This had been a horrible mistake. She had known it from the start, and the blinding flash of lightning followed closely by the loud rumble of thunder overhead only confirmed it. Her father should have listened to her when she suggested staying another night at the inn, but they were nearly out of money and had already stayed in the same village longer than they usually would. They needed to move on to a new place where their music would be received by a fresh, hopefully well-paying audience. Gustave hoped to find that in Paris and so he had convinced his daughter not to postpone their departure any longer, despite his deteriorating health. He insisted it was merely a cold and it would pass soon enough. Christine suspected he was in much worse condition than he claimed to be, but Gustave Daaé was a stubborn man.
When they passed through a small village around midday and the sky was looking darker and more ominous by the minute, Christine once again tried to persuade her father to rest there and travel on the next morning. Gustave would not hear of it. He was convinced that if they pushed on now, they could make it to the city before nightfall. Apparently he refused to see that the weather was about to take a turn for the worse.
Three hours later, they were caught in a downpour, with no village, house or farm in sight. They were both soaked to the skin and freezing. Gustave was exhausted. He could not take ten steps without bursting into another bout of coughing. If they did not find shelter from the storm soon, Christine feared her father might not make it through the night.
Maybe if they had gone left at the last fork in the road instead of right, they would have found a place to stay by now, but they had come too far to turn back. She was growing truly desperate. Someone had to be living around here. There had to be someone who could help them. She could not lose her father like this.
Christine did not believe in miracles, and yet that is exactly what it felt like when they rounded the bend in the road and found that the path they were on led straight to a grand solitary estate. They followed the long lane flanked with beech trees to a large wrought iron gate, behind which lay a manor surrounded by vast, well-tended gardens. At first Christine feared that the gate was closed and that they had come all this way in vain, but with a firm shove the gate gave way.
"We're saved, papa," Christine sighed in relief. He was so weakened by now that he could not walk without leaning on his daughter, her arm wrapped tightly around his waist to support most of his weight. In her other hand she carried the most valuable thing they owned: her father's violin, while the rest of their meagre belongings were tied together in a bag strapped to her back. She was cold and wet and tired, and all that weight she was carrying did nothing to improve matters. If they had not come across the manor, she did not know how much longer she would have been able to go on herself.
She almost had to drag her father towards the entrance. She was about to put the violin down for a moment so she could reach for the brass knocker when the heavy wooden door in front of her seemed to sway open of its own accord. Entering an unfamiliar house without being invited in was not something Christine would do under normal circumstances, but another loud clap of thunder and the rain still relentlessly pelting down on them urged her inside.
The door closed heavily behind them with a resounding bang, making Christine jump. It was probably just the wind, she told herself. She expected the noise would alert whoever lived here, or perhaps a member of the staff, to their presence, but no one came to see what was going on. She called out, but her 'hello' simply echoed off the walls.
The hall they found themselves in was so dark they could not see two steps in front of them. There must be drapes covering the windows, she thought, and there were no lamps or candles to be seen. She realized that if they had to walk around the place looking for someone to help them, she would need at least one hand free to feel around for any obstacles, so she untied the luggage from her back and put it down on the floor together with the violin, hoping it would not be in anybody's way.
She carefully walked forward, her free arm stretched out in front of her, the other still supporting her father, who was now shivering uncontrollably and still coughing. He needed a doctor as soon as possible, or at the very least a fire to warm himself until a doctor could be summoned.
Determined to find someone to help them, Christine carefully took a few shuffling steps forward, feeling her way across the hall until her hand encountered a wall. The chattering of her teeth increased at the feel of the cold stone beneath her fingers as she followed the wall to her left, and she was relieved beyond measure when after a few moments she could see a small speck of light in the distance. Light meant fire, and fire meant warmth.
As they neared the light, she noticed the room they were about to enter was a very large sitting room. She could see a sofa and an ottoman in front of the fire, but not much else. Since the fire burning in the hearth was the only source of light, the majority of the room was cast in darkness. Not that what the room looked like was of any importance to her at the moment. The only thing she cared about was the roaring fire in front of them.
Father and daughter hurried forward as best as they could in their exhausted state, falling to their knees in front of the fireplace and stretching out their hands towards the flames almost close enough to burn their fingers.
It took a while for the warmth to seep into their skin, but eventually Christine's teeth stopped chattering and she directed her attention back to her father. His shivering had lessened somewhat, but his face had taken on a sickly pale shade and the coughing simply would not stop. She had to search the rest of the house quickly for someone who could help them and hopefully send for a physician, but her father was too weak to go with her and she did not want to leave him alone in his condition.
While she was considering what to do, she felt a shift in the air around her and knew that someone else had entered the room, although they stayed out of the circle of light around the fireplace, remaining invisible.
"How dare you set foot on my property without my consent?"
A thunderous, bodiless voice boomed around the room. Christine shivered – not because of the cold this time – and instinctively gripped her father's hand tightly in hers. She looked around her, trying to locate where the voice was coming from, but it did not appear to originate from one particular spot, seemingly coming from everywhere at once.
"Apologies, monsieur, we simply wish –" Gustave managed to croak before another violent bout of coughing forced him to stop speaking.
"I do not care about your wishes, old man. I am not your fairy godmother," the man bit out. "You are trespassing. I want you to leave. Now." His voice emanated power. Despite how cold and tired she was, Christine suddenly felt the urge to do exactly what he told her, almost as if he was compelling her to follow his orders with nothing but his voice, but leaving was not an option.
She could not fault the man, whoever he was, for being angry with them. He was right after all. They had entered his house without permission. Still, how could he turn them away just like that, with the storm still raging outside? And could he not see what poor condition her father was in?
"Please monsieur, we only seek shelter from the storm," Christine pleaded. "We have nowhere else to go, and my father is terribly ill. If he is not tended to soon, he may die." Her voice faltered at the last word and she had to take a deep breath to steady herself. "He is all I have. I cannot lose him. Please do not send us away, monsieur, I beg you."
She did not want to cry in front of this stranger, who would not even do them the courtesy of showing himself, but she felt a sob rising in her throat. If he sent them away now, she would lose the only person she held dear in this world, the only family she had left.
The voice was quiet for a while. Maybe she had finally managed to get through to this man, to make him understand how dire her circumstances were and how much his hospitality would mean to her.
When he spoke again, Christine was sorely disappointed.
"And how would you repay me for my extraordinary kindness if I decided to let you stay for the night?"
Although Christine found the question quite impertinent and was astounded by his lack of sympathy, she was so hopeless that she would do anything the stranger asked of her as long as it meant her father was going to be looked after.
"We do not have much money, but whatever we have is yours – "
"Don't make me laugh," the voice interrupted. "Did you not take a moment to appreciate the size of this estate before you so carelessly intruded on my privacy?" He let out a dark chuckle that sent another shiver down her spine. "I do not want for money, child."
Although his arrogance and condescending tone infuriated her to no end, she could not let it show. However unlikable he may seem, he was her only hope. She needed his help.
"What else can I offer you then, monsieur?"
As soon as the question had left her lips, she regretted it. She could not see his face, but she could hear the taunting grin in his voice as he answered.
"Let me see. What could a beautiful young girl like you have to offer me? I am sure we could think of something."
Young and innocent she might be, but she was not that naïve. She understood perfectly well what he was insinuating. She had to think of something quickly, before the conversation got completely out of hand, and so she blurted out the first thing that came to mind.
"I – I could sing for you."
"Sing for me?"
Rather than sounding amused or conceited, his voice now carried a hint of curiosity. She had not expected him to be interested in her voice, but apparently her offer had captured his attention.
"My father and I are travelling musicians, monsieur. He is clearly in no condition to play, but I could still sing, if that would appeal to you."
He seemed to think it over. For a while, all that could be heard was her father's wheezing and harsh breathing, along with the sound of the rain beating incessantly against the windows.
Eventually, the voice replied. "Well, let us hear it then."
Singing a cappella was not something Christine was used to. In normal circumstances her father would accompany her on the violin and she would draw confidence from his wonderful melodies, letting them carry and support her voice, but this time she would have to manage on her own.
She drew a deep, steadying breath and began to sing.
It had not been a conscious decision to sing in Swedish. The repertoire she and her father chose from when performing consisted mostly of French songs, which appealed more to a French audience than music written in a language they could not understand. Yet for whatever reason, this particular song from her home country was the first one that came to mind.
It was a folk song about a young girl who fell in love for the first time, only to realize that the object of her affections was already in love with another woman. Although the story was sad and the melody haunting, the song had always been one of her favourites. Her mother used to sing it to her every night before she went to sleep. It was one of the few things she could still remember about her time in Sweden, when her dear mama was still alive.
After she let the last note die out, the voice remained silent for what felt like an eternity. Perhaps she had offended him somehow. Maybe she should have chosen a French song after all, or a more cheerful one, or maybe he simply was not impressed with her voice. If she had angered him in any way, however unwittingly, he would certainly cast them out and they would be a lost cause.
Eventually the stranger broke the silence. "I have a proposition for you."
For a moment Christine doubted whether she had heard him correctly. That was not at all what she had expected him to say.
"What sort of proposition?" she inquired.
"I will let you and your father stay here for the night. One of my servants will look after him, and tomorrow morning he will be brought to the private hospital in town, where he will receive the best medical care available. You do not need to worry about the expense, I will take care of everything."
Could he be serious? Two minutes ago he wanted nothing more than to have them removed from the premises immediately, and now he was offering to pay for her father's medical care? Could one song have caused such a change of heart? If he truly meant what he said, she would be elated, of course. It would be the answer to all her prayers, but given his earlier behaviour she doubted that he would do all of this simply out of kindness.
"I- I do not understand," Christine stuttered. "What would be in it for you then?"
"I would expect you to stay here with me for the duration of your father's stay in hospital. As my guest, my… companion, if you will."
Her father, who had stayed out of the discussion until now, finally spoke, using the little strength he had left in him to voice his concern.
"No. Christine, you… cannot." He coughed heavily in between words, heaving for breath, but he went on. "You… do not know him… don't know… his intentions."
The voice chuckled, seemingly unconcerned about her father's struggle to breathe, but rather amused by his protests.
"Ah, I believe I can ease your father's mind in that respect. I can assure you that no harm will come to you while you stay here, and I can also promise that there will be no… untoward behaviour from my side. I will have my lawyer draw up a contract first thing tomorrow morning. Should you find that any of these conditions are not met, the contract will be rendered void immediately and you will be allowed to leave as soon as you wish."
How could she refuse such an offer? He was clearly making an effort to ensure her safety, even putting everything on paper so she could leave without repercussions if he did not keep his promises. And most importantly, her father would be cared for. There was still no guarantee that he would survive, but at least he would have a chance. He would receive much better care than what they could afford, and all she had to do in return was move in here, into a house that seemed at least ten times the size of her home back in Sweden. It almost sounded too good to be true. There had to be a catch somewhere.
"What if, for whatever reason, I want to leave before my father has fully recovered?"
"Then you will be allowed to do so, of course," he replied, "although in that case my payments to the hospital will cease immediately."
"And what exactly would you expect me to do during my stay here?"
"Nothing out of the ordinary. I do not receive many guests here, so I would simply like you to keep me company for a while. I might ask you to sing for me on occasion. I'm sure that will not be a problem."
He did not strike her as a very sociable kind of man, so she did not understand why he was so interested in her company. Yet if all he wanted was for her to talk to him and sing a few songs once in a while… That did not sound too bad, did it?
The fact that she was even considering this bizarre proposal was a clear indication of how desperate she really was. She simply could not lose her father, so if this was what she needed to do to save him, she would do it. There was only one more thing she needed to ask before she could accept his offer.
"Will you step into the light? If I am to stay here, I believe I at least have the right to know who I am talking to."
At first, she thought he had not heard her as he remained out of sight. After a few seconds, however, she could discern movement in the shadows to her right, somewhere between the far wall and the fireplace. Ever so slowly, as if he were afraid of making sudden movements lest he scare her away, a tall, imposing figure stepped forward. Christine could not make out the colour of his eyes from this distance, but it seemed for a moment as if they were glowing in the dark, like those of a cat. It must be the reflection of the fire, she thought.
There was something strange about his face as well. It seemed as if his skin was glistening, but only on the right side. It was not until he was standing right in front of her, within the circle of light cast by the fire, that she understood why: a white mask was covering the right side of his face from his forehead over his nose to his jaw and upper lip. Later she would notice other things about his appearance, like how elegantly dressed he was in his black evening suit and how gracefully he moved. In those first few moments she saw him though, all her focus was on his mask. She wanted to know why he was wearing it, what he was hiding underneath, but she knew asking him would be incredibly rude, as was staring, so she forced her gaze away from his face.
It did not matter what he looked like. Her mind was already made up.
"Very well. I will stay."
Her father made to protest, but she silenced him with a hand on his shoulder.
"It's alright, papa. You do not have to worry about me. I will be safe here. All that matters now is that you get better."
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw another figure enter the room, although she had not heard the man summon anyone. It was a woman who seemed to be about her father's age.
"Madame Giry," the man addressed her, "have one of the servants take monsieur…"
"Daaé," Christine answered his unspoken question. "His name is Gustave Daaé, and I am Christine."
"Have someone take Monsieur Daaé to the servants' quarters. That way he will not need to go up any stairs. And have a room prepared for Mademoiselle Daaé."
Madame Giry nodded her compliance and without another word, the man left the room.
She did not even know his name.