The next morning, Maman was kept busy with the dancers. She was assessing the previous night's work, praising the girls who truly deserved it, pointing out weaknesses.
Over breakfast, she had seemed well enough. I knew she was pleased with my performance. She said nothing of the shawl, though several times she glanced the rich fabric carefully laid on my armoir.
Now, however, she seemed worn and tired. Older as she paced back in forth in front of the girls.
"Mirelle, you were too slow, you did not keep pace with the others during the last scene. Josephine, stand straight, your shoulders are too rounded."
I saw some of the younger girls giggling as Maman scrutinized their peers. Maman noticed, too.
She turned toward the girls but, before she could say anything, I saw her clutch the handle of her cane. A second later, she sank back against the wall.
"Maman," I cried and ran to her.
Lili and Marie, two of the older ballet girls hurried to the door.
"I'll go find Madame Miron," Lili called to me.
"I'll get Dr. Antonin," added Marie.
The theatre doctor came at once and, within minutes, my unconscious mother had been carried to our apartment and laid in bed.
I stood at the foot of the bed, clutching the cold iron frame as Dr. Antonin examined Maman. When he turned to me, his expression told me the truth. There was no need for him to tell me. Maman was dead.
I stared down at my hands, the knuckles were white as I continued to hold tightly to the bed.
When Madame Miron came, I began to cry.
Maman's funeral was held in the little Opera House chapel. She had given her life to the Opera Populaire so it only seemed fitting. She was buried in a quiet section of the same cemetery where Christine's father was also interred. It was a small group that gathered at the grave. Messieurs Andre and Firmin, Dr. Antonin, dear old Reyer, Madame Miron and her husband, the older girls from the ballet corps, Catherine Brown, Jacques Muir (our new tenor), and several retired dancers who had known Maman from her own days on the stage.
Standing in a sort of sickly haze at Maman's graveside that chilly morning, I looked up and saw a dark movement near the Daae vault, the edge of cloak blown by the wind. Erik, it would seem, had come to pay his respects, too.
The next day, I walked aimlessly about the Opera House. I had nothing else to do, nowhere to go. I did not join the rehearsals; I was not yet ready to practice with the new ballet mistress. My throat was too constricted with sadness to sing
I could not sit there in the apartment, still full of her things. Instead, I wandered through the busy passages, a sad, lost girl in a plain black dress.
In the corridor near my dressing room, I was met by Msr. LeCruese. He bowed and took my hand.
"Mademoiselle Giry, please, allow me to offer you my deepest, deepest sympathies. I was in Calais when I read of your mother's passing. I am so sorry, my dear girl."
"Thank you, Monsieur," I said, to my surprise, he followed me into my room.
"What is it that you want, Monsiuer," I asked without any real interest in his answer. That numb hazy feeling of the previous day still enveloped me. I could almost feel it smothering me.
He grasped my hand again.
"Mademoiselle. I came here as soon I read of your mother. I left all my business in Calais to be here, to make you an offer. I have a lovely little cottage just outside Paris. A charming place, perfect for a charming girl like yourself. You see, it isn't good for such a pretty little angel to be left so alone in the world. You would be very happy there and I would find your company to be..quite pleasant. I am prepared to be generous you, ma petite ange."
I was repulsed by this portly dandy. I turned on him in what I can only describe as a cold rage.
"Get away from me at once. You are filthy opportunist, to accost a young woman with such a vile proposal on the very day after her mother's funeral. How dare you. Go home to your wife, sir. Or find some other girl to accept your generosity. There a plenty of tarts here who'd gladly sink to your level."
Something in my anger must have actually frightened my unwanted suitor. He quit my room at once and scurried down the corridor.
I left the room and continued my aimless walk through the Opera House. A few minutes later, Monsieur LeCreuse dashed passed me. Without any real interest, I noted that his fat face was white and beads of sweat shown like sequins on his high forehead.
I came at last to the theater chapel. It was usually deserted; other than Christine (who often prayed that her father would send her an angel of music), few of the Opera people used it. It was the legacy of a former patron who hoped the chapel's spiritual benefits would balance any perceived immorality of stage life.
I went in and stood alone in a trembling pool of colored light cast by the stained glass window of St. Cecilia. I thought I would offer a rosary for Maman, but I realized my beads were not in the pocket of my black dress.
So I whispered a single Ave in the silent room. Dust shimmered in the air, sparkling in and out of the colored light. As I came to the words now and at the hour of our death, I felt tears burning my cheeks. I sank down on the nearest prie-Dieu and sobbed aloud.
"Maman, why did you leave me now? O, Maman, where are you?"
I was weeping now, there seemed no end to my tears.
"Maman, why did you leave me all alone?"
At that moment, a hand was laid on my shoulder, so gently I might not have realized it was there until I heard a voice.
"Not all alone, Marguerite."
Erik stood close to me, looking down with me with sad kindness in his eyes.
He drew me from the kneeler and turned me to face him.
"I know what it is to be lonely," he said, touching my tear-stained cheek with his gloved hand.
Sobbing and unable to speak, I fell into his arms and buried my face against his shoulder.
I don't recall exactly how we made our way down to his home. Erik led me there in silence, through an unfamiliar series of tunnels and stairs. He held my hand, guiding me along the dim passages.
This seemed to be a longer way because, at some point, I faltered. He picked me up and carried me the rest of the way.
Still, my tears could not end. They continued even as he placed me on the old settee in his study. Sitting beside me, he put his arms around me.
For a moment, my mind cleared and I thought how strange it was to be held by the man the world had known as a monster, a murderer, a living ghost. How good it was of him to hold me, to let me rest my head on his shoulder. Then the tears returned.
And he sang to me. It was the first time I had heard him sing since the angry passion of Don Juan Triumphant. I thought that I would never hear his voice again, that the will to sing had left him when Christine left her Angel of Music for a handsome young Vicomte.
I could not understand the words and realized it was not in French. Russian, it seemed. It may have been that same song I had heard played on the roof late one night. I know only that it was the most beautiful song I had ever heard and that there was an indescribable kindness in his voice.
I found that I was falling asleep in his arms. Before I drifted off into a trusting, dreamless peace, I felt him shift my weight against him so he could reach his cloak and lay it over me.