A/N: OK, last chapter I said I only needed 3 more reviews to make a hundred…and now, the total is up to (drum roll please…) 132! Wow! My hat goes off to my loyal reviewers! Reaches up to head, then realizes there is no hat to remove Umm…yeah… Anywho, you people are inspirational; I love all the wonderful comments you make about my story! You're inflating my ego to about here… stretches arms out as far as physically possible
P.S:Lots of people have commented that they weren't sure if this story was over, that they didn't know if the chapter they had just read was my last. Don't worry; I promise you will know the ending when you come to it.
REMINISENCE
"We will be starting rehearsals for Romeo et Juliet this week…I allotted your parts during Faust, judging mainly by your performances." Monsieur LaFerve paced slowly back and forth in front of the cast as they stood, silent, watching as the manager looked over his list. He took out a packet of loose papers and began distributing them amongst the troupe. "The size of the role is dependent on the talent you portrayed last week…" LaFerve handed Christine her lines. "…or lack thereof…" he muttered in the direction of the small blonde chorus girl who stood beside her. The girl's cheeks blushed scarlet, and she hung her head.
Christine glanced down at her papers. Juliet had been printed in large, ornate script across the top. Smiling to herself, she flipped through the pages. As her lips mouthed the verses written on the paper, an unexpected throbbing erupted in her stomach, and Christine's hand flew to her abdomen, her face clenched in an expression of agonizing discomfort. The pain subsided shortly thereafter, as she knew it would. She closed her eyes, but a few moments later her eyelids flew open; she suddenly sensed the stare of an unseen person. Christine looked up sharply and was met with the sight of the Baron, who stood, motionless, in a theater box to her right. She promptly averted her gaze.
Christine had felt his eyes watching her numerous times, and each time, she found that she could not fight the chill that crawled up her spine, like icy fingers sneaking up her back.
Outwardly, the Baron de La Borderie seemed nothing out of the ordinary: light brown hair in natural tight curls atop his darkly tanned head, a thin mustache lining his upper lip. He was a bit bulky in his build, but quite tall, well over six feet. At first Christine could not decipher her unfounded suspicions, but when they had their first conversation, she understood.
He had been standing in the hall outside her dressing room after the last performance of Faust, a single white rose grasped in his hand. He held it out to her silently. "Your performance was unmatched, Mademoiselle." The Baron placed a gentle kiss on her knuckles. "Heaven bestowed upon you an unparalleled gift. You truly have the voice of an angel."
"Th-thank you, Baron. How kind of you to say so…" A blush crept up her cheeks.
"You must have an excellent teacher." The Baron's gaze was locked on Christine's face, his thumb passing lightly over the back of her hand. "He is quite fortunate to have such a remarkable student…one so talented, and uncommonly beautiful."
Hesitantly, Christine plucked her hand from his clutch, giving the Baron a brusque, uncoordinated curtsey. "You are too kind, Monsieur. I…I must be going. Good day."
It had been his eyes.
Unnerving calculation lay within the deep oceans of green-gray that lined the blackness of his pupil. In those moments, she had realized that his suave, debonair ambience was only hiding an alarmingly cold cleverness. Christine looked back up at the box, the figure in the shadows still gazing down at her. She turned back to her manuscript, but her eyes only skimmed the words. Her mind was somewhere else entirely…
"It's only for a few months, Erik."
He stood before Christine and Madame Giry, visibly debating with himself. "Could she not just wait a few more weeks? Romeo et Juliet is to be the next production, and Christine already has the lead role…"
Madame Giry shook her head. "Christine needs to stay out of the theater for a bit, Erik. Once she has the baby, she can return." She took Christine's hand and squeezed it tightly.
Christine's gaze dropped to the floor, her arm laying across her abdomen. "In the play, Juliet does not become pregnant, Erik. And I'm already showing a little," she murmured.
Erik sat down on the armchair across the room from the couch where the two women sat. Christine cast a pleading look at Madame Giry, who smiled gently and patted Christine's knee before standing and striding out of the room. Christine rose from her seat and walked over to Erik, sitting on her heels next to him. She took his hand and put it on her cheek, looking up at him, eyes wide. "Don't think for a moment that I want to leave the opera. But people will begin to ask questions…questions I am not prepared to answer."
"I need you to sing for me, Christine. When I listen to you sing, I feel as if I am back in Paris, back in my sanctuary, down in the vaults of the theater." He glanced up at her, his green-blue eyes sharp and direct. "In those six years when you forgot your voice, I nearly went mad." Sighing, he traced his finger down the length of her arm. "In fact, I think I did."
Christine simply watched him, conflicting emotions passing across his eyes. "I should go speak with Monsieur LaFerve." She gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. "I'll be back shortly." Throwing her black cloak over her shoulders, she took one last, fleeting look back at Erik. He sat motionless in the chair, watching the flames that danced in the fireplace.
Without another word, she disappeared out the door.
The edifice that stood in the center of the town was even more daunting at night when one was alone. Its profile was darkened against the blackening sky, and except for the few couples that walked the paths, leisurely strolling in their wistful lovers mindset, the streets were empty.
Christine looked up at the granite columns, the ambiance of the place astonishingly different from that of the Opera Populaire. A cold, wintry breeze caused her skirt to swell up, becoming a swirl of scarlet around her ankles. She clutched her shawl to her shoulders tightly, mentally cursing herself for coming this late at night. Stepping up the staircase nimbly, she pulled open the large wooden door and stepped inside.
Instead of the lavish golden archways and bright marble flooring, Christine was met with the sight of dark crimson carpeting, deep red wooden walls, and sinister portraits of scenes from a variety of gothic plays. She paused only for a moment, glancing up at the depiction of what appeared to be the Lair of Satan. The flames of Hell crept up the side of the picture, surrounding the bodies of its naked victims in a disquieting portrayal of the Devil's torture chamber. Christine's mouth melted into a grimace, and she turned away.
Monsieur LaFerve's office was a level above the main entranceway. She had little difficulty finding it, even in the mounting darkness of the passages. As she drew near to the office, Christine saw the faint, flickering glow of candlelight glimmering from the space beneath the door. "Monsieur LaFerve?" she called, knocking on the door lightly. It was pushed open beneath the weight of her hand, and she stepped inside hesitantly.
The room was furnished as the rest of the theater was: dark, dismal, and strangely enigmatic. Burgundy drapes lined the pitch-black windows, an unlit fireplace sat, vacant of flames, behind the desk before her. A deep mahogany grandfather clock reigned majestically against the wall; its chimes began ringing the nine o'clock hour, the sound deep and echoing. A candle rested in a deep bronze candelabra on Monsieur LaFerve's counter.
But his chair was empty.
"Monsieur LaFerve?"
A low, resounding thud echoed from behind her, the resonance of heavy glass hitting a wooden floor.
"Monsieur…?"
Erik had not picked up the violin in well over a decade. For a moment, he simply stared at it, watching the gleam of rich red wood against the candlelight. Lifting the instrument underneath his chin, he brought the bow to the strings. The music that filled the air was bittersweet, haunting, and he closed his eyes, his lips parted. Each note, singing its own story, weaving a tale of heartbreak and sorrow. How his soul had longed for this moment…
The candlelight glimmered in the darkness, his white porcelain mask gleaming from out of the shadows. He sighed in absolute rapture, his breathing arduous and labored. The loose, flowing white shirt that covered his torso had been unbuttoned down to the beginning of his breast, the skin of his chest glistening with sweat. Beads of perspiration shimmered on his forehead, dripping into his eyes, but he did not notice. He was too enthralled in the sweet anticipation…
Slowly, the ambiance of the melody began to change. Faster and faster…the dancing flames of the candle seemed to quicken with the growing aggressiveness of the song. With fierce, violent assertiveness, Erik assaulted the violin with his bow, his arm moving up and down wildly. Here the sire may serve the dam, here the master takes his meat…
Don Juan Triumphant had never sounded so flawless to his ears. The lone, unaccompanied violin, playing out the tragedy of the song…it was perfect, it was right. It was as if Erik had been reunited with a long-lost friend, the tune caressing his spirit, pure and utter ecstasy coursing through his veins. You will have to pay the bill- tangled in the winding sheets…
And then he had come to Aminta. The key signature changed and heightened an octave. Aminta. The pure, innocent girl corrupted by the conniving, manipulative Don Juan, singing of her thoughts of joy and dreams of love. Beautiful, childlike, untainted…a delicate rose surrounded by a field of thorns. Erik swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat and continued on. You have come here…in pursuit of your deepest urge…
"In pursuit of that wish, which till now, has been silent…
Silent…"
Erik murmured the words, his voice rasping and hoarse, his lips scarcely moving as he sang. His mind drifted from the music he played, floating to the far corners of his dark memory…to the moment in which he had realized that he had subconsciously created Aminta in the image of Christine, to the instant of understanding that had cut Erik's breath short.
"And now I am here with you, no second thoughts…
I've decided…
Decided…"
It had been her point of no return. When she stepped away from her childhood and became a woman…became his… Past all thought of right or wrong… He had seen a certain glint in her eyes, something he had never before in his life seen. She had chosen; there were no influences in her decision. He had seen it in her eyes. And God, how he had loved it.
His hands ached to touch her, to hold her, to feel her skin beneath his fingertips. When they had reached the top of the catwalk, the notions that had run through his head had shocked him, but excited him at the same time. They were thoughts he had never imagined himself perceiving…thoughts of joy, dreams of love. But this was quite unlike the love that had filled Aminta's mind…oh yes, much different. The feelings consumed him, along with the passionate inferno that surrounded them. He was so close…so very close…
The song that poured from the violin reached its climax, Erik's soul pouring into the music that filled the room. The bridge is crossed, so stand and watch it burn…we've passed the point of no return…
It was meant to be over…meant to end with that chilling tone, as the audience watched Don Juan and Aminta cross their bridge and pass their point. But the song had flown past his lips, unexpected and unplanned. Lead me, save me from my solitude… No, you fool, that had been Christine's song of devotion for her lover! It had been their song! How much torture must a heart endure?
"Christine, that's all I ask of…"
Tears flowed from Erik's eyes and dripped onto the violin as it held that note, the music dying away, diminishing into the night.
"…you…"
