me of its contents and its history. You know as well as I do that this is a deadly poison. So even M. Ivanovich, who was once good to me, now thinks that I should be put out of my misery... And he sent you to do it!"

"No, no", I said feebly, "that is not how it happened. Please don't think that! I would never do such a thing..."

"It seems there is not one person in this world who would not be happier, or sleep better at night, if I were dead", Erik mused bitterly, still looking at the small bottle in his hand. After a moment's thought, he added:

"It is true, perhaps, that I have outstayed my welcome..."

"Not at all!" I said, reaching out to try to snatch the bottle from his hand. But Erik was too quick for me and closed his fingers around it possessively.

"Do not try to interfere with my plans, Meg Giry! I have warned you before what happens if you do. I may be a broken man as you see me now, but I assure you, I can still think of at least five different ways to kill you this very moment."

I merely smiled at him. He couldn't scare me anymore.

"I'm sure you could", I said. "But don't you think enough lives have been wasted already, without adding yours or mine to the list?"

"You want to throw me a lifeline", Erik said with something of a challenge in his voice. "And yet, I am sure you would not want me, this disfigured madman, running free and maybe murdering another person the next time something doesn't go his way. Would you?"

I didn't answer, because he was right. For all the respect and admiration I had for Erik's genius, and even though I didn't want to see him dead, I would never feel at ease unless I knew this dangerous man was safely locked up in prison or in a psychiatric ward. In response to my silence, Erik said:

"I thought as much. And I agree with you. Now, would you like a glass of wine to honor this very special occasion?"

"Do I have a choice?" I asked, trying to make my words sound like a joke.

"None whatsoever", Erik said cheerfully, handing me a crystal glass from a cupboard and taking another one for himself. "That is, if you want to live to see another day. I strongly recommend it - I hear the weather is going to be quite lovely tomorrow."

I waited in silence as Erik disappeared into the inner room, and returned a short while later with a wine bottle in his hand. As he opened it, I noticed that it was a very expensive red wine. Erik chivalrously poured some in my glass before filling up his own halfway to the brim. He then unscrewed the lid of M. Ivanovich's bottle, and emptied its contents into the wine glass. I could only watch him, with a feeling of unreality, as if I was part of some macabre melodrama. And yet, Erik was practical enough.

"Come with me into my study", he said. "It is important that you know what to do, because in a while I will not be able to answer any questions."

We left the large room and went into a smaller one. It was lit by several brass candelabras and the scent of the Oriental perfume was particularly strong here. By the wall to the left was a piano and a bureau, and opposite the door there was a large table covered in heaps of what I assumed to be music sheets, and a bookshelf with several bound volumes and more sheet music. But the most remarkable thing in the room was an open coffin, which stood on the floor immediately to my right. It looked as if someone had been lying in it.

"You sleep there?" I asked, astonished.

"One must get used to all things in life", Erik replied casually. "I think it best that I take place inside the coffin before drinking. The poison works fairly rapidly and I don't believe you to be quite strong enough to lift me. When I have emptied my glass, I want you to open the top drawer of the bureau and take the mask you will find there. It is quite a beautiful mask, and it looks rather natural - I only made it recently, for Christine's sake. Help me put it on and throw away this old mask. You don't have to stay with me until it is all over, if you find that too uncomfortable. Go to the other room if you like, finish your wine, then come back. But before closing the lid of the coffin, place the bottles and glasses next to my body, so that there will be no trace of what has occurred. You will not have noticed it, but the coffin is placed on a hidden trapdoor. Once the lid is closed, the trapdoor will automatically open and my remains will be plunged into the grave I have prepared for them."

He spoke unemotionally, as if he were just giving out instructions for another homework assignment. For me, on the other hand, the sadness of it all was starting to sink in, as I realized this man was making preparations to die and I could not stop him.

Erik walked around his study, touching various objects as if he were saying goodbye to them. His eyes rested for a moment on the piles of music on the table - page after page in that characteristic red ink. He lifted one of the pages and looked at it thoughtfully.

"You know", he said, "Bach composed on his deathbed. He practically died composing. Do you know why?"

"No", I replied, noticing with some surprise how difficult it was for me to speak, "because it was his life's work and he wanted to finish it?"

"One might think so", Erik said. "But the answer has more to do with the now forgotten Ars moriendi, the Art of Dying. It was believed in those days that the moment you died was the moment your faith was tried the hardest, it was the moment when God and the Devil fought over your soul. Counterpoint, and especially invertible counterpoint in its strictest form, was believed to be a manifestation of God's perfect order. By occupying your mind with such divine matters in the hour of your passing, you would help secure your place in Heaven."

He was silent for a minute, then with a sigh put the page down on the table again.

"I don't expect there will be much of a struggle over my soul tonight", he said. "I doubt that any angel in Heaven would want to claim it. After I am gone, I want you to burn my music."

I stared at him in horror, but he was clearly in earnest. At that moment, there was an unexpected sound from the sewers - the distant barking of a dog.

"The police?" Erik asked.

I nodded. It must be.

"Then let us make haste", he said, taking place inside his coffin. "I would like to propose a toast. To music!"

"To music", I replied unsteadily.

We both raised our glasses. Mine was trembling. His wasn't.

I don't think Erik's death was what most people would consider ideal, and yet that seemed to be the way he wanted it. He emptied his wine glass quickly, with determination, and almost immediately his breathing changed, becoming more labored, and he writhed in what was undoubtedly severe pain. He looked at me pleadingly, and I quickly got his new mask from the drawer he had indicated. As I removed the old mask from his face, I made a conscious effort not to look away, but to look directly at him, without any apparent fear or disgust. At least I could give him that. The new mask had the appearance of a handsome young man's face, possibly, I thought, the face Erik wished he could have had. When I had fastened the straps of the mask behind his head, Erik lay back in his coffin, looking much more peaceful than before. He gazed at me with those strange blue eyes, seemingly surprised that I was still there. I could feel the tears starting to burn behind my eyelids, and I let them come. It might be a consolation for Erik to know that one person, at least, was crying for him. I didn't leave his side until I was certain that he was no longer conscious. Then an unexpected sense of loss overwhelmed me, and I had to pull myself together in order to carry out the rest of his instructions.

This I did, with one exception. I may have played a part in destroying Erik, but I could not bring myself to do the same to his music. When the coffin with Erik's body had disappeared without a trace into the grave underneath the trapdoor, I went to his table with a candelabra in my hand, prepared to burn whatever I found there. But then I looked through those pages, all scribbled full of notes in red ink. A half finished violin concerto. Several piano sonatas. A collection of songs dedicated to Christine Daaé. A complete score of an opera called "Don Juan Triumphant". I could by no means sightread music perfectly, but what I managed to decipher of those compositions was magnificent. No, I could not keep my last promise to Erik - I could not burn this music. Instead, I went to the bookshelf, determined to find any original compositions hidden there, and to rescue them for posterity. I was still occupied with this when the sound of footsteps and voices reached me from the other room.

The police had finally arrived.

"Is anybody there?" I heard them call out.

I wiped the tears from my face. After taking a minute to compose myself, I stepped out to meet the policemen. There were three of them, and one of the men had a large black dog on a leash. As I came out from the inner room, they were all looking around them in disbelief at the numerous candles, the Oriental furniture, the musical instruments and all the other items one would not expect to find down in the sewers, and which were now the only tangible evidence that Erik had ever lived there. When the three men saw me, they approached me at once.

"Meg Giry?" one of them said. "We were told by an old Russian fellow that you might be down here. As for the other two, the boy and the girl, we have received information that they are no longer here, and that they are both safe. But where is this Erik character, who seems to be responsible for all this?"

I hesitated for a while. How could I relate what had just happened when I could barely understand or accept it myself? Who would believe me if I said that this murderer was also the greatest composer and musician of our time, and the unhappiest person I have ever known? I did not think I would be able to give the policemen a lengthy explanation of any kind without losing my composure once again, so I answered them as briefly as I could. In a way, it was also a truthful answer:

"He got away."