MADAME O. G.

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Chapter 3: Nothing Unreasonable

The dormitories for the ballet-girls were not small or uncomfortable, but they were after all dormitories, with the cots lined up one after the other. At night, no one could stay up reading later than any one else; there were no curtains between the beds to block the light. Whispers carried far. Girlish secrets, therefore, were reserved for the hubbub of backstage.

That was what had made Christine so certain that her Angel of Music was truly an angel: if he was not, surely every one in the dormitory would have heard his divine song...?

As she lay in bed, having been assigned a dressing-room but not yet turned out of the dormitories to find her own flat as La Daaé, she found it difficult to sleep. It was not that she wasn't tired; she'd been awake since the early morning. Something else was missing – and when she finally heard it, she knew what it was.

Softly, ever so softly, an organ's music could be heard (or she could hear it, anyway, and little Jammes in the cot on her right shifted uncomfortably in her sleep). The chords were as haunting as they ever were: when she was young, she had not understood the way they disharmonized and then, ultimately, unified into a culmination more powerful for its preceding clashes. The music was not always the same, but certain themes unified it. Now she was certain that what she heard was Erik playing his great underground organ; the music, however, was still not anything she recognized.

It was strange, she thought, that even after discovering the hideous face hidden behind the half-mask that organ music was still welcome to her. Even after discovering the man's temper! But there had to be something to explain his situation. People were not merely born out of the ooze beneath the Opera Populaire! And deformed though he was, the Phantom was indeed a person. Who were his mother and his father? How had he come to live there? He could not be more than thirty, and she would judge him younger than that, from the trim figure he cut in his habitual evening wear. The wedding dress he had kept on the mannequin, the little figurine in his miniature Opera that wore her face – why had she so obsessed him, why, why, why? Why did he choose (and he did choose, she was certain) to remain so apart from the rest of human society? Children are unkind, but adults, in Christine's experience, were not usually so bad.

There was one thing certain: whether she willed it or not, she had unlimited time to discover the answers to those questions. Even if Erik himself had not made clear his wishes, even if she did not believe him to be capable of enforcing them, there was something about him that drew her back to his side; she would acquiesce to his demands of companionship, with enough pleading, with enough time to adjust to the idea of living with that monstrous face.

Jammes would say she had been bewitched, and Meg would say she was losing her head. Christine did not know which was more true. It was only the same feeling that had kept her in line when she was being tutored, as a child, by her Angel of Music. Uncanniness seemed to hang about Erik like a shroud, and his voice as well. It was that uncanniness that captured her imagination, piqued her interest, drew her in to him time and again.

Composing various scenarios for the Phantom's childhood and for how he came to live beneath the opera-house, she drifted to sleep. The organ music, which would have seemed eerie to any other person, merely helped lull her into peaceful dreams.

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It was a shock to awake as early as she was required to, after keeping her own hours in the Phantom's home; however, as long as she was living in the dormitories, Christine Daaé would be expected to keep the ballet dancers' hours. When she was given the prima donna's salary, then she would be left alone.

Having woken, however, and having attended a morning practice with the corps de ballet, she was in a perfect position to hear all about the letters which had suddenly appeared for MM. Firmin and André, the Vicomte de Chagny and Carlotta. They had all been sealed with red wax and a death's head. They had all made various outrageous demands. They had all been signed 'O. G.'

It took some strength to not pry too deeply, to pretend this meant nothing to her. She could not hear the voices of the foursome, after they met and exclaimed over each note, or determine what was in them. But after they left the stage to make way for the singers, Mme. Giry pulled her aside.

"I was better able to hear what those letter said than you, but you ought to know," she whispered. "I ought not to know where you were these three nights – I do not want to know. But this, you must. The Phantom has demanded that Il Muto be produced, and that you play the Comtesse's part. He wishes you to be prima donna, girl. And he has warned the Vicomte away. One piece of advice only: do not cross him in that, cherie. He will not take kindly to it."

With that she was gone, leaving Christine with more questions than before. An unpleasant frisson ran up her spine at the word 'demanded,' at the warning not to cross Erik. His temper... but she had only ever seen that temper when she had attempted to pull off his mask, and that was surely reasonable!

And yet, Carlotta had so conveniently marched out and left the lead soprano's part open. The catalyst, the scenery's unexpected fall, could be coincidental. Or, it could not. Didn't Erik have trapdoors, hidden doors, all about? Wasn't he familiar with the opera-house, and with its equipment? He could have so easily manufactured such an accident!

The thought was chilling, and it followed her all day. No one knew quite what to do with her. MM. Firmin and André seemed to be trying to decide what to do with Carlotta's flouncing and vocal unhappiness; M. le Vicomte de Chagny – well, she did keep away from him, as long as she could. He caught up to her finally just as she was walking with Meg, about to go to the chapel and light her father's candle, to meet Erik and be taken down to his home once again. Meg danced away, giggling, just as he came up.

"Christine – Christine! Can't you spare a moment for an old friend? I've been trying to pin you down all day!" he said, loping up next to her on his long legs.

"I'm going to the chapel to light a candle for my father," she said. "I do it every night. I may be some time. Monsieur-"

"Raoul –"

"Raoul, then. May I see you in the morning? I feel very ill tonight."

"You were very ill last night, Christine, or tired, or some such. If I were another sort of man, I would think you didn't want to see me," he quipped, obviously aiming for a lighthearted tone. He didn't quite manage it.

"Oh! No, never think that," she said. "Little Lotte is the same as ever. Can you not trust me at all?"

Clearly abashed, he backtracked and left her on her own. The exchanged disconcerted her, reminded her of how unsafe the chapel really was. After all, anyone might go down there. What would happen if they came face-to-face with Erik? More to the point, what would happen if Erik came face-to-face with them?

Useless, useless, useless, she thought, ridiculing herself for too-worried thoughts. She was already passing under the sign for the chapel, into the room with its circular window and painted angels and rows of candles. Here she was safe! Here she could make everyone else safe. No matter how destructive his designs might be, the Phantom would listen to her, she was sure. If she would never ask him to let her go, he had said, he would do anything to make her happy; it would make her happy to not see mischief about the opera-house.

She knelt, lit her father's candle, prayed: then, just as she whispered 'amen' to herself, he was there.

END CHAPTER 3