Well, here it is at last! Chapter 7! Sorry it's taken a while this time between updates—that "real life" thing kept getting in the way. I'm posting it in two parts, because it is so long.
Roses and thank-yous to Midasgirl, Ash(), Lavender, Soldier of Darkness, Dreamer, Paula, and L'Ange de Folie for your reviews! It really makes my day to come home and find them in my email! @}~--'--,--'--,----
Dreamer—thank you for your review on my short story—it was feeling very sad and neglected.
Kates—where are you?
As usual, if anyone finds errors, please let me know.
Oh, yes, of course. The Usual Disclaimer. The story, characters, most of the settings, the French language, weddings, Beauvais, the song "The Music of the Night," and the city of Paris are not mine, and I receive no profit from this little endeavor. I only get the enjoyment of reading the reviews, and the thrill of correcting my errors…
--Riene
Promises
"I have just heard from Mamman!" Meg Giry's sea-blue eyes were wide with amazement and a trace of envy as she slipped inside the door of Christine's dressing room. "Why didn't you tell me!"
Laughing, the singer rose from her dressing table and hugged her excited little friend. "I was going to tell you before the performance tonight, but you were busy."
Meg made a little moue of annoyance. "Mamman thought we needed to practice the pirouettes in the Spring Dance. Some of us didn't, but…."
"She made you all stay anyway," Christine finished, smiling. "How well I remember! I was terrified of your mother at first!"
Meg grasped her hands, and drew Christine down on the chaise, giggling. "She can be fierce! Let me see your ring!" She seized Christine's hand and turned it over, lifting her friend's small square hand into the light. Gaslight caught in the deep blue stone, striking sparks within. "Oh," Meg said shakily, "it's beautiful."
Christine smiled and said softly, "Yes. He said he wanted a stone that matched my eyes."
"How sweet," she whispered. "Christine, I'm so happy for you. Is there any chance I'll ever meet him? I know Mamman has seen your Erik several times, but I never have, except just that one night on the stage….," she said wistfully.
Christine frowned and turned away. "I don't know, Meg," she replied honestly. "Erik doesn't like….he's very uncomfortable meeting people."
The dancer frowned slightly. "Christine, have you ever thought how…awkward… that might be? I don't mean to be cruel," Meg added hastily, "but if no one ever sees him, how will you ever be able to do the normal things that couples do? I mean, I understand why he doesn't want to see people but..." she finished miserably, in a muddle.
With a sigh, Christine leaned back against the chaise, frowning. "Oh, Meg, I can't give you an answer. Erik does go out occasionally, and we do go for walks in the evenings quite often, or at least as often as my Opera schedule permits. I'll ask him tonight if he wouldn't mind you joining us for dinner. In fact," she added thoughtfully, "Raoul is coming for dinner again quite soon. That might be a good night for you to join us. Uneven numbers at the table, and all that, you know." She smiled faintly.
Two days later, Meg Giry found herself following Christine through the mirror.
She watched, her eyes growing wider as the mirror seemed to rise slightly and pivot on unseen hinges, propelled only by Christine's hands. Christine stepped across the portal and turned to her.
"Meg?" she questioned gently, seeing the trepidation in her friend's face. Meg swallowed and followed. "Hold the mirror a moment, please; I must light the lantern," Christine explained absently. A moment later a dim glow emerged from the lamp. At Christine's nod Meg released the heavy glass and it swung silently shut, sealing with a barely audible click. Christine adjusted the visors around the lamp so that it shone forward and looked down into her friend's face, seeing the nervousness and fear plainly visible. She held out her hand and gratefully, the little dancer clasped it.
"There's nothing to be afraid of here," Christine said softly. "I've come down this path many times alone. Erik will be waiting for us by the lake. Are you ready?"
Meg nodded. "Yes," she whispered, leaving her hand in Christine's.
She is not that much younger than I, thought Christine, and yet, I feel so much older. Perhaps it is knowing Erik, or perhaps it is everything I have lived through in these last many months. Strange how I have never noticed until now.
The corridors were musty with unventilated air and their slippers disturbed the dust of the floors. Meg felt as if they had been walking for hours, though she knew it had only been a few minutes. She clenched her jaw at the effort not to jump or shriek at the brush of the occasional cobweb, or the accidental touch of damp chill stone. They moved past several narrow bends and tight passages, down stairs and across an arch that spanned part of the underground river. At last the stone floors gave way to natural rock, the foundation of the Opera House. Emerging into the underground cavern, Meg could smell the cold scent of deep water and could hear the faint slurring of the waves as they rubbed against the rocky shore. Christine set the lantern into a niche and shut off the light. She turned, looking out across the lake.
"Erik?" she called softly.
"Here."
He materialized out the darkness, appearing beside them silently. Meg startled violently then went limp with relief. Christine turned to him, a barely visible blur in the dim light he now adjusted. She moved toward him and Meg saw the Opera Ghost lift a gentle hand to lightly caress her cheek, a wealth of tenderness in his gesture.
"Erik, I've brought Meg with me, for dinner tonight."
"So I see," he returned coolly. "Mlle. Giry?"
Meg came to stand beside Christine uncertainly. She had never had an opportunity to observe him closely. He was a slim powerful man, tall with a corresponding breadth of shoulders and chest, narrow hips, and elegant hands. Black eyes regarded her curious gaze sardonically and Meg blushed, lowering her eyes.
"If you have seen enough," his acid whisper cut through the air, "please follow Christine into my boat and sit toward the far end. I will transport you to the opposite shore. And Mlle. Giry?"
Meg turned, shivering.
"Not a word about what you will see here tonight. Am I understood?" He loomed above her, his black eyes glowing golden in the light of the lantern.
"Erik," Christine murmured softly. At once he turned to her, standing in wordless communication with the young singer, then turned back to the little dancer, his black velvet voice somewhat quieter. "You must tell no one, Mlle. Giry. The world above this lake wishes me dead, so dead I must remain."
Swallowing hard, Meg nodded. "I swear, Monsieur, I will say nothing."
Raoul de Chagny leaned back against the plush cushions of the carriage, noting that the springs felt as though they needed replacing soon. He made a mental note to have the coachman attend to that detail and turned his thoughts to the dinner and to the woman he would be seeing this rain-softened evening.
The Vicomte had been angry, quite angry, though he had concealed it well, at seeing that familiar gold and sapphire ring on Christine's finger. For several minutes he had gritted his teeth at the rising tide of questions, refusing to interrogate the woman he still loved. Christine's eyes had been guileless, honest as she told him of how she had truly thought the Opera Ghost dead. She had asked for them to meet….
Against his every instinct, Raoul had done so; following Christine down the labyrinthine passages to the underground house of a murderer and madman. Physically, he knew he was no match for the Opera Ghost, for all he was some years younger. Raoul had thought he was prepared to do anything except face what had actually happened. Somehow, through the hours of that evening, he had felt an unwilling trickle of sympathy for his rival.
For the Opera Ghost had a name—Erik—and had proven to be a man, an incredibly ugly man it was true, but a man none the less. A man who was widely traveled, an expert in many fields, a man whose eyes betrayed his adoration of Christine Daaé. And Christine had touched his body and his hands with love in her eyes….
The carriage made its last turn into Paris, and Raoul wearily shook his head. Over and over those final days of Christine's visit had played out in his mind; he could think of nothing that could have been done differently. Christine had started her gradual withdrawal from him long before that newspaper announcing Erik's death had arrived. Oddly, she seemed to feel closer to him now, and was far more relaxed in his presence than she had been during those last few days at the family estate in Beauvais. Unwillingly he had been forced to consider that perhaps Christine had been right.
So upon his return Raoul had sought out Father Lavigne as he had promised.
The priest entered the de Chagny home with a purposeful tread, finding Raoul in the small room he used as a study.
"You asked for me, my son?" he said simply.
The Vicomte turned from his desk and rose to offer the priest a glass of wine.
"I have a question for you, Father. It concerns friends of mine, in Paris."
Father Lavigne seated himself and waited, raising his eyebrows and nodding encouragingly.
Raoul dragged a hand through his hair, thinking how to describe this request.
"I was once engaged to Christine Daaé, Father, you know that. You also know we decided to call off our engagement; there was another man she wanted, more than she wanted me," he said painfully. "It is for Christine and this man that I ask this favor. They wish to be married, and have no church or priest to go to for the service. This man, Erik, is…badly scarred, deformed, really. I know he has not attended mass in many years, though Christine attends regularly. Can you marry them, Father?"
The black-haired priest smoothed his robes absently, thinking. "I would need to meet with them, of course. There are questions I must ask, and I would need to have their names filed properly for the certificate, but I can see no reason right now why I cannot arrange their wedding ceremony."
Erik poled them across the misty lake and soon the gondola boat reached the opposite shore. He leapt gracefully out across a seemingly impossible distance of lapping waves and secured the boat against the jetty, then turned to lift Christine to shore. Meg repressed a shudder when the Opera Ghost wrapped his cold hands around her arms, then effortlessly pulled her up against his warm body, spinning her feet across the water to place her carefully by her friend. The brush of his cloak against her face tingled, and she could detect faint, enticing odors of sandalwood, soap, and candle smoke in the soft fabric. His body had been warm, masculine, hard and tight with muscle. Blushing, Meg found herself regarding his back appraisingly as they walked up the path toward his home.
Erik stood aside to let the women enter first into the foyer, and Meg stopped and stared in wonder much as had Raoul done some days before. With a bow he then left Meg and Christine to go meet Raoul at the Rue Scribe entrance, and soon all four were gathered in the underground house. Raoul greeted the ballerina effusively; glad to have another friendly face around the dining table. Meg's sea-blue eyes were wide with amazement and began to sparkle with pleasure at seeing him again. She sketched him a quick curtsey.
"Monsieur le Vicomte," she murmured.
He smiled at her, warming her through. "Raoul, for this evening, please, Mlle., and I will call you Meg."
Christine watched her old friend meet the little dancer with inward private amusement. Meg had long been attracted to the tall, sun-bronzed Vicomte, and for tonight at least, she could play matchmaker between the two of them.
"We are ready to eat. If you'll follow me?" she smiled.
As before, Erik chose not to eat in front of his guests, and sat back into the shadows, sipping his wine, listening to their merry conversation. Christine smiled over at him, feeling her heart lift at the sight of his dark eyes lit with enjoyment. Perhaps their married life might yet bring him the satisfaction of these simple pleasures.
Raoul leaned back, neatly folding his napkin and placing it on the table. "And now to the reason I've come here. Christine, Erik, I've spoken with Father Lavigne, and somewhat explained your situation. He is very willing to meet with you, and to marry you if possible." Raoul smiled at them.
Christine gasped with delight and seized Erik's hand, squeezing it tightly. "When and where, Raoul? Can he come here, or should we go to your home?"
"I would prefer no one else come here," Erik said quietly. "My…privacy has been much invaded, as of late." For a moment there was silence, and then Christine began to laugh, seeing the wry humor in his face.
"If that is your wish, we can certainly arrange a trip north," Raoul said mildly. "I would be pleased to offer the loan of my carriage and driver for the day. With your permission, I'll set up a date in the near future." He looked at Christine. "Just let me know your schedule, and I'll see what can be done."
They rose from the table and retired to the music room. Erik obliged them with melodies of his own composing as Raoul opened and shared the bottle of Armagnac he had brought, and too soon the evening drew to a close.
"I must be going home soon, I promised Mamman I would not come in late," Meg leaned over to whisper to Christine.
Raoul stood quickly. "I need to depart as well. With your permission, I'll see Mlle. Giry home." He smiled down at the dancer, who smiled back up at him.
Erik raised an eyebrow, but said nothing. The Vicomte had seemed quite taken with his fiancé's friend tonight. The gaslight turned her upswept curls to spun gold and deepened her sea-blue eyes. He could understand the Vicomte's attraction, and the two of them would be more comfortable following him up to the ground level with each other to talk to.
After Erik returned from leading them up to the Rue Scribe entrance, he found Christine waiting in the library music room. She had brought in two cups of tea and was sitting curled in the tapestry chair by the fire, staring dreamily into its flickering depths.
"Pleasant thoughts, my dear?" he asked softly, settling his long body into the heavily carved ebony chair.
Christine looked at him lovingly and blushed. "I was thinking about what all I needed to do before our wedding, Erik, and how much I'm looking forward to it."
He templed his fingers thoughtfully. "There are still many details we must attend to. We must choose rings; we will have to get you a dress and perhaps a new suit of clothing for me."
"A dress isn't any trouble, Erik," she said quietly. "I have the wedding dress you…had me wear, that night."
He looked across the table at her, deeply surprised. "You kept it?" he whispered. "I would have thought…the memories of that night would have been too painful. I didn't think you would have wanted that gown."
She rose from the chair and came to sit beside him on the low stool, looking up into his distressed face. "No, Erik. The dress was beautiful. I knew you had selected it just for me. It fit perfectly; it was exactly what I would have chosen myself."
Erik slowly, cautiously lowered his hand to caress her hair, her cheek. "I am still so sorry about that night, Christine. I was….half out of my mind with fear of losing you."
In his eyes she saw the sorrow these memories had caused, and read there also his fear that she might still leave him. "Oh, Erik," she whispered, and folded her arms across his knees, then lowered her head to rest upon them, looking into the fire. "I do love you so much. Of course I kept the dress. I kept everything you ever gave me."
He stroked her silky soft curls. "My love, I do not know how I would have continued living, had you not come back to me when you did."
They sat talking of their plans until late into the night.
Raoul sent the carriage for them early one morning after one of Christine's last spring concert performance. They would travel to Beauvais, to meet with Father Lavigne this day.
Wearing the Opera Ghost's protective, concealing hat and cloak once again, Erik locked the portcullis gate behind him and silently ascended the levels to the Rue Scribe doors. Waiting in the shadows, he watched for the carriage to arrive. Christine met him there, coming to stand close beside him. Erik pulled her to him, enveloping her under the warmth of the cloak. She rested her head against his shoulder and placed her right palm on his chest, feeling the strained tension in his body and the accelerated beating of his heart. "My love, it will be all right. Trust me," she murmured.
Erik tightened his arm around her briefly, but made no answer. A few more minutes passed, then a carriage bearing the Chagny family crest pulled up outside the Opera and a liveried footman stepped down. Christine laced her fingers through Erik's and stepped forward.
"Christophe?"
The man smiled and touched his forehead. "Mlle. Daaé. Monsieur de Chagny sent me. Are you ready?"
Erik moved quickly toward the carriage, ducking his head to avoid the offensive light of the early morning sun and turned to assist Christine into the dark cool interior. He ducked into the carriage, then sank gratefully into the concealing interior shadows against the seat and tossed his hat onto the cushions opposite.
They began the hours drive out to Beauvais in order to meet with the priest Raoul had spoken of. Erik sat beside her in tense silence, alternately watching the fields with their newly-emerged cover of green pass by out the small window, or studying his hands. Years had passed since he had been this beholden to anyone, since his future had rested in someone else's control. Sensing his discomfort, Christine moved across the carriage to sit beside him, reaching for his hand. Erik's long cold fingers closed tightly over her own and she squeezed them reassuringly. For Erik to come out into the revealing light of day, to travel this far from his underground lair, and to subject himself to the eyes of a stranger had taken an act of courage and reflected his faith in her devotion. She leaned against him, wordlessly trying to offer comfort.
He glanced down at her, feeling the sweet weight of her dark head leaning against his shoulder. She was his anchor of sanity in this acutely uncomfortable day. Freeing his fingers, Erik wrapped an arm around his beloved and brushed his lips across her forehead. For her dear sake today he would act as any man might, preparing for his wedding.
People tended to think a priest would be an ascetic and physically weak man. First impressions of Father Lavigne quickly changed that. He was a broad shouldered sturdy man with curling black hair and twinkling blue eyes. Father Lavigne had been a priest among the poor of Paris until the deaths of his parents forced him back to the area around Beauvais to care for his ailing brother. It had been thought Jean would not have survived this long, and by the time the badly burned and crippled young man finally gave up the struggle Father Lavigne was too deeply entrenched in the lives of the villagers and of the landed gentry to leave. It had been partially due to his influence that this tiny region of France had survived the years of turmoil and rebellion, of government change and collapse. Both peasant and noble owed this quiet holy man much of their present security, for he worked tirelessly to promote the day of God's kingdom on the Earth.
He spent a great deal of time talking privately to both Erik and Christine, and came away feeling that whatever the sins of his past, this silent man deeply loved his fiancé. In their faces he could find no fear, anger, or sorrow, only a deep and abiding love and faith. With pleasure, he assured them that whenever they wished, he would be pleased to perform their wedding ceremony. Gratefully, Erik had shaken his hand, and Christine had impulsively kissed his cheek, bringing a flood of ruddy color and a sparkle to Father Lavigne's eyes.
The next two weeks were a whirl of activity for Christine. She gave up her flat in Paris, moving in with Meg and her mother for the time being. There were hours of shopping to do, announcements to be ordered, fittings for her trousseau, and of course, the rehearsals and performances of the spring series of concerts. Christine had quietly informed the management that she would be getting married to a man she had met through the Opera, and that they would delay their honeymoon trip until after the concert season was over. Monsieurs André and Firmin had reluctantly accepted her explanation that the wedding to this unnamed architect and composer would be intimate, kept private due to her public status and recent broken engagement to the Vicomte.
For Erik, these last two weeks were an agony of waiting. He saw very little of Christine, for Mme. Giry would not hear of her spending any more nights in the underground house before they were wed. She managed to see him for a few minutes each day, whether for a hastily consumed meal, or through a brief visit in her dressing room. Forced to spend hours alone again, Erik was painfully reminded of how essential to his life she had become. The underground house echoed with the silence. He could not bring himself to remove the small reminders of her presence—an open book, a ribbon, a pair of forgotten slippers—and often touched them as a talisman that she would indeed return to him. Erik left his underground demesne only of necessity during this time, for in an entirely unprecedented move, Fate had somehow overlooked his presence in these last many weeks. He feared to draw its attention again, here on the cusp of attaining everything he had ever longed for.
They chose rings, a simple brushed gold band for Christine, one that matched her engagement ring, and a heavier plain brushed gold band for Erik. The jeweler was familiar with the tall silent masked man, and had only smiled at Christine, expressing his delight in meeting at last the woman for whom so many exquisite gifts had been purchased.
Christine went with her fiancé to the elderly crippled tailor that had for years made Erik's elegant clothing, and together they selected a fine smooth pearl-gray fabric for a wedding suit of clothes. After so many years of wearing black, Erik was amused by her delight in this change of color.
At last it seemed their preparations were complete. On the evening before their departure, Christine firmly told Mme. Giry she would be spending some time in the underground house with her fiancé. On wings of song she flew down the chill stone corridors to surprise him.
Just inside the underground house she paused, hearing the strained tones of his violin. Curious as to why he had not heard the alarm bell, Christine walked slowly toward the music room, listening to the piercingly sorrowful amber-dark tones of the stringed instrument.
Erik stood before the dim fire in the near darkness, letting the music express his tangled thoughts. He had, in recent months, given way to more emotion, to more pure feeling, than he had in many years. Control was such an integral part of his being, and to have so far lost that command in his helpless love for Christine was at times overwhelming. Try as he might, Erik could simply not comprehend that she reciprocated this feeling toward him, that she was willing to bind her life to his. For so long he had been hated, feared and reviled by all whom met him. These weeks of bittersweet restraint against the exquisite power of her flesh and the fiery desire he felt had exhausted him. This vulnerability, this consuming joy would surely destroy him, should he continue to give way to it.
And yet, how could he not?
Christine stood, concealed in the shadows just beyond the heavy library doors, watching silently. Erik slowly lowered the violin and replaced it gently in its case. Would those elegant hands that so carefully touched the golden wood of that fine instrument touch her in the same tender way? She repressed a shiver of delight in the thinking of it.
Erik sat slowly down in his chair, facing the fire. Hesitantly, his hands rose and removed the mask, laying it carefully on the low table. His hands moved questioningly, touching the twisted, scarred ridges of his terrible face. How could she express such willingness to tolerate this appalling visage? How ever would he be able to reveal himself completely to her, to hold her as a normal man would, to offer her physical love? He felt paralyzed, helpless, impotent, and bent his face into his hands.
Christine stood stunned at this side of Erik she had never seen revealed. The pain in that dimly lit room was so real she could almost touch it. She ached to rush to him, to hold him and kiss him, to assure him of her love, for she knew this man, knew his moods and fears as well as she knew her own, and knew that once again he was assailed by terrible self-doubt.
She stepped into the warm dim pool of light, moving toward him, and Erik's head snapped up, his eyes blazing in furious embarrassment at being caught in this moment of private despair. Christine walked toward him, a gentle, tender smile on her face.
"Oh, Christine, why are you here?" he asked harshly, and immediately regretted the words. He rose, desperately trying to contain the well of emotion that threatened to drown him, and held out a hand in mute apology.
Unable to bear the pain in his eyes, Christine wrapped her arms around her dark angel, cradling him to her. Erik turned her face away from his unmasked cheek, pressing her head into his shoulder. "I am sorry I spoke to you so," he whispered. "Forgive me, my love."
She pulled loose from his embrace and looked up into his dark eyes. "I'm sorry too, Erik, I shouldn't have startled you. I had to come see you tonight; I've not seen you very often lately and I was missing you so much."
Erik allowed himself to brush the lightest of kisses across her forehead. "I have…missed you as well, Christine," he whispered, not trusting his voice.
She stood gazing up into his terrible face for long seconds before she finally spoke. "Erik? When I came in just then, what was wrong? Were you doubting me, doubting my love?"
He released her and walked to the mantle, staring wearily down into the fire. "No," he answered tiredly. "I am…Christine, I am still willing to release you. You do not have to go through with this farce tomorrow."
"This farce?" She stood quietly, torn between anger and grim amusement. "Is that what you think this is? Erik, I love you," her voice softened. "You are my heart and my soul. You are not forcing me to do anything, and I will not tolerate this blatant attempt to drive me away." Christine walked across the soft Persian carpet and wrapped her arms around his painfully stiff body. "Trust me, my love. Trust in us. I love you. I need you. I want to spend the rest of my life with you. If it takes me the rest of my days to make you believe this, to make you believe you deserve to be happy, then so be it. Give me the chance, Erik. Don't thrust me away from you again!"
With an anguished cry, Erik turned and took her into his arms. His body shuddered against hers, and Christine reached up, kissing his cheeks, his eyes, his lips, stroking his hair. Years of denial and repressed emotion surged through him, and Erik wept with the release of its force, as Christine rocked her beloved angel in her arms.