The ride to Paris and the Opera could not have been longer due to my desire to set my future into its rightful pathway, nor could it have been a more rapid journey to the cost of my nerves. I realized as the brougham pulled up in front of the all too familiar facade of the Opera Populaire. What could I possibly say to Erik? Was he even still inside? Was he even in France for that matter?
Was he alive?
But, of all the questions that I could not answer, I did know the truth of the last. I could feel his soul as if it were part of my own flesh and body. It caused my own heart to beat in its wake. I was certain that if the dreaded time ever came before I found him, the day when he decided to take his last breath-for it would be his decision, no one, not even God could ever make a choice for Erik-I would no at the exact moment of that final exhalation. And then I would ask God to let me go to him, too. I did not have the strength of Erik's will. The choices Erik made would always be the requests I prayed would be granted.
I was not as strong as he, nor as wise. I could only hope to become so.
But, as I edged ever closer to where I hoped to find him, I grew more alive with each passing second. My blood was warm in my body, and I began to feel heady with anticipation, uncertainty, and an emotion I had not even allowed myself to consider in my two years as the Comtesse de Chagny.
Desire.
I could recall with vivid clarity the first time it- that unspoken lust that a genteel woman was expected to ignore- had seized my mind and flesh in it silken fist, stealing the breath from my lungs. It had been the delicious suffocation that was Erik's opera.
Don Juan Triumphant. I imagined it would remain the most scandalous work to grace the Paris stage for many years to come. So be it, I thought, it was time for the rest of the world to wake up, and feel consumed. By music. . .by passion. . .to glimpse into the life of a genius. His music had awakened all that lay dormant in my own soul, but I had realized it far too late, I knew.
Nevertheless, I planned to make amends, to track him down just as the gendarmes had attempted to flush him out from his self-made labyrinth. But, my motivations were of a completely different persuasion than that of the Parisian guard. And, though I would come baring fire, it was not to torch the furnishing of his home or turn his musical compositions to worthless ash.
Before I realized it, I was exiting the brougham and handing the considerate coachman a very appreciative sum, much more than he would have expected for the length of his fare. The gutted Opera Populaire stood like a ghostly monolith before me, tempting me to enter its devastated rooms, to become a phantom inhabitant myself. My fingers shook, and my whole body felt unnaturally light, as if I'd imbibed too many flutes of champagne. I was far from afraid, instead, the subtle tremors of my limbs were those of anticipation and nervous energy.
As I walked to the once-gilded doors of the grande foyer, I fumbled in my handbag for the small envelope that would serve as my overture to the opera's most mysterious and enigmatic former resident. I had even gone to such measures as to assure that the ink had been the ominous shade of crimson, arousing thoughts of blood and passion. The envelope, which I would place in the ruin of my former dressing room, at the foot of the shattered mirror, revealed only one single word-
Erik.
I could not have sufficiently prepared myself for the dilapidated state of the Opera Populaire, and I found myself quivering in disbelief and regret at the eerily beautiful ruin of what had been the grande escalier. On the other hand, I was particularly thankful that marble did not vanish into cinders as wood, making it possible for me to feel slightly safer as I completed my task. Still, as I took the first few uncertain steps through the foyer, navigating in the direction of my former dressing room, the building did acknowledge my presence with groans of steel and the creaking of rotting wood.
I doubted I would suffer any difficulty in the search for the remains of my former quarters- my time with Erik had caused me to, quite unconsciously, adjust to meandering through corridors and tiers with barely a candle to serve as my guide. I did not even push my arms out before me to 'feel' for the walls, and was afforded the sly slits of sunlight that managed to creep through the battered structure of Erik's former "palace to music".
No, I would not weep again, not for this theatre, or for the past. I had the whole future in which to invest my hope, to give all of myself to the one who was meant to share my soul, if fate offered me the chance to give myself over to Erik entirely. Finally, things would be as they always should have been. It was now a foregone conclusion that I would no longer let myself be led by morality, polite society, or what others considered best for Christine De Chagny, nee Daae.
As I placed my shaking palm to the door handle and turned it, I almost expected to find Erik inside, waiting for me, as if he'd known I would return, his arms outstretched to enfold me in the velvet wings of his cloak. Sadly, the chamber was devoid of any person, nor the man I sought so veraciously. But the room was not empty. And, at the sight before me, I fell to my knees and bit back the tears.