Homecoming
Jennifer Hinds and Heather Sullivan
Chapter 6
"Erik!" Elaine exclaimed as she came stumping into the music room. Erik hastily scratched out the last bit of the orchestration over which he had been bending, and turned towards his little charge. It was with some measure of pride that he watched her approach, for she had been under his care for less than two weeks and was already out of bed, walking with the aid of a pair of crutches he had designed for her.
"Good morning, Elaine," he said warmly. "How are you today?"
"Hungry!" she said in a tone that implied that she knew her slightest request would be obeyed. Erik knew this was no less than fact, and wondered vaguely if he did not over-indulge this little visitor, who had managed to warm his heart out of its long hibernation.
"But of course, mademoiselle," he replied, a kind, gentle tone dressing the phrase until it could have outshone the king's court for beauty. "What would you like?"
"Oh, milk and cake, please!"
Erik considered the request carefully. Nadir had sent enough food for him to live on, but not for him and a small child who constantly wanted sweet things … the last of the cake he had sent days ago had comprised Elaine's tea-time meal the day before. But perhaps … yes, the Daroga's basket would certainly arrive today. "I'm afraid the cake is all gone, cherie … is there something else you'd like?"
Elaine was not swayed by Erik's excuse. "My Mama always had our servants bake a cake."
Her words, though spoiled, gave him some relief; for he was reminded that, at least, it was not his failing if the child were somewhat willful. "Well, my dear, I think you know we haven't any servants here."
"Then … then you could go to the store," the child persisted.
He could not help but laugh a little, despite the pangs of memory Elaine's insistence bred. "I can't just walk into a store, Elaine."
"But why not?"
But why not … ah, the innocence of youth! For once he too had struggled to understand why his mother's house was always empty, why no one but the priest ever came to call – or at least to speak a kind word … But how to explain the cruelty of shallow hearts to this little child? He tried to lighten his tone for her benefit. "Most other people don't care for my company."
Elaine stared at him a moment, puzzling over his words; but something in his eyes gave her to know she ought not to question what he had said. "Then they are stupid," she finally asserted, lifting her dainty little nose into the air.
He wanted to … was it to laugh, or weep? Erik bowed his head for a moment. "Perhaps there will be a cake later this afternoon. But in the meantime, will you have some oatmeal?"
Elaine wrinkled her nose a bit. "Are you sure you don't have any cake?"
"Positive."
"All right," she said with a sigh. "I'll eat the oatmeal."
Erik laughed and made his retreat to the kitchen; but even in the quiet domesticity of that room he could no longer avoid thinking about his situation seriously. He had a small child in his house, and soon the caretakers of that small child would overcome their fear of the depths of the Opera. A fear of harm coming to their little one would overtake their apprehension concerning dark, and spiders, and ghost stories; and they would come and take Elaine away. Silently, Erik raged against these people, whomsoever they might be. If she were …
If she had belonged to him, he should never have let her out of his sight, nor allowed a day to pass while she was missing.
In a few minutes he set a bowl before his little invalid and watched fondly as she breakfasted. He knew he had no right to keep her, for she did not belong to him … and though a few days more would be required until she would be able to get around without help, he knew that if he kept her presence here a secret he might be tempted never to reveal it, to never permit the eventuality of her departure.
Resolutely, even as he kept watch over the child, he began a mental draft of a letter to Nadir.
Christine arrived in Paris by train on a Tuesday afternoon, and within an hour she had wrestled through the crowds at Gar du'Nord, shamelessly hijacked a cab from beneath the nose of a rather irate nobleman, and burst through the door of Meg's dressing-room. The little ballerina was taking her tea, but jumped up at once.
"Oh, Christine, I'm so sorry!" she cried, frantically embracing her friend and bursting into just-as-frantic tears.
"Don't cry, Meg," Christine said emphatically, taking her friend firmly by the shoulders. "I know you have taken good care of her. I could not have left Elaine in the care of anyone I trusted more." Hugging Meg close to her again, she spoke on. "But now we must focus on finding her. I am not angry with you, dear – but we must work quickly."
"Agreed," Meg said, still sniffing a little from the outburst of tears.
"Do you know any more about what happened?" Christine asked in a solemn tone.
"Nothing new has come to light since I wrote," her friend replied miserably. "The flies have been practically ripped to pieces – the boxes and dressing-rooms scoured – and the firemen who went into the cellars reported no signs of anyone having been down there in years. The police have been informed, although I must admit they have been of little help. They have 'better things to do than to look for runaways,' you see – I wanted to pummel the detective who said that to me. As if Elaine would run away …"
"No, she wouldn't run away," Christine answered meditatively. "She can be a foolish, headstrong child, but I cannot imagine her doing something like that."
They both fell silent, and Meg contemplated her friend's visage. She was beautiful as she ever was, although was extremely pale; but there was something different – her eyes. They were full of fire and spirit ...
Meg cast her mind back to the earlier days of their friendship. Christine had always been dreamy, her mind wandering through memories of the past or fancies of the future. This was the first time that Meg had seen her living in the moment at hand. The change was a subtle one, but very real and it made all the difference.
Finally Christine broke the silence. Rising, she ran a distracted hand down her dress, which was somewhat askew from her hasty travel. "I must start right away – but I suppose I should also see the managers first …"
Meg shivered a little. This Christine was nothing like the one that she had known a few years ago; there was a steel backbone to the woman who had taken the place of the young girl. She had come into her own power and was no longer dependent on anyone – not on a fickle nobleman or the memories of a dead father. This new vision of Christine was inspiring – and yet, on some level, disconcerting … but Meg quickened her steps to match her friend's, and they stepped into the corridor together.
Darius entered the room on silent feet and paused for a moment to take in his master, who sat at the window watching the bustling street below. Nadir had not been the same since Erik had refused to see him, and this had saddened Darius greatly. After their many years together, the bond between them was more than just one of master and servant; he considered himself to be Nadir's friend. It was with a small measure of joy in his heart that he handed to the Daroga the small note he had discovered in the empty basket he had just exchanged for a full one in the cellars of the Opera Garnier.
"What …" Nadir began; but the significant expression in Darius' eyes implored him to seek the answer within the folded paper. Nadir's own expression brightened considerably as he recognized the bold hand emblazoned therein; with shaky hands, he cradled and drank in Erik's missive.
It was very short; but then, the Erik Nadir had known had preferred his cool, clipped phrases and smartly creased clothes to the excess and drama of the harem. "But how things change," Nadir added to himself ruefully, remembering the things his friend had done – and what he had become – since leaving the beauty and danger of Persia.
"Dear Nadir,
I confess that this must seem rather strange, having a note from me after all of this time, but I am writing to request your advice and judgment in a certain matter.
If you would bestow upon me the honor of your presence, my house will be open to you this evening. Please use the door on the Rue Scribe, as I cannot vouch for the safety of any of the other old entrances.
I remain, sir,
your obedient servant – and old friend –
Erik"
A strange sense of calm descended upon the Daroga. Finally, the silence of nearly seven years was broken; at last he had been called upon to do more for Erik than merely proclaim his friendship. "Darius, I must have a carriage this evening … there is a call I must pay …" He considered a moment, then added to his valet's retreating form, "And pray, prepare a special feast to be taken down. And I shall gather together some books …"
"At your command, Daroga." Darius bowed slightly and went about his business with his usual silence. Nadir stood a moment longer, for he could not help but wonder what could have changed Erik's mind – so abruptly, and after such a long separation.
But he pushed these thoughts away; for his heart should be light. At last, out of the depths, Erik had extended his hand in friendship. There could be no ill in such a miracle!
Meg stood at Christine's side as she explained her presence to the managers and asked permission to search the grounds. At first they were shocked to be face to face with Christine Daae again; but they were equally as dumbfounded to discover that the misplaced child was hers.
"Madame," M. Andre wheedled, "we are, of course, deeply sorry for what has happened ..."
"Oh, stop the pretense, Monsieur," Christine retorted, much to the toadying manager's chagrin, "and give me permission to search the Opera myself, and to the best of my ability; do that, and I will bother you no further."
M. Firmin, ever mindful of his pocketbook, replied, "Of course you can't mean to imply that we have been at all lax or negligent in our own searches, Madame. I do dare say that I hope you don't intend to cause problems for the Opera."
"I want my child back, and I'm going to find her." Christine swept an agitated hand across her forehead. "If that is your definition of causing problems, then yes, I am going to cause them. But if you are concerned about lawsuits …" The word made one corner of Firmin's mouth jerk nervously. "If I am permitted to find her unimpeded, I see no reason to suspect that will be necessary."
"How can you be so self-concerned?" Meg interjected. "Don't you realize that the child could be in danger? Every moment she is missing …"
Firmin interrupted her with a nasty sneer. "Meg Giry, you are walking on dangerous ground. If you are at all concerned for your career, I would recommend that you keep your mouth shut."
Christine had quickly grown impatient with the conversation, and made no effort to conceal her disgust with the managers. "So what is the answer, gentlemen?" The inflection she placed on the last word seemed only to accentuate the irony of applying it to two such persons.
The "gentlemen" exchanged glances. Andre's was distracted, as he had always had the better conscience of the two; but Firmin's was steely and sought only for his partner's agreement – or at the very least, his lack of will to protest. Finally Firmin cleared his throat. "I do apologize, Madame de Chagny; but the answer must be 'no.' The police believe she is nowhere within the Opera's walls. Therefore, you must appreciate the generosity of our continuing to search for her at all. The efforts have been ongoing for the past week; parties have been formed, patterns and schedules established. I can imagine that as the child's parent you would want to participate; but frankly, I believe your presence here is little more than a distraction at this point."
Meg stood silently as she observed the effect of Firmin's words on her friend. It seemed that Christine's anger had taken on the power to transform; for her body became tense with it, and she seemed almost to coil in preparation to strike, like a serpent. Firmin, despite his blustering, seemed to notice Christine's reaction as well; for he spoke on, this time with a less emphatic tone. "If she is here, Madame, one of our searchers will find her. The moment we hear anything, you will be informed."
For a moment, Meg wondered whether Christine might not lash out against Firmin; but after a brief pause, she replied. "Very well, gentlemen; I understand your position, and know we will get no further by arguing. Keep me informed as to the search's progress." With that, Christine seized Meg's hand and, turning on her heel, stalked out of the office.
"Of course, Madame, of course," Andre simpered behind them. "Perhaps … as a gesture of our friendship … a box for this evening's performance …" But if she had heard his bleating, Christine made no response; and it was all Meg could do to fix them both with a look of pure poison as her friend dragged her through the door.
"Christine!" she whispered as they hurried along the dimly lit backstage passages. "You aren't going to give up, are you?"
"I am going to scour this place from top to bottom until I find her, with or without their permission," came the emphatic reply. Christine was turning her head in all directions, re-acclimating herself to the building and the darkness. "And I'm going to start in my old dressing room."
"Of course," Meg nodded. "That will be no trouble, it is still unoccupied … but Christine! You don't think ..."
The set of Christine's jaw was grim and determined; she was incensed with the managers and their apparent non-concern for Elaine's safety, and now was certainly no time to have a conversation about Erik. Why he came into her mind she did not know, for the Girys both believed him either dead or gone … She replied simply, "She may have found a secret passage, decided to explore it, and been unable to get out again. The corridor beyond my mirror lets out farther down than the third cellar; I'm going to start the search that way."
Meg looked over at Christine. "Would you please take some rest first, Christine? You are as pale as …" she stumbled over so easy, so pregnant an expression "… as a ghost ..." But she regained her purpose and insisted, "I won't let you go without me either – but the performance begins so soon … You could have a nap, and I will return for you after the curtain."
Christine's iron-clad expression softened. "All right, dear Meg; I cannot defy you, too."
Once they reached Meg's dressing room, the little ballerina arranged a blanket and pillow on the low, threadbare couch.
"I'm sorry it isn't better, Christine …"
"It's perfect," Christine assured he; but her wan smile cut Meg to the quick.
"I'll be back soon," she affirmed quietly, even as she took her leave.
The door clicked shut and immediately Christine was flooded with a sensation of guilt; she understood Meg's desire to be of help to her, but she simply could not delay her search for Elaine one moment longer. Distrusting the managers' commitment to finding her daughter, she felt certain that any time spent waiting would be time wasted.
But even as she prepared to set out, she checked her watch. There were places she could search and still be back within the time tonight's show would occupy; Meg need never know she had begun without her …
Resolute, Christine placed her hand upon the doorknob; but before she could turn it, there sounded a timid knock from the other side of the door. Trying to banish panic from her voice, Christine withdrew a few steps into the room and called out, "Come in …"
To her great surprise, the opening door revealed two little ballet girls, who each gasped and reached for the other's hand. "We beg your pardon, Madame," one of them whispered nervously; "we … we were expecting Meg …"
"We need to see her right away, if we may, Madame," the other, apparently the elder, spoke up. "It's very important …"
Christine was naturally impatient, but she spoke kindly to the girls. "Meg has gone to her curtain call," she said, "but if you tell me what is so important, I will pass along your message."
The girls exchanged a furtive glance; finally, shifting nervously, the elder replied, "It is about the little girl, Elaine …"
Christine's heart almost stopped; but she managed to move slowly to the door and close it gently to ensure them privacy. "I'm Elaine's mother," she said in as steady and yet commanding a voice as she could muster. "Do you know where she is?"
A look of horror crossed the older girl's face, and she seemed to lose her tongue. The younger girl stared at her for a moment, then jostled her hand. "We have to tell her, Yvonne!"
"Please," Christine implored, holding on as tightly as she could to her composure, "I am almost mad with worry! Please tell me what you know!"
Yvonne swallowed hard, and tears began to form in her eyes. "Belinda –" she choked out.
The younger girl seemed to find courage she never knew she possessed. "We should have told Meg days ago, Madame – we … we were some of the last people to see Elaine."
Yvonne was sobbing openly now, and clutched Belinda's hand as she continued. "Some of us went down into the cellars – it was Agnes Trevezant's idea, Madame! and many of us are more frightened of her than … than of the Phantom …" She took a deep breath and pressed on. "We had made it to the second cellar, and were about to go back; but Agnes threw Elaine's locket down the stairs into the third cellar, and dared Elaine to go after it."
"She did," Yvonne broke in, her voice thick with tears. "Elaine wasn't afraid of Agnes … she wasn't afraid of anything …"
"We waited at the top of the steps," Belinda continued, "and Elaine was calling up to us … but then we heard her scream …"
"She disappeared!" Yvonne bawled, near hysterics now. "The Phantom must have taken her!"
Christine struggled with the urge to grab and shake each girl in turn. "Why didn't you tell anyone before this?" she cried frantically.
"Agnes …" Yvonne blubbered.
Belinda hugged Yvonne distractedly. "Agnes said that Elaine was just playing … trying to show her up for making her go down all alone, and that we should just leave her to her game … but then, when Elaine never came back, she made us all swear not to tell!"
"But why should it matter what Agnes says?" Christine asked in amazement.
"Because she's Madame Trevezant's sister-in-law," Yvonne burst out, her guilt and misery dissipating in the face of her dislike for Agnes. "The managers do whatever Madame Trevezant tells them – and Agnes said she could have us all fired …"
Christine was flooded with mingled sensations of horror, anger and disgust. To think that such petty favoritism might have endangered her child … "There now, girls; I won't tell a soul what you've told me," she assured them, though the hand she placed on their shoulders was somewhat absent-minded. "Thank you for being truthful … you may go now …"
Relieved of their great burden of guilt, Yvonne and Belinda dried their eyes and scurried off towards their own dressing room. Meanwhile, Christine had all but forgotten her promise to Meg; only moments later she stood before the great mirror in the dusty old dressing room which had once belonged to her.
