Another chapter, and this one I like forits' ending. Thank you for all the ideas and reviews. I believe you can tell when I use one of your ideas, for example: a chapter or two ago someone told me it would be funny if the Vicomte saved the day, and in some ways he did. He found out about Celui, which will come up later, hopefully. And someone else-or maybe the same person!-told me it would be intersting to see Christine as the "bad guy." And I'll use more of the ideas you give me, if you just give 'em to me! Enough with the idle chit-chat though! On with the story! On with the plot!

When Erik woke the next morning, a note was resting on top of his chest. He looked down at it, very confused-and unhappy.

"Damn," he half cursed, half yawned. "How does this person keep evading me? In my own home!"

He sat up-still in Elsa's bed-and stared at the note and its' seal. It was a large, golden oval, with a G in scrolled lettering. He looked at it again. A G? But...Celui is spelled with a C...He frowned and turned over the letter. Opera Ghost was scribbled in crude, black script.

"This better be an apology note," Erik said to himself, tearing the seal.

Opera Ghost,

Are you yet willing to hand over the Opera Populaire to me? If not...Well, you know how these kidnappings go. Either give me what I want, or I'll...dispose of her. Meet me at the Arc de Triomphe during the midnight hour of tomorrow night. Just me and you. No one else.

Celui

Erik ran a hand over his eyes and placed the note back in its' envelope, sighing.

"Fine," he muttered. "Fine."

He placed his mask back on his face-last night he had cried so uncontrollably, he had to take it off, or drown in his tears. He hadn't ceased thinking of her, and he still couldn't put her from his mind. But had he even been trying in the first place?

He got up and went straight to his piano. These recent tribulations gave him a good excuse to compose. He exhaled, sitting down at the bench, and placed his fingers thoughtfully on the ivory keys. A moment of reflection, and he began to play.

The beginning evoked soft, melancholy sounds, almost whispers. He smiled grimly and paused to write the notes on some spare parchment. He began again, varying his soft and slow rhythm to a louder, harsher piece; then back to calm and so on.

Erik spent the entire day at his piano, writing the music that so mirrored his ever changing emotions. He worked so intently and poured so much of his soul into the pages and pages of music, the whole of the opera house heard him working, and anyone who listened even for a small time, felt some form of sentiment flow through them-whether it was anger, sorrow, love or determination.

When half past 11 o'clock approached, Erik rose somberly from his piano, slightly stiff from his nonstop creative endeavor, yet still satisfied with his accomplishments. Drained of much of his strength as he was, he decided to get cleaned up before his appointment with Celui. He was soon ready to leave, and, giving a last glance to the sheets of newly written music stacked in the stand, the melody still embedded in his mind for it reminded him of her, Erik left for the Arc de Triomphe.

He was ten minutes early and was careful not to be seen right away. He consequently disguised himself against the Napoleonic monument's shadow, looking around for a sign of Celui...

Celui appeared a few minutes after Erik had, but on the opposite side of the street of the Arc de Triomphe. He too hid himself in the blackened shade of night, waiting for the arranged time before he would expose himself.

But Celui had already caught the attention of Erik's night-sensitive eye. Making sure to ignore him, Erik stood erectly beside the Arc, waiting for his adversary to make the first move.

The Notre Dame tower bells rang out the midnight hour.

"You were early, Phantom," Celui sighed behind Erik.

"And you arrived after me, but chose to conceal yourself until now. Why?" Erik asked cooly.

Celui-Gaston, remember-clenched his jaw shut, realizing Erik had witnessed his advent. He reprimanded himself silently, for being so dull.

"So, Phantom," Celui said, putting the mistake behind him and leaning against the Arc. "Are you willing, as I previously inquired, to hand over the Populaire?"

"I am not," Erik said simply. "But I do expect her to be returned to me tomorrow evening at the edge of the lake."

Celui scoffed. "Tomorrow evening?"

"9 o'clock, to be precise."

"And if I do not comply?" he spat.

"Have you ever heard of a thing called a Punjab lasso?" Erik asked quietly.

At this, a noose settled and tightened around Celui's thin neck. Celui grasped at the rope, trying to loosen it's grip, but Erik's gloved hand pried them away, then made it even more constricting.

"Do we understand each other yet?" Erik said dangerously, giving another tug to his favorite device.

Celui glared at Erik. Damn! he cursed his folly. Punjab Lasso! How could I forget to keep my hand at the level of my eyes?

"You come alone, Phantom," Celui said, making his words as connected as he was able with the influence of the noose. "And perhaps I'll give her to you. She'll be there, and so will the papers to the opera house."

Erik stared coldly at him, his breaths coming short; the low temperature causing them to form a veil before his mouth.

"Or I can kill you now-" Erik growled, and gave another erratic pull, causing Celui to gasp angrily.

"And then you'll never find her, and if ever you do, it will be too late!" he choked and laughed at the same time.

Erik freed him from the Punjab Lasso, pushing him away from himself.

"I'll be there at 9, Phantom of the Opera, don't you worry," Celui said reassuringly. "And by the way; do you know who initially helped me in my work?" he referred to his vandalisms and kidnapping.

Erik gave no reply. Whoever it was would soon to pay-whoever it was.

"You'll never believe me," he chuckled. "So I won't give away the name. But I will say this: she was once very close to your heart!" He laughed coldly, almost shrieking the noise, then disappeared into the darkened city of Paris.

Erik scowled disbelieving and yet, somehow believing at the same instant. Christine! The only woman ever close to his heart. Not even his own mother reserved a place there. No one had; not until Christine. But then even she had destroyed that situation and left him utterly empty.

But the Elsa had come, and he began to feel whole again. And she, by some miracle, had even more in common with him than just the passion for music. She had his entire heart and would, he knew, forever, no matter what would become of the two. Even if Elsa was suddenly taken back to the place she had come from to begin with-

His heart gave a sudden violent lurch, and dropped within his chest as he thought of what he would do if she was taken away from him so suddenly. He knew what he would do. He would die. He would die of love...He loved her so! And he would love her still, even after his dying day; after his death on the shores of his lake home, surely.

He sighed and then gazed up at the pale, waxing Parisian moon, deciding upon a walk before he returned home. His pace was slow and speculative; almost resentful, but indeed remorseful. If he just hadn't left her alone that night...

It wouldn't be until many hours later, almost when the first rays of the sun touched the horizon, that Erik, the Phantom of the Opera-a living ghost as some would call him-returned to his home beneath the Opera Populaire.

I am quite pleased with this chapter! The paragraphdealing with Erikdying out of love for Elsa was an homage to Gaston Leroux's book, chapter entitled The End of the Ghost, when Erik tells the daroga of his extreme love for Christine.

Also, I hope you guys can see that I rarely repeat words in my chapters, and I was wondering if that was a weird thing, or if it made the overall reading "funner" ? As Mark Twain once said: If you use the same word more than once, you're boring! So I was tryin' to live up to Mr. Twain's "philosophy", one of which I highly admire!

I hope you guys liked it! Review if you would!