Life would have carried on in such an insignificant but disturbing
fashion if I had wanted it to, but at length I waved Carlotta Giudicelli off
the Parisian stage with a few threat notes to the management and put Christine
in her rightful place. The first production of Faust, finally, consisted of a
fine cast, and the performance was stunning. Her voice and my efforts
rewarded her with fame and a glorious victory—it was what I would have had
without this face, but I was content to sing through her.

She came to me freely that night, found her own way through the
passages and endless corridors, and rowed across the lake to meet me at the
other side. I was fairly surprised, perhaps touched or even delighted she did
this willingly, but symbolism meant very little. I read her a fairy tale, the
stories she loved so dearly, and she once more fell asleep with her head
leaning against my side. It was bitter that evening, and I thought it best
that I put her to bed right away. I picked her up in my arms, feeling the
weight of her light supple body in my hands and her soft steady breathing
against the skin of my neck; it felt like butterfly wings. I laid her
carefully in her elaborate bed and blew out the long ivory candle at the
bedstead. But I could not make myself leave the room.

Instead, I sat in a chair next to the bed and stared down at her with
irrepressible longing. In the stark coldness of the room I still saw her
clearly, allowing my eyes to travel to all places of her, memorizing, savoring
the one thing I could not have.

She lay motionless, her hands lying limply at her sides and her legs
covered by her long white gown. Her hair spread like a sea of silk around her
pale face, peaceful, utterly angelic, and untouchable. A lock of her hair had
fallen to the tip of the smooth mound of her breast, taunting and mocking me
as I crumbled into heaps within. Why do you come back? I asked her in
silence. Why do you remind me of what I will never conquer? If she knew I
never accepted defeat, she was right not to answer.

Her eyelashes trembled, her lips parted as if to speak, and for a moment I
thought I heard her call out my name… My own mouth opened to answer, and I
closed them again, tortured by irresolution and momentary hesitation. She was
dreaming, I knew, but they were the most useless things of all—dreams do not
come true. Only nightmares. Only night. If I had answered….

Again she parted her lips but no sound came out, and she turned
comfortably to her side, wrapping her hands around her arms, trying to avoid
the cold. I removed my cloak and gently covered her with the long cashmere,
and as I did so, my fingers brushed the tantalizingly soft material of her
gown, then her hip and arm, and lastly her slender neck. I froze in place and
dared not move my hands, for they had suddenly ached to linger a bit longer.
I could have slipped beside her and have her sleep in my embrace for one
night, but I turned away, quietly closing her bedroom door behind me.

I was disgusted with myself.

Rape…a violation of heart, of body, of dignity and the right to belong
to oneself. A kind priest had told me this a long time ago, and I never
thought of the word until now. It occurred to me how close I was to raping
Christine Daaé, and the idea drove me mad with loathing. I have killed in my
lifetime, but this concept seemed much more frightening and incorrigible; it
was like the act of stabbing one's mother…the blood of guilt would always come
back.

For hours I sat in my throne and delved in the bleak dungeon of my
mind, recalling the unspeakable crimes I had committed towards humanity in my
fading past. How I had killed for pleasure, under authority, stole beautiful
things without a cry of conscience, and I had myself to remind me that I stole
Christine too, a girl who not quite contrasted with a pretty piece of jewelry.

I thought of how she murmured my name in her sleep, her voice sweet and
caressing, full of the innocence that begged to be corrupted. If I had leaned
forward and breathed in the scent of her hair, to explore her darkest secrets,
would she have awakened and screamed at the sight of my glowing mask? A part
of me answered a persistent no, but another part, was coldly reluctant to
answer at all.

I poured myself a cup of fine brandy and sipped lightly at the crimson
tinted drink. Everything I saw reminded me of blood, it seemed, but it did
not disturb me. Death was like a painting—it came in all different shades.
And tonight, I was feeling particularly black.

I set down the wine and crossed the room, considering momentarily of
playing the pipe organ stretched against the wall. I dismissed the idea at
the thought of waking her—the last person I wanted to see now was her, in all
her innocence, asking me to play more. And I was playing—just not music, but
a game of cat and mouse with my delightful princess. I was very frightened to
loose her, you see; who knows when she will let down her hair to me one day,
and the plotting little Vicomte would cut it off when I am only half way up
the golden tower. . . .

Resignedly, I slid into my bedroom and closed the door behind me. In
the black ivory of my bed I dreamt of what was never truly meant to be. The
name she called out was mine indeed, but in my dreams, I answered her without
conscience, and she would come to me without fear.

We crossed the lake, and I took her back to her dressing room the
following morning. Before we parted I told her she was not required to come to
me for the next three weeks. It was best for me to keep my distance from her
for a period of time since the only solution to her unbearable presence was to
not have her be there at all.

I told her this ambiguously, and the hurt in her eyes broke my heart.

"Have I done something wrong?" She asked brokenly, "Are you angry with me?"

"No, my dear Christine," I said with forced indifference. "Regrettably, there
will be a visitor who I must care to meet alone…."

She looked up at me with such intense accusation, I was sure she was about to
cry.

"You've found somebody else, haven't you?" She whispered sadly and
resolutely. Her lower lip trembled instinctively, "You've found someone worthy
enough…."

For a moment I just stared at her in my dumbstruck surprise. I wanted
to laugh at her absurd conclusion and muse at the incredible insolence of that
assertion. Did she actually think there would be another like her whose voice
would moved me to tears? Was she so insecure and naive, that she would
believe there is someone left in the world who would not cower away from my
face? Perhaps my little ingenue was more senseless than I'd thought.

My left hand gently caressed the air of her delicate cheek as I lowered
my mouth to the tip of her ear and felt the heat around her shiver under my
breath.

"You torment yourself, Christine," I whispered softly in a voice that
made the hair on her spine stand on end.

I left her there, in her confusion and uncertainty, and I smiled
despite the thundering drums of my excited heart.

By their own accord, the walls she'd built around herself had begun to
fall apart.