Note: This chapter will be a little darker, since it's from the POV of Erik and not a nine year old girl. Oh, and when Erik talks about spending money, it's all the cash he saved from his salary over the years. (I'm assuming he didn't actually use all 20,000 francs each month. It's not like the guy had to pay rent or anything.)
Chapter 7: Promise Me You'll Try
I have hated many people in my life and loved only one.
But when I met that one, she promptly unleashed all the love, all the passion that I had never given or received in the first thirty seven years of my existence. For a mere existence it was; until I knew her I did not live. Yes, I think it is fair to say that I loved Christine Daae as much as any man has ever loved a woman. Perhaps some would say I loved her too much, but I could not help myself. I, who had always prided myself on the discipline and control with which I honed my mind and body, lost my head over a sixteen year old ballet dancer.
If she had been just a pretty girl with a pretty voice I would not have descended so easily into the madness. Indeed the opera house was teeming with alluring young things full of promise, but none of them affected me the way she did. No, what Christine possessed went far beyond good looks or talent. I have always believed that the true window to the soul lies not in the eyes, but in the voice, and Christine's voice, like her soul, was not of this earth.
She was so ethereal, so exquisite, that part of me could not blame her when she shrank from me. It was not just my abhorrent face that repelled her, but the intensity of my feelings. Perhaps if I had whispered pretty clichés into her ear or showered her with empty flattery the way that boy did, perhaps then I would not have frightened her away. Perhaps then I would not have had to watch the two of them sail off into the mist, my ears bleeding at the sound of their vows of love.
I did not let her go without regret. During those hours after she left with the boy, I lay in silent agony, hiding in a small, secret cave I had prepared in case my lair was ever breached. As I listened to the mob tearing apart my home, I thought how simple it would be to go out there and let them tear me apart, as well. I wanted to die. I wanted to stay down there in the dark and waste away until I was nothing.
It was one event and one event alone that saved me from death that night and in the weeks that followed: She had kissed me. Though I wore no mask and my hideous face lay bare for her to see, Christine did not hesitate, did not shudder in revulsion as she pressed her lips to mine. In that single moment, she touched something I hadn't even known I possessed.
My soul.
So in a strange way I began to live again, though it was an odd life even for me. No longer did I have an entire company of opera performers to terrify and command. I had to fend for myself, creeping out at night to steal what I required. Over the next few months, I took the supplies necessary to rebuild my pipe organ, fortify my home, and generally live in the style to which I had grown accustomed.
I developed a renewed interest in the affairs of the opera house. The twin dullards, André and Firmin, could not afford to rebuild after the fire, nor did they have any desire to do so, but they still hoped to make back some of their losses by selling the valuable property to anyone who would take it. That I could not allow. I would kill them both before I saw my beloved theatre used for anything less sacred than the opera.
I could not give my orders directly, as I had before, of course. Any hint of my continued occupation of the subbasements would only lead to further invasions of my privacy, so I had to invent new methods of persuasion. In a way, I enjoyed the challenge of imposing my will by more subtle means.
Blackmail proved to be my most effective weapon. Most wealthy men have a few unsavory secrets in their past and I paid huge sums to discover the secrets of any prospective buyer of whom I did not approve. I employed a corrupt, but discreet lawyer, with whom I communicated solely by letter, to inform these men that should they continue to pursue ownership of the Opera Populaire, then certain unpleasant facts would be made public.
My tactics were generally successful and the managers despaired of ever selling the opera house. The place had gained a reputation thanks to my tenure as O.G. and my current activities discouraged anyone reckless enough to disregard that reputation. Still, André and Firmin continued to scour the continent for a new owner, bringing in greater and greater fools to try to close the deal. As my savings began to dwindle, I realized that I had to find a suitable buyer, one who possessed the essential traits of wealth, taste, and, above all, an appreciation for the beauty of French opera.
Such a man was M. Hamilton, an American millionaire with the good sense to abandon his homeland for Paris as soon as he inherited his fortune. I first heard of him when I was listening to one of André and Firmin's tedious, though occasionally useful, conversations. The only room the idiots had bothered to repair following the fire was their own office, which meant that I could eavesdrop with great ease from beneath the well-concealed trapdoor.
"That's another buyer who's backed out at the last minute, Firmin! One would almost think this place was cursed," said André.
I smiled to myself. The buyer had been an insipid count who was not anxious for his family to learn of his penchant for women's clothing.
"I rue the day M. Lefevre ever mentioned his miserable theatre to us," said Firmin.
"Did you know that Lefevre was back in town?" asked André.
"No, where did you hear that?" said Firmin.
"I met the rascal at a dinner party, actually," said André. "Terrible, the people one meets in good company these days. I was cornered by some horrid American named Hamilton who wanted to talk opera with me. He actually had the nerve to say that Robert le Diable was an utter waste of time!"
Ah, here was a man after my own heart. I myself had always considered Meyerbeer to be sinfully overrated, his work cold, deliberate, and utterly devoid of passion. I liked this American already. He had to be rich if he was attending suppers with André and Lefevre. Further investigation assured me that Hamilton was the ideal candidate. But how could I convince him to buy the opera house?
The solution came to me one night while I was busy playing Chopin. The best way to petition a music lover is with music. I would write him a particularly astounding composition and then promise him more if he became owner of the Opera Populaire. It was not a foolproof plan, but I had enough faith in my own genius to feel tolerably certain of success. Rich men will go to a great deal of trouble to indulge in their favorite pursuits. The number of brothels in Paris was proof of that.
So I went to work composing a piano sonata for Hamilton. I barely slept or ate for ten days, but in the end I was satisfied with the result. I sent the finished piece, along with three hundred francs and certain instructions, to the pianist I knew Hamilton had hired to play at a luncheon he was hosting the following week. If all went as I intended, Hamilton would hear the sonata, read my note, and begin negotiations with André and Firmin.
The note was a rather astute piece of work in my opinion. It read as follows:
My Dear M. Hamilton,
Sir, you do not know me, but I have had the good fortune to hear of you. I am uncertain as to whether or not you are aware of the unfortunate circumstances that led to the lengthy closure of the famous Opera Populaire, but suffice it to say that the building has been up for sale for nine years and an appropriate purchaser must be found soon.
As former chief repetiteur of the opera house, I have a lingering interest in the fate of the theatre and I could not rest easily if I knew that I had failed to urge a true aficionado such as yourself to consider buying the place. I am taking the liberty to ask for your consideration only because I firmly believe that you have both the means and the inclination to acquire ownership.
As a token of my esteem I have sent along a bit of music I wrote in hopes of moving you to act. I would be happy to compose more should you come into possession of the opera house. Please sir, from one music lover to another, I beg you to reflect on my proposal.
Yours Respectfully,
M. Reyer
Since I happened to have heard from my managers that Reyer lay dying in a convalescent home in Switzerland, I knew that he could not interfere, and I hoped that my sonata would sufficiently impress Hamilton into ignoring any peculiarity in the application. I had appealed to his vanity, his largesse, and his fondness for music, now all I could do now was wait.
The day of the luncheon came and went and yet I heard nothing. I began to grow impatient. I even resorted to pounding out my own requiem on the organ, as I invariably did when I was in a black mood. I cursed the fact that I could not simply ask if M. Hamilton had expressed an interest in buying the opera house instead of being forced to skulk in the shadows picking up scraps of conversation like I really was a damned ghost. At last I heard news one day as I lay hidden beneath the manager's office.
"I say, André, do you think this Hamilton fellow is serious?" asked Firmin.
"As a matter of fact I do," replied André. "But can we accept his offer? There's bound to be a public outcry when it's discovered that the Opera Populaire has been sold to an American."
"Hang the public. They're not the ones paying the property taxes on this infernal place!" said Firmin.
There really is nothing like the feeling of a well-executed plot. I had to hold back the triumphant laugh that threatened to burst forth at any moment. Of course my plan had worked. How had I ever doubted it? I should never have underestimated the brilliance of my music.
The months of construction that followed were terribly disruptive, but I looked at them as a necessary evil, a mere bump on the Opera Populaire's road to restored glory. I sealed off every entrance to my home, save the one in the little chapel that I was certain no one could discover. At one point the incessant noise got to be so bad that I smashed a few ladders and tools in frustration, but for the most part I tried to control my temper. I spent the majority of my time below ground doing what I do best: composing and brooding.
For of course, as all this was going on, I had not forgotten about Christine. She was like oxygen to me, not necessarily something I thought about consciously, but a constant presence nevertheless, surrounding me and giving me life.
When I was in a particularly masochistic mood, I would sit at my organ and play the The Music of the Night, the song I had written just for her. I would recall the warm feeling of her in my arms, the distinct scent of her hair and skin, and the joy that filled her face as she let my voice entrance her with its beauty. All that was over now. I would never see her again. I am not ashamed to admit that I wept while singing and remembering our time together. It became a kind of test. Did the memory of her still have the power to reduce me to tears?
The answer was always yes and I took a perverse sort of pleasure in the suffering I inflicted on myself. It was rather like the brief phase I had gone through as boy when I used to take a knife and see how far I could plunge the blade into my flesh before I couldn't stand the pain. Those sessions with the knife had always left me aching and sore, much as my thoughts of Christine did now.
Still, I could not help but wonder how she fared in her new life. A year after she left, I learned that she had given birth to a girl and I felt an instant hatred toward this child that represented Christine's connection to that boy. Sometimes I tortured myself by picturing the three of them, sitting happily together, the boy's arm around her waist, the child on her knee. These visions always sent great waves of fury through me and led me to concoct elaborate plans for revenge that I knew I would never carry out.
I imagined slipping into their home and strangling the boy while he slept, so I could carry her off at my leisure. Or else I plotted to kidnap the child and ask for Christine's hand as ransom. Other times I thought I would waylay them when they were out for a drive in their carriage. I could easily shoot the boy and the driver and then ride off with Christine and her daughter. Oh yes, I had a hundred schemes to take her back, but in the end she came on her own.
It was a bitterly cold night toward the end of February. There was no performance that evening, so the opera house lay quiet and still. I sat at my organ, not really playing anything, just staring at the keys and contemplating the past. That's when I heard her singing, "Think of me, think of me fondly, when we've said goodbye. Remember me, once in a while; please promise me you'll try". I closed my eyes and enjoyed the sweet bliss of her voice that could move me so, even when it was just in my head.
For that could not really be her singing. It was a ruse, a trick my own mind played just to spite me. Yet, for some reason, I felt myself drawn out of my home and up to the little chapel where I first came to her as the Angel of Music. How long ago that all seemed now.
My mind was not yet done playing tricks on me. As I walked down the hidden passageway, I thought I saw a glimmer of light in the chapel, just as there had always been when she waited for her Angel to visit her.
I put my eye to the spyhole that allowed me to see, but not be seen. On the small altar sat a silver tinder box next to a white candle. That was real enough. But if the candle was real then who…
Christine.
In the dim candlelight I could see that she looked terribly pale and sickly. The shadows under her eyes, the gauntness of her cheeks, the way the gown hung loosely on her too-thin frame, all spoke of some ravaging illness. What has that boy been doing to her? I wondered. I'll kill him if he had a hand in this. But even as the anger coursed through my veins, I knew that her condition was not due to any mistreatment or neglect on his part. As much as I despised him, I knew the boy would never intentionally hurt her. It was rather unpleasant to realize that I had something in common with the Vicomte de Chagny.
But I was not wasting my thoughts on him, as I stood in the passageway and watched the shadows flicker across her haggard face. I could think of nothing but the impossible and glorious truth that lay before my eyes. She had returned to me.
"Christine, I love you," I sang softly.
Thanks to all who have reviewed! Please let me know if having an Erik chapter works with the story. I'm planning on having a Christine chapter next before going back to Lynette.
