Gaston, who considered himself a widely-traveled man, still thrilled at the sensation of crisp sea air against his face. He stood upon the starboard deck of the Sarah-Emmeline, a relatively-small French passenger liner bound for Québec. The afternoon was bright; the sky fair and cloudless, and the sea was calm. Craning his neck toward the east, he squinted through his spectacles, looking for land. The shores of Europe had vanished. For several minutes, Gaston imagined himself an explorer back in the fifteenth century, destined for the New World, a vast tract of mysterious land; with an endless horizon before him. But happy chatter and feminine laughter broke his reverie. He was on a steamer past the turn of the twentieth century, that was steadily gliding across the Atlantic Ocean. Within a week or so, he would be in Montréal.
The Sarah-Emmeline was very comfortable, with a sense of Parisian elegance. He had a humble stateroom, and easily adjusted to life on board the ship. He ate dinner quietly in the dining room, occasionally striking up casual conversations with other passengers, discussing current events, businesses, Canada, and other things. A few spoke of his literary ambitions, mentioning their enjoyment of his novels. This gratified his ego, and put a satisfied spring in his step when he strolled the promenade deck.
After dinner, he donned his hat and warm coat against the cold Atlantic wind. He had been writing nonstop during the voyage thus far; combing his memory for his lost portfolio contents, taking down commentary on Danielle's tale, attempting to piece together a narrative. And when the sea rocked him gently to sleep, he fell into a dreamless torpor. The night-visions of walking corpses, crushed roses, broken mirrors, and the like had simply vanished. And part of him was grateful for it.
Gaston politely tipped his hat when he passed others, but for the most part, few passengers took the air on the boat deck at night. They retired to their chambers, socialized in the smoking room, and kept warm against the evening chill. Though it was early spring, the morning and nightfalls still clung to winter's frost. Taking even steps, he had almost reached the bow when he felt the peculiar sensation he associated with his haunting encounters. Yet it was different from the opera house and the graveyard. For, even when angry and manipulative, the Opera Ghost always had something vulnerable beneathher anger, in her eyes. But this, this was not melancholy or pleading...this was truly threatening.
Danger.
One word filled Leroux's mind as he turned sharply and headed for the bridge. On his way, he pondered what to tell the crew: "There's a ghost that has followed me here and is going to do something terrible"? He stopped, and actually laughed out loud, hoping no one could hear him.
Danger, Gaston. The warning came again.
He was utterly ambivalent. Did he dare spread the warning? Or was his imagination getting the best of him?
Dear God, am I going mad?
The thought was cold and sharp as an icicle, cutting into him. Was he the one gone mad, imagining a Ghost when there was truly nothing but a creature of the imagination of the artists, the superstition of the managers, or a product of the absurd and impressionable brains of the young ladies of the ballet, their mothers, the box-keepers, the cloak-room attendants, or the concierge. For several moments, he was paralyzed by doubt, a cloud of choking skepticism and self-berating.
This was interrupted when suddenly, the boat lurched to a halt. All of the electric lights went out, and the familiar hum of the engines stopped. Gaston swiftly changed his mind, and ran. But when he reached the bridge, he flattened himself against the wall adjacent to the port exit.
There was a flurry of activity inside the bridge; officers and other confused crewmen were bustling back and forth, snapping and taking orders, relaying their reports. The reporter listened to snippets:
"—still pumping coal—"
"—no response—"
"—looking into it now, sir!"
"—très bizarre, si tu me demande—"
"What's going on?"
"—the circuits yet?"
"Where's Desmarais, the mechanic?"
"— we drop anchor?"
"No, of course not! This will be fixed in no time."
"—them not to panic, we're—"
"Go check on the state of things in the engine room, Robert."
"Aye, sir!"
And with that, a lesser officer moved out with a purposeful stride, nearly plowing into Gaston. He said, "Monsieur, you should not be out here."
Gaston cut him off with, "What has happened, Monsieur?"
"Nothing major, sir. We are just experiencing some, ah, mechanical difficulties. Please return to your room and remain calm."
"Certainly," answered Gaston neutrally, watching the officer head off.
He followed him.
Gaston moved stealthily; he hadn't become a front-page scoop reporter for nothing. Officer Robert kept a brisk pace, but Gaston trailed his footsteps down the stern stairwell, a very plain and confined-feeling series of flights that led down the decks, becoming more and more spartan, finally simply plates of white metal bound in bolts and rivets. Robert paused before a forbidding door, before pulling it open firmly, and slipping in. This was the engine room, usually blasting the noise of the machinery bustling. Now, it was very quiet, save for a few men's distant voices shouting.
He drew a few breaths before trying the door himself. It was heavy, but it opened.
Inside, it was vast and dark, save for a few lantern lights. Gaston peered around, holding on tightly to a hand rail on either side of him, keeping his footsteps light and soundless.
A voice echoed up from all around him, Fate links thee to me for ever and a day!
He shivered; but then, feverish realization hit him like a two hundred kilo chandelier:
This was not a woman's voice—this was a man's voice!
It was a male voice, a soulful tenor singing the Wedding-night Song from Romeo and Juliet. Gaston had never heard anything in his life so irresistibly triumphant, so indescribably passionate. But simultaneously, he heard tones of forsaken yearning and bitter rage. While the Opera Ghost's voice enchanted him, this voice seemed to place him in an unbreakable trance. Without thinking or feeling, he moved deeper and deeper into the heart of the ship, forgetting about the crew, the cold sea, or being seen. The man's voice continued.
But something was stirring in Gaston; his mind was wildly trying to assert itself over the dreamlike state. Then, full of vibrato and a pitch to shatter glass, he heard:
FATE LINKS THEE TO ME FOR EVER AND DAY!
This voice he knew. It was hers. And the man's voice was silent, as if listening, before a resigned whisper brushed Gaston's ear: You have brought me to that moment when speech disappears into silence...silence...
And the electric lights snapped back on. Gaston blinked as the engines started up again.
"You! Monsieur! What are you doing here!" demanded the furious voice of Oscar Desmarais, the grease-stained chief mechanic.
Gaston looked down at him blankly. The journalist stood on the brink of falling off the suspended pathway into the abyss of whirling steel and iron.
