Erik awoke with his back in spasms and fingertips frozen.
There was much to be said concerning the improvements Nora and her ready coffers were making to the old house; warmth was not one of them. Erik supposed he had suffered worse, but that did not alleviate the chill currently in his bones. He sat up and stretched, indignant at losing what little warmth had settled over the too-small loveseat. Even his face was cold—
He put up a hand to his face, and upon discovering it uncovered, launched into a search for his mask. He found it very close by on the floor.
After putting it back on, he looked around for signs of anyone else having been in the room. Nothing was out of place, nothing suggested an intrusion. Not to mention that, had someone entered the room and seen Erik, he would surely know about it. People could rarely remain silent when confronted with his face.
At last, his heartbeat started to slow to normal again. This was a small error that he would not make again. He was clearly too comfortable here, caught in some sort Nora-induced fantasy. It was easy to forget, with her quiet laughter and easy acceptance of Erik's foibles, that this was not reality. It felt real, it seemed real, but Erik was convinced that it was nothing more than an expertly staged production.
He would enjoy the performance, but not allow himself to become invested in the story. Such had been his mantra for some days, but it was growing harder to live by.
Ah, but there was the mask, always ready and willing to remind him.
He emerged from the parlor, trying to pull out the creases in his coat. He walked towards Nora's de facto office. She had directed the workers to move a large desk into the main parlor, which now dominated an otherwise genteel space. Such was Nora.
He was surprised to find the room deserted. It was after five o'clock. She would not be out, he figured, nor would she be already dining. He turned to exit and nearly ran into Carey.
The man's glares had become slightly more resigned and slightly less hostile, but Erik always knew when he was not wanted.
"Where is Nora?" Erik asked him.
"Miss Farley," Carey began, "went out for a walk."
Erik glanced back into the parlor and out the large window there. It was raining. "In this weather?"
"She could not be persuaded against it," Carey admitted. His tone suggested that he had tried to offer as much persuasion as was allowed by his position.
"Which way did she go?" Erik asked.
Carey hesitated for a moment. "In the direction of the vineyards, I believe. …shall I get your coat and an umbrella, sir?"
Erik nodded. It was not lost on him that this was the first offer of help Carey had ever made to him. He set off without delay.
The rain was not as bad in reality as it had first appeared, and his vision of a shivering and soaked Nora disappeared when he saw her. She wore oilskins over a hunting dress, with heavy boots and a large umbrella. At the moment, she wasn't even subject to the rain, as she was leaning against the old wine storage building, protected by the awning.
Erik came to stand next to her without a word.
After some time, she said, "I was rather hoping to see you this evening, Erik."
"Indeed."
"You always cheer me up," she said.
If Erik had found himself in this situation some weeks ago—which, of course, he would not have— he would have mistakenly believed that Nora was angry. She was short, her words clipped, her gaze was like flint. He had started to realize that this was not true anger, but her version of melancholia. "I'm afraid that I've never been a cheery individual myself."
"Nonetheless," she kept her eyes fixed out on the barren, rain soaked vineyards.
Erik remained silent and confused for sometime. Did she actually expect him to do something to bring her out of whatever gloomy mood she was suffering from? On that score, why had Erik even bothered to come out to see her, if not to offer his help? But the idea that he might actually cheer someone—impossible.
Everything about your life here is impossible, a voice whispered in his mind. It sounded suspiciously like Christine. No one has ever needed you in this fashion. No one had ever tolerated you in this fashion. Fifty years, Erik, fifty years. If this was possible, don't you think it would have happened sooner?
"What's the matter?" he asked, trying to be soft, trying to be gentle. Had he ever been either before? Oh, he had tried for Christine, but he could only succeed in being a dog for her. Docile and loyal, yes, but ultimately still an animal.
Nora's smile flickered in and then out of existence. "It's nothing—it's—" she paused and then turned to face Erik, leaning with one shoulder on the wall. She observed him unabashedly, eyes dancing over his mask, his rain spotted coat, the mud on his shoes. "Have you ever been upset by something that would not normally bother you?"
Erik eyed her curiously. "No."
She smiled again, equally briefly. "Must be a woman's weakness."
Erik tried again. "What bothered you, Nora?"
"Oh, nothing, really," she said, "just a thought, really. A passing thought that made everything else seem so much worse." She pushed away from the building and motioned for Erik to follow her back in the direction of the house. "I must be getting old."
"I hardly think so," Erik replied quickly. She had never mentioned her age but Erik could tell that she was at least his junior, and beautiful at that.
"Oh, it doesn't bother me," she shrugged. "I'll get to play at the role of batty old spinster." She fell silent for a few more minutes. "It's sure to amusing."
"Thank you for seeing me, Monsieur Moncharmin." Christine held out her hand and the manager elaborately pantomimed a kiss over it. Real life, she had found, was not so far removed from the theater as she had first believed. Exaggerated gestures, voices pitched to emphasize one meaning over another, roles assigned and assumed. If that was not theater, what was?
After returning to Paris from the wonderful months spent in the far North with Raoul, Christine had started to craft her own role in the world. A little cold, a little detached, but devoted to her husband and the family she had acquired with him.
Raoul had laughed at her pleasantly when she debuted this addition to her repertoire. "Paris will make a legitimate countess out of you yet!" he had exclaimed.
Christine would have been stung by his words, had she not known how Raoul was plagued by thoughts of being an 'illegitimate' count. He took shelter in that one great recourse of men—career. What could Christine hide her doubts behind, save theatrics?
It seemed perfectly effective, as Moncharmin flailed and fell all over himself, trying to make her comfortable. He returned to his desk chair only after having made every gracious offer of footstool—drink—anything at all-
Christine smiled at him, allowing a shade of warmth to color her words. "I must say, Monsieur Moncharmin, how pleased I have been to see the Garnier. It seems to have just flourished under your guidance."
Moncharmin looked predictably smug. Ah! Young men with their young egos, destined to become old men with old egos, were easy to flatter. He played his role perfectly, with a neat half bow and a courteous, "your servant, Madame."
They chatted lightly for a brief period of time, until Christine could almost be sure that he would agree to her request.
This was a last resort, of course. She had tried to gain entry to Erik's home with the aid of the Daroga. But the man's interest and fervent support had waned in a curious way. They had found the Rue Scribe entrance blocked off, and while the Daroga had seemed intent on searching the area for something, his mind did not fully seem to be on the task at hand.
"Erik blocked our paths," he said mildly. "Perhaps his way of releasing you from your promise."
Christine could not abide by that, but had put on a good show of being resigned for the good Persian's benefit. Her options were running low, but perhaps—
"Monsieur," she began, "I have a great favor to ask of you."
Moncharmin, of course, replied with hearty acquiescence.
"I want," Christine began carefully, "to go down to the cellars."
Well, that brought the conversation to a standstill. Moncharmin regarded her curiously. "The cellars?"
"Yes." She observed him as carefully and discreetly as she could. At the moment, he did not seem inclined to grant her wish, but perhaps… "Monsieur, do not pretend to be unfamiliar with the sad tale of what happened to me here at the Garnier."
He had protested that he knew only that she met her husband here—was that such a tragedy?
"I speak," Christine pressed on, "of the affair of the Phantom of the Opera." Moncharmin blanched, and his eyes roved about the room, as if searching the shadows. "I see you are familiar with the story."
"Superstition," Moncharmin countered, though it was clearly a superstition he believed in.
"Come now, Monsieur," Christine said, "surely you are aware of what occurred—it was the talk of the company. I disappeared directly from the stage."
Moncharmin's expression became blasé. "A clever trick of the then-Viscount, it is believed." Christine fixed him with an intent stare, and he eventually sighed. "I am familiar with the story, Madame Countess—you'll forgive me for disbelief that you were kidnapped by a shade."
"It is true," Christine stated, and let the words hang dramatically in the air. "And he was not a ghost—he was a man, a genius, and he lived beneath the opera house."
At last, she had the satisfaction of seeing Moncharmin pale. "Indeed?"
"Yes. He is dead now," Christine said, "and I have taken on the task of seeing that the man—the monster, yes, but still a man—is given a proper burial."
The silence threatened to go on indefinitely until Moncharmin finally mumbled. "We are at your disposal, Countess."
There! Those were the words she wished to hear. She briefly outlined her plan, and the route she intended to take, before rising. "I thank you, Monsieur—" she prepared to offer her hand again to Moncharmin, but the man was silent and his face was drawn.
He glanced up at Christine with a strange urgency in his eyes. "Countess, would you do me a great favor?"
Christine nodded. He rifled through his drawers and produced a piece of stationery. He handed it to her.
At first, it was simply the red ink that arrested her attention. Red like blood, red like death. Slowly, other details emerged. The poorly shaped letters, only a few of which were properly connected. At the end, the signet of 'O.G.' She forced herself to read the missive.
Monsieur Manager,
I have attached a list of repairs I feel vital to the on-going success of the Garnier. I realize that such renovations might be quite costly. I therefore submit that you withhold my salary for the next six weeks, the amount coming to approximately 28,000 francs.
After the six weeks elapse, I will expect my salary to be submitted again in the usual way and in a timely fashion.
Your Obedient Servant, etc…
Christine refolded the note and handed it back to Moncharmin. "So?"
"Countess," Moncharmin was clearly troubled, and leaned across his desk to look Christine in the eyes. "Is that the writing of your opera ghost?"
What harm could there be in admitting it? "Yes." After a moment she asked, "Where did you get that note, Monsieur Moncharmin?"
"It was delivered to me at the beginning of the month," he said.
Christine felt her stomach tighten. "This month?" she repeated. Her character—grand Countess Christine!—disappeared. She felt barely-twenty again, under the thrall of Erik's voice. Good God, he could be in the walls even now, listening!
Moncharmin nodded.
Christine arose. "In that case, Monsieur, my plan is a… premature one. I would be foolish—and you would be foolish—to go down to the cellars. It is his domain, and he does not take kindly to trespassers."
Moncharmin was soon on his feet, "but, Countess— to be able to confront him! We shall go with guards, we shall—"
"No, Monsieur," Christine said, "as long as Erik lives, nothing can compel me to step foot in… here."
Nora had suddenly become religious.
Oh course, Nora had always been religious to Erik's knowledge. But she had taken to attending mass on weekdays as well as Sunday and he often saw her engaging in brief rosary devotions. Her manners had altered slightly, and there was a sadness in her eyes that Erik found to be intolerable.
It had started with that rainy walk in the vineyards, but had only grown worse. He tried to ask her again what might be wrong, but botched the question terribly. Nora simply shrugged and said it was the dreary weather.
He believed her for a half a minute.
The first week of their trip to Beaune had been so pleasant, Erik recalled. Oh, the house had been a disaster, and Nora was often running off to meet this person or that person, but she always lit up when Erik came to keep her company. It had been a surreal experience at the time, to see someone seem so glad to be with him. Just as he started to accept it, she stopped. Was it possible that he had simply imagined her tender eyes during the course of the previous days?
It seemed likely now, as she haunted the repaired halls. Oh, she took care of her business with her typical aplomb, and occasionally her smile would still reach her eyes. But then they would always settle on Erik, and she would grow sad again.
The weather, indeed!
Erik's concern turned to agitation and the agitation to anger. What sort of cruel mockery was this? Bring Erik away from Paris, make him live as a normal man, and then reject him?
He seethed for days with that thought. He could tell that Nora saw his anger, but she said nothing. Nothing!
It was the middle of December, the weather was truly abysmal, and they were reaching their second week of impasse.
Erik did what he could—he packed, and appeared in Nora's parlor with his suitcase in hand.
"I've decided to return to Paris," he said. There was nothing warm in his tone, nothing hurt. Simple, cold facts.
She looked up to him and the papers in her hands slipped to the floor, "Erik, I—" He almost abandoned his plan then, looking at her. He did not know when he started to think of her as beautiful, as opposed to his first impression of simple elegance. But it was undeniable fact, for she looked like some master's masterwork, cheeks too pale, eyes too green, a spark of life in a dull and grey world.
No, not life—merely the illusion of life. Nora was the great illusionist, Erik decided, far surpassing his own talents in that respect. He created situations, she created worlds and futures and then let them shatter.
His inspiration for his undertaking returned, and he held up his hand. "I am grateful that you allowed me to be your guest for so long, but I can no longer impose."
She looked shocked. "Oh, honestly—"
"Fournier has already called a carriage for me, it should be here shortly," Erik nodded. "So, in the interests of time, a simple thank you will have to suffice. Farewell."
He did not allow her the opportunity to reply, merely turned about and walked away.
He did not make it to the front door. He was compelled to stop when he heard her chair crash to the floor, and soon found Nora quite literally running after him. She reached out, desperate, and held on to Erik's wrist.
"For the love of God, let me explain," she exclaimed. Her eyes were wide and wild. Her voice dropped once she had Erik's attention. "Please."
Erik stared at her and then nodded briefly. What could she possibly say?
Apparently, she did not know the answer to that question either. She fell silent, and pushed her fingers though her hair. "All right. All right. I know I've been treating you just abominably recently—"
Erik nearly laughed at her. Abominably? Oh, perhaps he was a little disappointed in her, perhaps a little hurt. But had he been treated abominably? Hardly. She had such a talent for overstatement. "I am not leaving because of how you have treated me," he replied. It was not entirely false.
"Then why?" she asked. She would not let go of his wrist.
"I think I ought to return to the opera house," Erik replied, "I have a feeling that Christine must have moved on by now. It ought to be safe."
"Give me a few hours," she said, "we can all leave together."
Oh, what fresh hell! Erik could not help the venom that came out in his next words. "Oh, indeed? What happened to your abominable treatment of me?"
"Let me explain," she repeated, "oh, Erik, something terrible happened a few weeks ago."
Yes, well, he knew that. What was plaguing her was still a mystery. He had devoted much time to that thought. There was an issue with the bank around the time she had started to behave strangely. Something to do with back payment of her uncle's former staff. There had been a flurry of telegrams between her and her cousin. And of course, there had been the afternoon when Erik accidentally fell asleep without his mask… It was not that, at least. If she had stumbled upon him in such a state, surely she would have turned him out immediately. What else, then?...
"I realized that I would be leaving," she said.
A strange statement. Leaving Beaune? Of course, she would. There had been a time, which now seemed rather far off, that Erik had looked forward to returning with her to Paris, treating her again to the opera. "And?"
"And the thought depressed me," she said, "oh, God, I can tell you—the thought of leaving you—"
"Leaving me?" Erik repeated, incredulous. Little memories started to return. Paris was not a permanent address… return home by January. Ah, it was coming up soon, wasn't it? But the idea that it saddened Nora… "Don't toy with me, Nora."
"I am not," she said, "there were... other things, too, but I could have carried on in spite of them, if it wasn't for this one terrible thought." She finally let go of Erik, and laughed. "Oh, that just sounds foolish. I can't remember being so foolish in years." For the first time in so many days, her expression softened. "I will miss you, Erik. But instead of enjoying having you around now, I simply gave myself over to my silliness. I do that, I warn you."
Erik tried to recall if, in all of the deceptions Christine had ever bewitched him with, she had ever looked so sincere. He set down his valise and after a moment of hesitation, extended his hand to Nora. She grabbed onto it at once and held fast. "I shall make you a deal, Nora."
"Hm?"
"When it comes time for us to part—" strange, how the idea filled him dread, though just moments ago he was ready to leave Nora utterly behind—"I shall show you my face. You will not regret the parting then."
She smiled at him softly. "Believe me, Erik. It won't make the slightest difference."
Well, we're officially half way through the story. Thanks to everyone still reading!