Author's Note: Thank you for all the reviews, and special thanks to my
regular reviewers, Midasgirl and Deidre of the Sorrows. I'm sorry I haven't
updated for a while. One word will provide an adequate explanation - EXAMS!
This chapter takes place the morning after Erik takes Christine down to his lair. This is the first chapter from the point of view of Erik as the Phantom, so I hope I have done him justice. Once again, any comments or criticisms will be very welcome. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera. Unfortunately.
ERIK. 1881
My eyes flickered open just in time to see the sunlight filtering through the gap in the curtains. I stretched lazily and yawned. It was Sunday.but we weren't planning on going to church. No.this was the day we enjoyed a long sleep-in, curled up together in our soft canopied bed. I snuggled up to her and she stirred sleepily, putting out a hand in order to stroke my face. I sighed contentedly and smiled. We had been looking forward to this day all week - we had made careful plans. That afternoon we were going for a stroll in the park. This would be followed by an intimate candlelit dinner. And then she would sit on the sofa in the music room while I played our grand piano and we sang a duet from our favourite opera. And then we would go upstairs together - and then - and then -
My eyes flew open and I stared at my surroundings in bewilderment. Then I realised where I was, and I suddenly felt like crying. I was not the ideal husband. I was not even a normal man. And I had not woken to greet the sun at the window of a quaint apartment. I was in a cold dark cellar beneath the Paris Opera House, surrounded by dripping white candles. I was, at present, lying sprawled over the bench of my huge pipe organ, my head resting on the keyboard, quill in one hand, sheet music in the other. I blinked in surprise. How on earth had I got here? And then it dawned on me.
Christine!
I leapt up from the bench in horror, wincing at the pain in my back that had evidently been caused by my uncomfortable position. How had I managed to fall asleep? What if Christine had woken up?!
I dashed over to the door that led to the guest bedroom, and, fearing the worst, I quietly pushed it open. I heaved a sigh of relief as I beheld Christine lying on the bed where I had placed her, covered by the silk sheets.
I crept slowly across the room to stand beside her. Her long brown hair lay spread across the pillows, and her face was relaxed with sleep. I must have stood there for a good ten minutes, watching her sleep and listening to her soft breathing.
Oh Christine. You are so beautiful.
I was seized by a sudden desire to wake her. I desperately wanted to tell her that I loved her, that last night had been the best night of my life. The pain of waking up to find myself in this cold, dismal dungeon vanished immediately. Looking down on Christine now, I suddenly felt unbelievably warm and happy. Maybe I couldn't have my dream in its entirety, maybe I would never again wake to see the sun, but Christine was here with me, and that, I realised, was all that mattered.
I crept out of the room and closed the door behind me. I desperately wanted to remain by her side, but I knew that was impossible. Hardly the behaviour of a gentleman, to watch a lady as she slept! Anyway, I needed to make myself look presentable for when she awoke.
I went into my bedroom and pulled the dust cover away from my full length mirror. I had always hated looking in mirrors, but my infatuation with Christine had caused me to become far more concerned with my overall appearance. I gazed into the mirror and sighed, suddenly doubtful. What if Christine decided that she didn't want me when I appeared to her without the darkness to hide my faults? While living alone beneath the Opera House, with no taunts, laughter or violence to remind me of my deformity, there had been times when I had almost managed to convince myself that I was a normal man. I would steal the most beautiful clothes from the theatre's wardrobe, and stalk the night time corridors wearing full evening dress, pretending that I was any other high-society gentleman on a visit to the Opera.
Christine had inadvertently put an end to my illusions. As I looked in the mirror now I saw a tall, rather threatening figure dressed in black. My right leg was lame and my body was thin beneath my evening suit. This hadn't always been the case. Four months ago I had been quite plump, my stomach round beneath my starched shirt, hardly the emaciated Opera Ghost of rumour! But that was before I had seen Christine, before the sleepless nights and missed meals, before the relentless dreaming and scheming. I suppose my weight loss was an early indication that I felt more for Christine than simply a wish to protect and teach her.
I smoothed down my suit and turned to look at myself from the side. I tried to persuade myself that, despite my face, Christine might still find me physically attractive in some ways. After all, I'm certainly imposing, and the new evening suit was very becoming.
But, in reality, I knew that I was deceiving myself. I am ugly. Even with my mask and wig in place I am ugly. That was why I dressed myself in the finest clothes I could get my hands on: to combat my natural ugliness. My suit is always perfect, there's never a hair out of place on my wig, but I know that I cannot possibly hope to disguise my faults.
Mme. Giry knows it too. She says I'm being very foolish - perhaps I am. I had tried in vain to hide my infatuation from her, but she seemed to be everywhere. No matter how hard I try, I cannot escape from her. She wouldn't turn me in, I know she wouldn't, even though it would be so easy for her. Instead she lurks in the shadows, watching my every move in much the same way as I watch Christine. She thinks she knows all my secrets, she thinks that I am afraid of her.
But it is she who should be afraid.
Having said that, and although her meddling annoys me, I could never physically hurt her. After all, I once loved her, and I like to think that the feeling was mutual. I trusted her completely; she was the light of my childhood, until -
But I won't think of that now. It has been too long, we have both changed so much since then. I cannot forgive, but I can at least try to forget.
Instead I will remember our confrontation over Christine. I had been certain that she did not know about my interest in her young pupil. I made a special effort to go about my business as normal, giving her my letters to pass on to the managers. On the rare occasions that we did meet backstage, I remained cold and aloof, taking care not to betray my feelings with a careless word or nervous twitch.
But oh, Mme. Giry, how I underestimated you! You knew me too well, despite my cloak of secrecy! You noticed that I was losing weight, that I was becoming paler and more wild-eyed, you noticed my limp become more pronounced, and my habits become more erratic. You even knew that I was teaching Christine, didn't you?
She caught me in the ballet room. It was late one Friday evening, and she had just finished instructing the dancers as they rehearsed for 'Hannibal.' Back then, Christine had still been a member of the chorus, and I would go along to the rehearsals to watch her. She wasn't much of a dancer, and occasionally I would wince at her efforts. She tried so hard, bless her, but she never had the agility or the coordination. But I digress.
Mme. Giry had turned off the lights, and I was certain she had departed. I had been watching the rehearsal from behind a two-way mirror, and now I pushed it open and stepped cautiously into the room, closing it soundlessly behind me. I crossed the floor, making no sound in walking, and opened the door. And then I gave a start.
A dark figure was standing behind the door, blocking my path down the passage. Our eyes met, her hawk-like gaze seeming to burn a hole in my brain. I was shaken; I felt as though she had caught me in the act of committing some heinous crime. It took me a second to regain my composure, and I bowed stiffly in acknowledgement.
'Madame,' I said icily, taking care not to look her in the eye. Then I swept past her and stalked down the corridor.
'It will never work, Erik.' I stopped in my tracks. Her voice was sad and strangely tender. 'You know it will never work.'
I whirled around to face her. 'Excuse me, Madame, but I have no idea what you're talking about.'
'You know perfectly well what I'm talking about, Monsieur le Fantome,' she replied, taking a step towards me. 'You would not stand and watch an entire rehearsal for no reason whatsoever.'
I was visibly shaken. 'How - how did you know I was there?'
'I saw you go in. I saw a dark shape out of the corner of my eye, then I heard the mirror turn.'
Damn. I really was becoming careless.
'You are becoming careless, M. le Fantome,' she said, echoing my thoughts. I repressed a shudder. All dressed in black, with heavy makeup applied to her lips and around her eyes, she looked almost sinister. 'I have noticed that you seem rather preoccupied of late,' she continued.
I was getting angry. 'Oh, you have, have you? Then please tell me why I am preoccupied, because I would love to know.'
Mme. Giry's face was expressionless. 'Don't play the innocent with me, Erik! I know you've been stalking Christine Daae!'
That came as a shock. I must have blushed or trembled because, before I had a chance to protest, she leaned forward and said 'Yes, I knew it.'
I refused to be intimidated. Drawing myself up to my full height, I looked her straight in the eye.
'I am not stalking her,' I said, putting on my most innocent, amiable tone. 'I am simply helping a girl whom I know is talented to fulfil her dreams. What's wrong with that?'
'No, you're stalking her! You watch her from behind the mirror in her dressing room - Yes, I know all your clever tricks, Erik! - She thinks you're her Angel of Music! She's told me all about you, the angelic singing voice descending magically from the heavens, the feelings of ecstasy. Angel of Music, indeed! You are not helping her, you are taking advantage of a vulnerable, damaged, grief-stricken young girl. YOU ARE STALKING HER!'
If she had been someone else, I would have lashed out at her then - taken her by the neck and shown her how dangerous I really was, but I managed to control myself. Instead, I spoke to her in that deceptively calm voice which I often use when, deep inside, I am simmering with rage.
'Oh yes? And why am I stalking her? I must have a reason, surely? Or am I just evil, a 'motiveless malignity'? Is that what you're suggesting?'
Mme. Giry sighed and smiled wistfully. 'You're not evil, Erik. You are damaged and bitter and corrupted, but not evil.' She paused, and looked directly into my eyes. 'It's perfectly obvious, even to me. You are in love.'
I suddenly felt faint. I stumbled and put my hand against the wall to prevent myself from falling. In love? I wasn't in love, was I? No, I couldn't be! It was just a silly infatuation, a normal feeling of lust towards a pretty young girl. I did not love Christine. Why, the very idea was absurd!
All of a sudden I began to laugh - rumbling, uncontrollable laughter which brought sweat to my brow and tears to my cheeks. The very thought of the Phantom of the Opera being in love was so ludicrous, so downright theatrical, that I was in hysterics for several long, embarrassing minutes. Madame Giry watched my display in silence.
At last I managed to recover my dignity, and I wiped the tears from my eyes. Now that I had stopped laughing, a terrible feeling of emptiness had come to replace my mirth, and I suddenly had the most uncomfortable feeling that I was going to cry. I swallowed the tears, and turned to face the ballet mistress.
'I - I am not in love,' I said, but my voice lacked conviction. 'What on Earth gave you that idea? It's just a silly infatuation.'
Mme. Giry smiled again. 'You are in love, M. le Fantome,' she said gently. 'It's nothing to be ashamed of. I know because you would not be helping Christine if you did not feel anything for her. You could have passed on your knowledge to anyone. Why her? What's so special about her?'
I drew myself up. 'My Christine has a wonderful voice, that's why!'
'Yes, you have taught her well, but there's more to it than that. You're in love with her. I can tell by your appearance. You're paler, and you've lost weight. You look more like Joseph Buquet's description every time I see you! When did you last eat a proper meal?'
She was scanning my torso with concerned eyes, and I wrapped my cloak around myself in embarrassment.
'Do not pretend that you care about my welfare,' I said, coldly. 'I can look after myself, and my feelings for Christine are no concern of yours.'
I turned to leave, but she caught hold of my cloak. 'This has to stop, Erik.'
'Excuse me, Madame. I do not have time for this.'
'Nonsense! You have all the time in the world!' She leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially in my ear. 'This has to stop. You can't deceive Christine forever. One day she will not need her Angel anymore. What will you do then? You know you cannot keep her. Any relationship you try to forge with her will end in tears. Please, Erik. Let her have her freedom. End it here.'
This hurt me, and I bit my lip to prevent myself from weeping. I did not love Christine, I had established that, but I could not let her go.
'Excuse me, Madame,' I repeated, in a muffled voice. She let go of my cloak and I walked down the passage with as much dignity as I could muster.
'Erik!' I stopped abruptly, but did not turn around. 'I shall be watching you. Remember that.'
Later that night, lying on the over-stuffed mattress which served as my bed, I tried to sleep. I was unusually hot and uncomfortable, thrashing violently from side to side. Mme. Giry's words haunted me:
'You are stalking her. You are in love. End it here. You are stalking her' - I felt a twinge of guilt - 'You are in love. YOU ARE IN LOVE!'
Occasionally I would burst out laughing. The Phantom could not feel love. I had established that long ago. The Phantom enjoyed his solitary existence. He did not need anyone.
But maybe Erik did.
And I realised then that Christine had reawakened something within me which I had thought was long since dead. The old flame of human emotion had been reignited, and it refused to be extinguished. I told myself that I was being foolish, that I was too ugly and too old to fall in love. I was thirty-four, for Heaven's sake!
I repeated the words, over and over again in the darkness, like an incantation which would protect me: 'I am not in love. I am not in love. I am not in love.'
When I finally did find sleep, I dreamed of her voice, her face, her soft arms around my neck. And most of all, I dreamed of the sunrise.
------(------(@
Awaking from my reverie, I gazed into the mirror once again. Maybe Mme. Giry was right. Maybe I should have ended it that night in the ballet room. But Christine was here with me now, and I knew there was no way back.
I quickly went over to the wash basin and performed my toilet. Then I changed into a new set of evening clothes and ran a damp comb through the wig. As an afterthought, I donned a heavily embroidered kimono and matching hat. The image in the mirror looked a little absurd, but at least I would appear less threatening. The mask seemed all right, but I took the time to wipe it with a cloth. When Christine finally awoke, I wanted her to see me at my most presentable.
Author's Note: Please review! The phrase 'motiveless malignity' is how Coleridge described Shakespeare's Iago in 'Othello.' I just thought I'd better mention that. I hope it doesn't look out of place.
This chapter takes place the morning after Erik takes Christine down to his lair. This is the first chapter from the point of view of Erik as the Phantom, so I hope I have done him justice. Once again, any comments or criticisms will be very welcome. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I do not own The Phantom of the Opera. Unfortunately.
ERIK. 1881
My eyes flickered open just in time to see the sunlight filtering through the gap in the curtains. I stretched lazily and yawned. It was Sunday.but we weren't planning on going to church. No.this was the day we enjoyed a long sleep-in, curled up together in our soft canopied bed. I snuggled up to her and she stirred sleepily, putting out a hand in order to stroke my face. I sighed contentedly and smiled. We had been looking forward to this day all week - we had made careful plans. That afternoon we were going for a stroll in the park. This would be followed by an intimate candlelit dinner. And then she would sit on the sofa in the music room while I played our grand piano and we sang a duet from our favourite opera. And then we would go upstairs together - and then - and then -
My eyes flew open and I stared at my surroundings in bewilderment. Then I realised where I was, and I suddenly felt like crying. I was not the ideal husband. I was not even a normal man. And I had not woken to greet the sun at the window of a quaint apartment. I was in a cold dark cellar beneath the Paris Opera House, surrounded by dripping white candles. I was, at present, lying sprawled over the bench of my huge pipe organ, my head resting on the keyboard, quill in one hand, sheet music in the other. I blinked in surprise. How on earth had I got here? And then it dawned on me.
Christine!
I leapt up from the bench in horror, wincing at the pain in my back that had evidently been caused by my uncomfortable position. How had I managed to fall asleep? What if Christine had woken up?!
I dashed over to the door that led to the guest bedroom, and, fearing the worst, I quietly pushed it open. I heaved a sigh of relief as I beheld Christine lying on the bed where I had placed her, covered by the silk sheets.
I crept slowly across the room to stand beside her. Her long brown hair lay spread across the pillows, and her face was relaxed with sleep. I must have stood there for a good ten minutes, watching her sleep and listening to her soft breathing.
Oh Christine. You are so beautiful.
I was seized by a sudden desire to wake her. I desperately wanted to tell her that I loved her, that last night had been the best night of my life. The pain of waking up to find myself in this cold, dismal dungeon vanished immediately. Looking down on Christine now, I suddenly felt unbelievably warm and happy. Maybe I couldn't have my dream in its entirety, maybe I would never again wake to see the sun, but Christine was here with me, and that, I realised, was all that mattered.
I crept out of the room and closed the door behind me. I desperately wanted to remain by her side, but I knew that was impossible. Hardly the behaviour of a gentleman, to watch a lady as she slept! Anyway, I needed to make myself look presentable for when she awoke.
I went into my bedroom and pulled the dust cover away from my full length mirror. I had always hated looking in mirrors, but my infatuation with Christine had caused me to become far more concerned with my overall appearance. I gazed into the mirror and sighed, suddenly doubtful. What if Christine decided that she didn't want me when I appeared to her without the darkness to hide my faults? While living alone beneath the Opera House, with no taunts, laughter or violence to remind me of my deformity, there had been times when I had almost managed to convince myself that I was a normal man. I would steal the most beautiful clothes from the theatre's wardrobe, and stalk the night time corridors wearing full evening dress, pretending that I was any other high-society gentleman on a visit to the Opera.
Christine had inadvertently put an end to my illusions. As I looked in the mirror now I saw a tall, rather threatening figure dressed in black. My right leg was lame and my body was thin beneath my evening suit. This hadn't always been the case. Four months ago I had been quite plump, my stomach round beneath my starched shirt, hardly the emaciated Opera Ghost of rumour! But that was before I had seen Christine, before the sleepless nights and missed meals, before the relentless dreaming and scheming. I suppose my weight loss was an early indication that I felt more for Christine than simply a wish to protect and teach her.
I smoothed down my suit and turned to look at myself from the side. I tried to persuade myself that, despite my face, Christine might still find me physically attractive in some ways. After all, I'm certainly imposing, and the new evening suit was very becoming.
But, in reality, I knew that I was deceiving myself. I am ugly. Even with my mask and wig in place I am ugly. That was why I dressed myself in the finest clothes I could get my hands on: to combat my natural ugliness. My suit is always perfect, there's never a hair out of place on my wig, but I know that I cannot possibly hope to disguise my faults.
Mme. Giry knows it too. She says I'm being very foolish - perhaps I am. I had tried in vain to hide my infatuation from her, but she seemed to be everywhere. No matter how hard I try, I cannot escape from her. She wouldn't turn me in, I know she wouldn't, even though it would be so easy for her. Instead she lurks in the shadows, watching my every move in much the same way as I watch Christine. She thinks she knows all my secrets, she thinks that I am afraid of her.
But it is she who should be afraid.
Having said that, and although her meddling annoys me, I could never physically hurt her. After all, I once loved her, and I like to think that the feeling was mutual. I trusted her completely; she was the light of my childhood, until -
But I won't think of that now. It has been too long, we have both changed so much since then. I cannot forgive, but I can at least try to forget.
Instead I will remember our confrontation over Christine. I had been certain that she did not know about my interest in her young pupil. I made a special effort to go about my business as normal, giving her my letters to pass on to the managers. On the rare occasions that we did meet backstage, I remained cold and aloof, taking care not to betray my feelings with a careless word or nervous twitch.
But oh, Mme. Giry, how I underestimated you! You knew me too well, despite my cloak of secrecy! You noticed that I was losing weight, that I was becoming paler and more wild-eyed, you noticed my limp become more pronounced, and my habits become more erratic. You even knew that I was teaching Christine, didn't you?
She caught me in the ballet room. It was late one Friday evening, and she had just finished instructing the dancers as they rehearsed for 'Hannibal.' Back then, Christine had still been a member of the chorus, and I would go along to the rehearsals to watch her. She wasn't much of a dancer, and occasionally I would wince at her efforts. She tried so hard, bless her, but she never had the agility or the coordination. But I digress.
Mme. Giry had turned off the lights, and I was certain she had departed. I had been watching the rehearsal from behind a two-way mirror, and now I pushed it open and stepped cautiously into the room, closing it soundlessly behind me. I crossed the floor, making no sound in walking, and opened the door. And then I gave a start.
A dark figure was standing behind the door, blocking my path down the passage. Our eyes met, her hawk-like gaze seeming to burn a hole in my brain. I was shaken; I felt as though she had caught me in the act of committing some heinous crime. It took me a second to regain my composure, and I bowed stiffly in acknowledgement.
'Madame,' I said icily, taking care not to look her in the eye. Then I swept past her and stalked down the corridor.
'It will never work, Erik.' I stopped in my tracks. Her voice was sad and strangely tender. 'You know it will never work.'
I whirled around to face her. 'Excuse me, Madame, but I have no idea what you're talking about.'
'You know perfectly well what I'm talking about, Monsieur le Fantome,' she replied, taking a step towards me. 'You would not stand and watch an entire rehearsal for no reason whatsoever.'
I was visibly shaken. 'How - how did you know I was there?'
'I saw you go in. I saw a dark shape out of the corner of my eye, then I heard the mirror turn.'
Damn. I really was becoming careless.
'You are becoming careless, M. le Fantome,' she said, echoing my thoughts. I repressed a shudder. All dressed in black, with heavy makeup applied to her lips and around her eyes, she looked almost sinister. 'I have noticed that you seem rather preoccupied of late,' she continued.
I was getting angry. 'Oh, you have, have you? Then please tell me why I am preoccupied, because I would love to know.'
Mme. Giry's face was expressionless. 'Don't play the innocent with me, Erik! I know you've been stalking Christine Daae!'
That came as a shock. I must have blushed or trembled because, before I had a chance to protest, she leaned forward and said 'Yes, I knew it.'
I refused to be intimidated. Drawing myself up to my full height, I looked her straight in the eye.
'I am not stalking her,' I said, putting on my most innocent, amiable tone. 'I am simply helping a girl whom I know is talented to fulfil her dreams. What's wrong with that?'
'No, you're stalking her! You watch her from behind the mirror in her dressing room - Yes, I know all your clever tricks, Erik! - She thinks you're her Angel of Music! She's told me all about you, the angelic singing voice descending magically from the heavens, the feelings of ecstasy. Angel of Music, indeed! You are not helping her, you are taking advantage of a vulnerable, damaged, grief-stricken young girl. YOU ARE STALKING HER!'
If she had been someone else, I would have lashed out at her then - taken her by the neck and shown her how dangerous I really was, but I managed to control myself. Instead, I spoke to her in that deceptively calm voice which I often use when, deep inside, I am simmering with rage.
'Oh yes? And why am I stalking her? I must have a reason, surely? Or am I just evil, a 'motiveless malignity'? Is that what you're suggesting?'
Mme. Giry sighed and smiled wistfully. 'You're not evil, Erik. You are damaged and bitter and corrupted, but not evil.' She paused, and looked directly into my eyes. 'It's perfectly obvious, even to me. You are in love.'
I suddenly felt faint. I stumbled and put my hand against the wall to prevent myself from falling. In love? I wasn't in love, was I? No, I couldn't be! It was just a silly infatuation, a normal feeling of lust towards a pretty young girl. I did not love Christine. Why, the very idea was absurd!
All of a sudden I began to laugh - rumbling, uncontrollable laughter which brought sweat to my brow and tears to my cheeks. The very thought of the Phantom of the Opera being in love was so ludicrous, so downright theatrical, that I was in hysterics for several long, embarrassing minutes. Madame Giry watched my display in silence.
At last I managed to recover my dignity, and I wiped the tears from my eyes. Now that I had stopped laughing, a terrible feeling of emptiness had come to replace my mirth, and I suddenly had the most uncomfortable feeling that I was going to cry. I swallowed the tears, and turned to face the ballet mistress.
'I - I am not in love,' I said, but my voice lacked conviction. 'What on Earth gave you that idea? It's just a silly infatuation.'
Mme. Giry smiled again. 'You are in love, M. le Fantome,' she said gently. 'It's nothing to be ashamed of. I know because you would not be helping Christine if you did not feel anything for her. You could have passed on your knowledge to anyone. Why her? What's so special about her?'
I drew myself up. 'My Christine has a wonderful voice, that's why!'
'Yes, you have taught her well, but there's more to it than that. You're in love with her. I can tell by your appearance. You're paler, and you've lost weight. You look more like Joseph Buquet's description every time I see you! When did you last eat a proper meal?'
She was scanning my torso with concerned eyes, and I wrapped my cloak around myself in embarrassment.
'Do not pretend that you care about my welfare,' I said, coldly. 'I can look after myself, and my feelings for Christine are no concern of yours.'
I turned to leave, but she caught hold of my cloak. 'This has to stop, Erik.'
'Excuse me, Madame. I do not have time for this.'
'Nonsense! You have all the time in the world!' She leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially in my ear. 'This has to stop. You can't deceive Christine forever. One day she will not need her Angel anymore. What will you do then? You know you cannot keep her. Any relationship you try to forge with her will end in tears. Please, Erik. Let her have her freedom. End it here.'
This hurt me, and I bit my lip to prevent myself from weeping. I did not love Christine, I had established that, but I could not let her go.
'Excuse me, Madame,' I repeated, in a muffled voice. She let go of my cloak and I walked down the passage with as much dignity as I could muster.
'Erik!' I stopped abruptly, but did not turn around. 'I shall be watching you. Remember that.'
Later that night, lying on the over-stuffed mattress which served as my bed, I tried to sleep. I was unusually hot and uncomfortable, thrashing violently from side to side. Mme. Giry's words haunted me:
'You are stalking her. You are in love. End it here. You are stalking her' - I felt a twinge of guilt - 'You are in love. YOU ARE IN LOVE!'
Occasionally I would burst out laughing. The Phantom could not feel love. I had established that long ago. The Phantom enjoyed his solitary existence. He did not need anyone.
But maybe Erik did.
And I realised then that Christine had reawakened something within me which I had thought was long since dead. The old flame of human emotion had been reignited, and it refused to be extinguished. I told myself that I was being foolish, that I was too ugly and too old to fall in love. I was thirty-four, for Heaven's sake!
I repeated the words, over and over again in the darkness, like an incantation which would protect me: 'I am not in love. I am not in love. I am not in love.'
When I finally did find sleep, I dreamed of her voice, her face, her soft arms around my neck. And most of all, I dreamed of the sunrise.
------(------(@
Awaking from my reverie, I gazed into the mirror once again. Maybe Mme. Giry was right. Maybe I should have ended it that night in the ballet room. But Christine was here with me now, and I knew there was no way back.
I quickly went over to the wash basin and performed my toilet. Then I changed into a new set of evening clothes and ran a damp comb through the wig. As an afterthought, I donned a heavily embroidered kimono and matching hat. The image in the mirror looked a little absurd, but at least I would appear less threatening. The mask seemed all right, but I took the time to wipe it with a cloth. When Christine finally awoke, I wanted her to see me at my most presentable.
Author's Note: Please review! The phrase 'motiveless malignity' is how Coleridge described Shakespeare's Iago in 'Othello.' I just thought I'd better mention that. I hope it doesn't look out of place.