"Very well done, Christine! The obligato was very smooth. I can tell you have been rehearsing. Your voice seems to improve with every lesson." It was all very true, as I did not extend my praise simply to elicit the rise of a blush from her neck to her forehead.
"Really?" She trembled a little. I believe she was unsure how to respond to my compliments. I was an exacting and strict master, one she knew, would never settle for less than perfection. Or as close as it was possible to come towards the pinnacle of sound I imagined existed within that tiny throat. "You're not just placating me. . .because I was upset earlier?"
I turned around on the organ bench so that I faced her full on. There was a frozen moment as we locked gazes. Without fully realizing it, my hand reached out to hover over the back of her palm, which rested on the smooth mahogany of the instrument. Both sets of eyes traveled to the movement, my body was asking the question my voice could not yet form. Will you let me guide you. . .may I lead you through this darkness and show you a world beyond anything you've known. . .?
In what could only be termed as awkward gesticulating, the longing hand moved back to rest on the keyboard. I did not ask anything of her, but with a subdued whisper, stated, hoping she might grasp every nuance of my words, "I would never give praise to the undeserving, Christine. No lies will I tell you." No more lies, I promised, inwardly cringing at the clever deception that had initially brought us together- the angel of music.
"Thank you, maestro." She exhaled heavily and glanced down at her bare feet, as if assuring herself that the ground was still an anchor to support her slight weight.
"You must grow accustomed to compliments, my dear," I added in as lighthearted a tone as I could manage, "for one day, it will resound from all the lips of Paris, and not mine alone."
"It is too much."
"No, it is your destiny. You must never forget that, Christine."
"Yes," she nodded meekly, still staring bashfully at the floor.
Unable to bear the tension that held us in a silent suffocation, I abruptly rose from my seat at the organ bench and began the task of putting away the manuscripts of her lessons. "You must be very tired, my girl." I pretended to be highly engrossed in the ordering of the music, as if speaking to her was simply an afterthought.
"Quite the contrary," she stammered, "I know I should be exhausted, with ballet rehearsals and lessons, but I feel very-"
"Yes?" My hands closed the leather binder in a deliberate gesture to mask my pleasure and curiosity.
"I feel restless, as if I should like to go for a walk, or dance, or..." she stopped herself, her fingers alighting to her plump little mouth. "I suppose I sound very silly."
"Not at all." I pivoted and set aside my music, once more giving her my unadulterated attention. "Often, after I compose, I feel as if I can not rest. I think it is a sort of satisfaction at having completed a task." Oh, Erik, you are not always a man of words, are you?
"A sense of excitement, you mean?" She took one tentative step towards me. Instinctively, my arms folded across my chest.
"It is possible." I could not help but notice the rise and fall of her breast as she neared me, my fingers curling into the fabric of my jacket as a measure of self-restraint.
"There really is nothing like it, is there, Erik? Music, singing?"
What was she getting at? I could not respond, and felt my reason depart with the smile taking shape on her features. I wanted her to be happy, to find some increment of pleasure in my company, to enjoy her lessons, but I cannot honestly say that I was a man accustomed to the glimmering smiles of a beautiful little siren.
"Can I tell you something, maestro?" Her fingers knotted together in a nervous fashion, as her eyes continued to meander from my face to the floor. "I really feel that you are the only one who might understand. . ."
God in Heaven! I was not ready for her to open her heart and mind to me. Though, had I not always inwardly proclaimed the possibility as one of my greatest desires? Besides, I had failed to consider how very little experience I possessed in the field of friendly confidence, of sharing my thoughts and ideas with another person. But the lustful Erik, who was in the habit of ignoring his rational counterpart, prodded the girl to continue. "Is there something weighing on you, Christine?"
I could empathize with that feeling, could I not? Following my disastrous midnight stroll the other evening, I had been unable to banish the Vicomte and his whore from my brain.
"Well, it is nothing upsetting." She took my former place on the organ bench, her posture one of pert eagerness. She had me at a loss. Erik was never at a loss.
Damn her. Damn her beauty. Damn her kindness. Damn her very existence. At the very least, before she had entered my life, I had been wholly satisfied- or as much as I could be- with the very real chance that I might never have to involve myself in conversation with another human soul again. I had been quite determined to remain cynical, wallowing in my own self-pity, for the rest of my days, holed up in my cave. But, fate or God, whichever power had placed Mademoiselle Daae upon my path, was not content to let me go on in this manner. "I am glad to hear that. You know that I hate to see you in distress." Lustful Erik replied in soothing tones that seemed to skim over all the visible flesh of her delightful body, relishing in each uncovered taste of pink skin.
"It's just that, when I sing, I feel. . ." Her fingers fluttered up to her throat in a satisfying blush. "It is the only time when I feel truly alive, Erik.!"
I was dumbfounded, but it was not an unpleasant shock.
Now that she had uttered her 'confession', she could not stop from elaborating, much to Lustful Erik's delight. I would not sit down beside her on the organ bench, though, when my posture eased, the girl edged to the far end of the seat, as if to allow for the space of my body.
"I have always felt so helpless, so empty and dead. Since Papa's death, maestro. But, not now. When I sing, I am happy. It's like the Christine I always wanted to be is real!" Her chest began to heave almost violently in her excitement. If she continued with her smiling honesty, I might lose all control. "I have you to thank for that, Erik." Her eyes centered directly upon my visage, inviting me, seducing me. . .to do what? "I do not feel alone anymore. When my father passed away, I thought there would be no one in the world who would care about a mousy orphan girl obsessively mourning her father. But I was wrong."
Suddenly, she had returned to the safety of timidity. In a whisper that was difficult even for my ear to discern, Christine offered, "You care about me." She inhaled deeply, her bird-like collar bones revealing the tension I could only imagine raged within her tiny form. "And it is more than enough."