A brief note -- Although I'll try my best to stick to my schedule of posting a new chapter once a week, there may be some small delays in the next few. Unfortunately, I have some work to do (bummer!) plus I'm trying to make sure what comes next in the story follows a certain kind of logic. Thanks! --HD

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Chapter 35
Unexpected Visitors

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Saturday, April 16, 1881 – late afternoon
Perros-Guirec – Mamma's house

For the first time in his life, Erik felt free of his past. True, those first few days after he had poured his heart out his to Christine and shared his darkest, most troublesome memories had been tinged with a sense of unease. He had worried that perhaps he had told her too much, that once the impact of what he had told her sunk in, she would have a change of heart. But as the days passed, he came to realize that such would never be the case. In fact, Erik felt he could now interact with Christine on a more intimate level – not necessarily physical intimacy, but the kind of spiritual intimacy that true lovers felt. Throughout his life, he had always felt the need to be reserved, to always keep his emotions walled off, his true feeling kept secret. Now there was no need for it.

Christine's faith in him never wavered. Not once had she ever said or done anything other than make him feel accepted…and loved. Just as she had done months ago when he first confessed his love for her, she continued to accept him with a maturity that belied her nineteen years. Perhaps this maturity was due to her own unique circumstances – the loss of both parents at a young age, being raised by a worldly-wise woman like Anna Valérius – and the recent events she had found herself drawn into.

Christine, on her part, found herself understanding Erik better than she had ever thought possible. He sometimes poked fun at himself for behaving like an old man, one time even referring to himself as being stodgy, but she knew that was not the case. It was true that he would always be quiet and dignified, a very private man, but stodgy? Never.

Since the day at the chapel, she had seen him grow more relaxed and confident in demonstrating his love for her. There were small signs of this growing confidence – the touching of hands over the supper table, the "accidental" brushing against each other when working in the kitchen, and a myriad other small contacts throughout the day.

It was late afternoon on another warm April day. Mamma had gone to market, and would not be home for a while.

Erik had recovered from the worst of his injuries. Most of the bruises were now faded away, and he was feeling stronger each day. There were still minor aches and pains, but these too were vanishing as the weeks pass. With Mamma's blessing, Erik was staying in Perros for now, and in return for her many kindnesses, he tried to make himself useful by helping around the house whenever possible.

Today, he had been working in the garden behind the stone house. There, he was cleaning up the herb garden and trimming back the plants that had wintered over and were now beginning to sprout their spring growth. To the left was another plot he had, this one for the planting of vegetables, and he had even put out sets of onions and planted lettuce and carrot seeds. Earlier, he had trimmed back the rose bushes and the perennial garden that bordered the grounds. Satisfied with a job well done, Erik stood back and admired his handiwork, imagining the roses in their first bloom of spring, covering the low stone fence that surrounded the property.

It was a warm day, warm enough to roll up one's sleeves and undo a few buttons on a shirt. Feeling a kink in his back, Erik decided this was as good a time as any for a short rest. There was a small rustic bench in the yard, little more than a couple of planks of wood resting atop two short sawhorses, but it was perfect for sitting on after a strenuous session of yard work. Setting the spade aside, Erik sat down and stretched his muscles, easing the aches out of muscles that had not seen much use of late. Being that he was alone with Christine, he did not wear his mask, and used one of his sleeves to wipe the sweat from his forehead. Behind him, he heard the back door open. He smiled and waved as he turned to see Christine come out of the kitchen.

Christine nodded back. She had a towel draped over an arm, and was carrying tray upon which were a pitcher of cold water and a couple of glasses. "Would you care to join me here?" she said, inviting him to sit next to her on the steps. "There's more room." Pouring him a glass of refreshing water, she made room for him to join her, and the two sat and talked.

"I've been thinking," Erik started to say.

"That can be dangerous, you know," she grinned back at him.

"True, but sooner or later it must be done. What I wanted to say was that soon I should start making arrangements to secure the rest of my belongings from my house."

Christine agreed, but worried that it was not yet safe to return to Paris. "We still don't know what Raoul or that other odious man may be up to."

"I agree with you completely." He took another sip of water, then took the towel from her and wiped his face. "Thank you," he said, putting the towel off to the side when he was finished.

"You know, I've had a lot of time to think about what I would like to do to a certain vicomte." He looked at Christine and saw the fear in her eyes.

"You're…you're not going after him, are you?" she asked, her voice quivering with worry.

Erik shook his head. "No. As much as I would like to do so, you needn't worry about me going after him." Taking her hand in his, he held it tight. "I realize, especially after discussing the matter with Monsieur d'Aubert, that any retribution I might seek against the vicomte would only result in more troubles for me and, more importantly, for you. I've decided that a peaceful life with you at my side is more important than anything else."

She turned her face to his. Reaching out with her free hand, she pushed back a few stray locks of hair that had fallen across his forehead. "You hair's mussed," she murmured as she pressed closer, finding his lips with hers.

"You mean, what little hair there is?"

"Oh, Erik," she sighed as she leaned against his shoulder, secretly pleased that he felt comfortable enough to actually joke about his appearance, and wanting the feel the warmth and comfort of his body next to hers. "All I want is to put these horrid events behind us. I want the two of us to marry and start our new life together. I never thought I would say this, but I don't think I could ever live in Paris again. It has too many painful memories."

"I agree. We should put as much distance between de Chagny and ourselves as possible; do whatever must be done to avoid contact with him. But I promise you this, Christine," he continued, holding her hand tighter. "If Raoul de Chagny ever threatens you, I will not rest until that danger is removed. If he ever attempts to harm you, if he lays one finger on you, or has someone else hurt you, I shall not rest until he is dead. I don't want his death on my hands, because in spite of his questionable behavior, he was once your childhood friend; I don't want him to become a source of pain between us. But this is my solemn promise: I shall do whatever I must to protect you. You are more precious to me than my own life." To seal his promise, he took her hands in his, raised them to his lips, and kissed the backs of her fingers.

They sat for several minutes, neither speaking, merely enjoying the birds as they sang, and the flowers that danced in the light breeze. Christine turned her head and noticed the contented smile upon Erik's face. "Whatever it is you're thinking about, it must be something good."

"It is. I was thinking of how fortunate I am that your foster mother is such a generous woman, allowing me to live here." A brief look of sadness passed over Erik's face, which was gone as quickly as it had come, but not before Christine saw it. "Is there something wrong? Did you try to do too much?" she asked, thinking that perhaps his grimace was due to too much work.

"I'm fine," he reassured her. "I was…thinking about my own mother. It's only recently that I've come to understand that, because of my father, I never really knew her." He shook off the gloomy thoughts and changed the subject to something more pleasant.

Christine looked at all the work he had done to the garden and yard. "I don't think need to worry about Mamma's generosity. It seems to me that you're doing a good job of repaying her. And speaking of living arrangements, I've been meaning to ask you, what's the reason for having me move out of my old bedroom and into Mamma's room? Do you find me…too much of a temptation?"

He looked over at her, and saw she was trying very hard to maintain a modest disposition, but it was obvious that it was a struggle. Erik inhaled deeply, knowing he was feeling the same urges, the same temptations, that Christine was feeling, maybe even more so. He had no idea how much longer he could hold out.

Deep down, Erik knew he was a hopeless romantic. He wanted to emulate the heroes in the books he read, the ones by Dumas, Hugo and others, and had often dreamt of being a knight in shining armor. It was not due to religious convictions on his part that he resisted what Christine referred to as the "joys of the flesh." His was a heroic ideal, one he could relate to far better than any religious strictures against carnal knowledge before marriage.

But because he knew that Christine's religion was important to her, he wanted to adhere to its guidelines even if he did not believe in them. This was something he would do for her sake. Even though she had many times hinted to him that "it" was agreeable to her, he had heard the occasional hesitation in her voice, as if wanting something she knew she wasn't supposed to be asking for – yet. By now, he knew her well enough to understand that she would be disappointed in herself (and him) if she were not married first.

"I never expected that all my dreams would come true, Christine. I've always fantasized about what it would be like."

"What what would be like?" she asked dreamily.

He smiled at her. "You know – the perfect wife, the perfect wedding, the...the perfect wedding night...and now that I'm so close…now that we're so close…it would be..."

"…A shame to spoil it all?" Christine replied, hugging him tightly. "Oh, Erik! How did I get so lucky, to find you? But does that mean I can't try tempting you anymore?" she asked with a wicked grin.

"My dear Christine, I would think there was something wrong if you didn't. But while we're on the subject of weddings, have you given any thought to where you would like to live when we're married? I know you miss singing, and I suspect you've gotten a bit rusty. When was the last time you practiced?"

She grimaced. "It's true. I haven't practiced since…" she tried to think back, "…probably before you came here. I've been…busy. Perhaps you know of someone who would like to help me resume my lessons? The piano is once again tuned. And as for singing, once I'm in voice I could always volunteer to be part of the church choir."

"Hmm…" Erik muttered. At the mention of "church choir," he started wondering whether he would be able to hear her sing in a church. "I suppose…" he started to say but stopped.

"You suppose…what? That you might actually come and listen to me?" She knew he disliked the idea of going to church.

"I was going to say that I suppose I might have to attend services, if it means hearing you sing."

"Are you serious? Oh, Erik, that would mean so much to me!" She threw her arms around his neck and hugged him as tightly as she could.

"If I get this kind of reward for simply entering the building, then perhaps I should consider becoming the choirmaster. That way, I would have a say in the musical selections. I might as well sing, too."

She slapped playfully on the arm. "Oh, now you are joking, aren't you. I can see it now – the former Opera Ghost reduced to conducting the church choir. Can you imagine what all the newspapers would make of it?"

"I will refuse to grant any interviews. But back to where we will live."

"What can we afford?" she asked. "Are we talking about purchasing our own chateau, or renting an apartment in the city? Perhaps buying a modest cottage in a remote location far from town?"

He snorted at the mention of a chateau, but she ignored him.

"Seriously, Erik. I mean, I'm not working and so am not able to contribute financially. I brought back quite a few bundles of banknotes from your house, but I'm not sure how far that would go when it comes to moving to a new city, buying a new house, furniture, and all the other expenses that would entail."

"Money is not a problem. I have accounts in several Paris banks. The amounts are," he paused to consider how to word this, "substantial. Over the years, I made numerous successful investments. When we're ready to move, I shall liquidate those accounts. Closing them will require at least a couple of trips to Paris, so that cannot be done yet."

"Hmm... the fruits of your ill-gotten gains?" she teased. "We're going to have to find you a real job when this is all over, Erik."

"Perhaps I should stay at home and let you be the breadwinner?"

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Sunday, April 17, 1881
Mamma's house

It was a Sunday evening, and after a busy day at the Valérius house, the three of them – Erik, Christine and Mamma Valérius – had settled in for a very cozy, domestic routine. Mamma had become the mother figure Erik had always dreamt of having; when he thought of his mother at all of late, the two women were merging into one, one who looked and spoke like Anna Valérius. Her no-nonsense attitude was refreshing and invigorating, and under her influence, he was changing for the better. But this peaceful interlude was soon to be interrupted…

Supper was over and dishes had been washed. The three of them were sitting in the parlor. Mamma was seated in her favorite chair with bundles of yarn at her feat, while Erik – on the sofa – was holding unwound yarn in his hands, keeping it from tangling while Mamma wrapped the bundles into the smaller sized balls she found easier to work with. Across the room, Christine was sitting in another chair, pretending to read while secretly (or so she thought) gazing at Erik from time to time.

Earlier in the day, she had gone into town to visit an old friend who also sold woolens. The woman lived a number of kilometers out in the country and came to market a couple days a month. Mamma had purchased numerous bundles of colored yarns with the intention of crocheting a wedding afghan for Erik and Christine. She had not told either of them what she was planning, and thought herself quite to have persuaded Erik to help with what would end up being his own gift.

Christine started to read aloud.

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.
I love thee to the depth and breadth and height
My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight
For the ends of Being and ideal Grace.
I love thee to the level of everyday's
Most quiet need, by sun and candle-light.
I love thee freely, as men strive for Right;
I love thee purely, as they turn from Praise.
I love thee with a passion put to use
In my old griefs, and with my childhood's faith.
I love thee with a love I seemed to lose
With my lost saints, -- I love thee with the breath,
Smiles, tears, of all my life! -- and, if God choose,
I shall but love thee better after death.1

Erik had known she was watching, and from time to time caught her looking across the room. At the sound of her voice, he glanced up at her. Their eyes meet. Smiles were exchanged. Everything was calm, peaceful…then there was a knock at the door.

"Goodness!" Mamma exclaimed, dropping her yarn. "Who could be here at this hour? It's not as if we have neighbors nearby."

The Valérius house was located in a very rural location, several kilometers from Perros-Guirec proper, and what neighbors she had are few and far between. As a matter of fact, Erik could not ever recall anyone stopping by unexpectedly like this, even during the daylight hours. They could not immediately look out the large window as the curtains were partially drawn; the windows faced west, and Mamma often pulled the curtains shut to block out the afternoon sun when it became too bright. Worried looks were exchanged as Mamma rose to answer the door.

"No," Erik said, halting her. "Both of you – follow the plan we discussed earlier. Mamma, you and Christine go upstairs to your room and lock the door. I'll come for you when it's safe." He heard the sharp intake of breath from Christine, and knew she must have been trembling.

"You don't think…" she started to say.

He tried to reassure her. "It may be nothing, an innocent passerby looking for directions," not adding that it could just as easily be someone sent to do them harm, "but we mustn't take any chances."

"Shouldn't we turn down the lights?" asked Mamma.

"No. We don't want to do anything because that would raise the level of alert on the other side of the door." Motioning both of them to go upstairs, Erik rose and went over to the window. Carefully moving the curtain aside only slightly to avoid revealing any light to their visitors, he peered outside.

"Who is it?" he heard Christine whisper. He turned to see both she and Mamma were standing halfway up the stairs.

"Upstairs! Now! Both of you!" he ordered under his breath, making shooing motions with his hands to hurry them on their way. He watched to make sure they went this time, and didn't turn back to the window until he heard the door shut. Returning to the window, Erik made out two forms standing at the door. There was another set of gentle raps, but still Erik didn't move, his senses heightened as he sought out any possible signs of trouble.

There had been a full moon two nights ago, and as it was a clear night tonight, there would have been ample light for Erik to see their callers' features – if they had not been standing in the shadow of the house. As it was, it was too dark to make out any details other than that there were two of them. Looking further out the road, the unimpeded moonlight allowed him to see that there were no signs of a carriage or horses. Whoever they were, they had either left their transportation hidden from view, or had walked here.

Waiting for some clue as to the strangers' identities, Erik heard muffled voices coming from the other side of the door. "Is it possible they're not home?" he thought he heard one of them say. The voice sounded familiar, but he couldn't be sure. The response of the other man couldn't be heard, but at that same moment, one of the men struck a match. In the brief flare of the light, Erik was at last able to see their faces and ascertain that their visitors were indeed friends.

"You can come down now," Erik called up to the women. "It's Messieurs Garron and d'Aubert," he added as he went to open the door, completely forgetting that he was unmasked. "You gave us a bit of a scare," he said to the two men. "We weren't expecting anyone."

"I suspected as much," said d'Aubert. "That is why I lit my cheroot," he added, extinguishing it before entering the house. 2 "It is quite dark, and assumed you were not answering the door because you could not see who it was. I commend you on your precautions, Monsieur duBois."

"I can only assume that there's a problem," said Erik, once everyone was gathered in the parlor. "I can't imagine you've come here at this hour simply to wish us a good night."

"Unfortunately, you are correct," answered d'Aubert. "I have some unfortunate news to pass along to you. That which we feared may be about to take place. Raoul de Chagny has been in contact with Monsieur Fournier, and has vowed to find Mlle Daaé."

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Author's Notes:

Sonnets from the Portuguese, XLIII: "How do I love thee? Let me count the ways..." by Elizabeth Barrett Browning (1806-1861). Sonnets from the Portuguese, written ca. 1845–1846 and first published in 1850, is a collection of forty-four love sonnets written by Elizabeth Barrett Browning. The poems largely chronicle the period leading up to her 1846 marriage to Robert Browning. Elizabeth was initially hesitant to publish the poems, feeling that they were too personal. However, Robert insisted that they were the best sequence of English-language sonnets since Shakespeare's time and urged her to publish them. To offer the couple some privacy, she decided that she might publish them under a title disguising the poems as translations of foreign sonnets. Therefore, the collection was first to be known as Sonnets from the Bosnian, until Robert suggested that she change their imaginary original language to Portuguese, probably after his nickname for her: "my little Portuguese."The collection was acclaimed and popular even in the poet's lifetime and it remains so today. By far the most famous poem from this collection, with one of the most famous opening lines in the English language, is number forty-three.