Everyday between the hours of sunrise and the birth of the moon, she
lived above grounds and emerged herself in the luxurious rays of sunlight,
happiness, and human contact. I did not value such things since I'd grown
accustomed to survival without the essential needs of man. But she loved the
blue sky and its peaceful soft clouds, and I made sure I would not deprive her
of these simple joys of life by returning her to upper grounds before dawn.

Beyond the lake we lived as equals and in a manner of husband and
wife. I never pushed her to do things she did not wish to do, and after the
earlier incident, she seemed to have understood my need for that mask. But we
tip-toed our way around our feelings like an uncleansed foot testing the
surface of a pool of water—neither of us would speak of emotion when it came to
our extraordinary associations.

I never pushed her to sing when she was exhausted after her dance
rehearsals; on the contrary, I often suggested to her an early sleep. But
she'd insist on continuing with the voice lesson, her blue eyes persuasive and
pure, and I began to realize how much she needed my music. Without it she
would be six feet above my home but completely miserable. Music quenched a
thirst in her no man could ever satiate, of course, no man except for myself.

We had this in common; we claimed one sanctuary.

She would often beg me to tell her stories and produce poetry for her,
and after I acceded to her request, she would fall asleep, kneeling besides me
with her head leaning lightly against the side of my leg. That astonishing
sensation! It was as if I would feel no greater pleasure from her voluntary
touch, just to have the silky curls of her hair unbearably close to my skin,
my eyes, my breath. I wanted this girl more than all the music in the world,
and in the stolen moments of ecstasy, it would feel almost as though she were
truly mine.

Alas, only I knew she was not.

I was not the only man who looked upon Christine Daaé with desire;
there was the Vicomte de Chagny. He was a patron and son of a rich old man who
showered his son with wealth and spoiled him to the bone. I never liked the
boy since the first time I laid eyes upon him—he was indecently young, the
same age as Christine, and unimaginably immature. There was nothing in common
between the two except for their love for joyous things, and I did not see him
as a hindering device when he first arrived at the Opera Populaire. But the
boy and Christine had been childhood playmates, and soon after their first
reunion, I took de Chagny's necessity under consideration. He was an
aristocrat as well as an addition to the overflowing population of the other
patricians, and his existence irritated me beyond creed.

I could have easily gotten rid of him if not for the risk of loosing
her trust. Christine would have unquestionably suspected me of murder; only
she knew I was capable of such deeds. My past was a mist of miserable
despair, unforgotten and as cold as the depths of the winter snow. Questions
never arose unless she proposed them, and even then I released very little
information; deceiving was a simple and guiltless task, you see, Christine
would have believed me if I told her the sun revolved around the moon. Neither
of us minded each other's presence, but I always sensed there was something
overpowering and timid inside of her. She was still living with the constant
reminder of what lay behind that mask—that was why I gave her Elisabeth.

She completely porcelain, an Victorian doll and dressed in hand woven
blue silk. Large blue eyes were forever awake and staring attentively at who
holds it in her hands. She had only one oddity which was her lack of a
mouth. She was far too beautiful to be left with her seller; thereupon I
bought her, disregarding the odd looking mouth, or lack thereof.

Christine loved her, nonetheless, and I agreed to make Elisabeth sing.
It wasn't a difficult task since ventriloquiy lay at the tip of my tongue for
I had once performed as a ventriloquist in Vienna. Christine was delighted
when music came out of the doll's invisible mouth. She'd clap her hands
gaily, her sea-blue eyes twinkling and the sensual, pout of her lips spreading
into a indulgent smile. When I was consumed with fatigue and thought it best
not to sing, she would make me tea, and serve me, as a nurse serves a patient
who is on crutches for life. And I suppose, in a way, I was.

There were times when I did not sleep, and we just spent a night awake,
watching each other while the tension stirred and built to the point where
she'd turn away, a rosy hue flushing her cheeks. Feelings—all these feelings
she had to understand were too sudden and forceful, and I began to see that it
was virginity, for both of us.

Virginity not just in the literal sense, but mentally…emotionally…we
did not know lust. We did not feel sexuality, or we did not recognize it. It
was like exposing a part of us that both she and I were vainly reluctant to
share. In a way, we were still children, pushed back by the barrier of
innocence, and too alarmed to cross the perimeter.