After leading him out of the grand hotel, and into the chilly evening, Danielle walked with Gaston down the Rue Ste-Catherine to a quiet café, where they found a secluded table to set down their steaming cups. She stirred her coffee placidly, and said one word: "Tell."
Gaston had to admit it: Danielle was an excellent listener. Her eyes remained fastened to him as he carefully poured out his tale, beginning with the old stories he'd heard in his years as a drama critic, stories that the old theatre attendants shared in hushed whispers. That the newly-reopened Opera Populaire was cursed. That before it was burned, there was a horrific ghost that frightened the staff. That his realm of terror lay beneath, in the deepest cellars. That he had murdered an innocent scene-shifter and a singer. The prospect of a murderous spectre had intrigued Gaston, who immediately looked up every case of ghost research that he could, all publicly dismissed as fantasy crock. Ignoring the social brands, he read that most spirits were simply the dead who had left unfinished business in life. The need to fulfill a broken vow. After that, he had begun to frequent the Opera Populaire itself, undercover, striking up casual conversations with the performers, the attendants, and the residents. Long-passed-down tales filled his ear; of a man with a hideous face living in the cold, dank cellars, posing as a ghost. Of the sudden withdrawal of the opera's rising star to a noble's estate. Of the chandelier's fall. And the fire. There were no doubts any longer. These ghosts that had followed—or led?—him to Montréal were the key players in that story. But what were they doing still haunting the theatre, still haunting him?
"I don't know," he murmured helplessly. "I don't know what—"
"They want to be together," Danielle interrupted softly, every word deliberate and sure.
Gaston stared. Of course. Something his heart knew from the moment he saw her in the decaying dressing room; something his investigator's mind hadn't realized.
" 'I promised you I would return, mon ange,' " Gaston whispered. "She couldn't in life, so after death..."
"She fulfilled her promise," Danielle finished, still looking troubled. "But, then, why does she linger?"
"She's still not free. There's something else keeping her here. But what?"
Danielle only shook her head, staring down into her cup of coffee.
That night, a vivid dream visited the guest bedroom of the Lequesne household.
Darkness. Complete and utter blackness surrounded him. Then—
"—In your soul that the true distortion lies," her voice sang distantly.
And he watched what happened, with an odd, trance-like focus. The young Vicomte tied to the portcullis with a noose around his neck. The beautiful singer in a magnificent wedding gown. And the man he could only identify as the Phantom. His dark hair abruptly stopped growing on the right side of his head, where the scalp looked scarred. There was a small lump above his ear, and deep ridges ran across his cheek and jaw. The side of his nose was malformed, and a large bag lay beneath his drooping right eye.
Gaston could only watch as the Vicomte choked and gasped for air when the Phantom gave the rope he clutched a sharp tug. He could only watch as the ingenue betrayed both men that night. She told the nobleman she loved him, but her actions spoke otherwise. Gaston watched in wonder as she kissed the disfigured man, her hand reaching up to caress his deformed face. He knew it was a moment between lovers. Finally, he watched as the Phantom freed the others, stumbling blindly and sobbing.
Gaston saw a curious music box, shaped like a barrel organ, sculpted from papier-mâché, with a heavy, black monkey figurine perched upon the top. The monkey was dressed in fancy scarlet Persian robes, a turban on its head. It held shining brass cymbals in its paws, and swayed as it played.
He sat slouched, unspoken hopelessness weighing down upon his shoulders. Almost child-like, he stared at the music box, as if mesmerized by its whimsical, rhythmic chiming, listening. Then, he sang in a broken whisper; and Gaston felt his heart break.
Masquerade... paper faces on parade... Masquerade... hide your face so the world will never find you...
As his sorrowful song ended, he looked up to see her standing a few yards away, pity and sadness on her face. But something else, too; something more like a plea. A flickering flame of hope glimmered in his storm-green eyes as she slowly moved toward him. For just a moment, Gaston thought, please just stay with him. But instead, she pried off the enormous diamond ring, revealing a plain gold band beneath it. She took his hand, and placed the glittering engagement ring in his palm, closing his fingers around it with her own small ones. He quickly brought up his other hand to clasp hers desperately.
She froze, and let out a tiny, choked cry: I—I can't. Erik, please...
Shh, he replied gently. Christine, you are free. But promise me one thing...
Anything, my Angel.
I want you to promise me you'll come back... His thumb stroked her hand gently, a reassurance to her unspoken question. When I'm dead. You'll see it in the Epoque, and you'll find me right here; just bury me...with this ring, that, until then, you will wear.
I... She visibly suppressed a sob, her eyes never leaving his.
Promise me, Christine. His haunted face and voice were so imploring that her eyes filled with fresh tears.
I promise, she murmured, almost too softly to hear. I will come back, Erik. I will.
Christine, he sang tenderly, full of longing, I love you...
He pressed a gentle kiss to the ring on her finger, then she slipped her hands from his, and turned away. He released a tremulous sigh, and shut his eyes; two tears tracked down his face, one over skin clear and smooth, the other tracing over marred flesh.
The next morning, Gaston didn't see the bright springtime sunlight. He sat in a dark cloud, scribbling in his notebook for hours. There were countless marks in the margins where he had transcribed the events of his dream. He strained his mind for every last detail of the cavernous grottoes, the expressions exchanged. He was late for breakfast; Madame Lequesne had gone early to call upon her friends, and her husband was already back at work at the university. But Danielle and Anne had been kind enough to save him some scraps: a hunk of baguette, fresh cheese, and a few apples. Yet his appetite, usually voracious, was utterly sapped.
He was clumsily attempting notate the musical tones of the voices he'd heard when Danielle entered, picking up the carpets to shake out from the second-story balcony. She was in her usual maid's cap and apron, and showed only faint signs of wear from the masquerade's late night.
"I will bring down my mother's heirloom from the de Chagny estate now, Monsieur." He nodded, not bothering to watch her move quietly up the staircase.
Anne came in and brought him a cup of hot black coffee. He thanked her, and breathed in the rich, delicious aroma. His pulse picked up in anticipation as the steam warmed his face. Then, footsteps hurriedly made their way down the foyer stair.
Danielle had come down from the attic. But her haggard expression was not promising. Her eyes were wide, and alarm was etched across her face.
"It's gone," she said, her voice cracked.
"What is?" he asked groggily, struggling to sit up straighter.
"Madame Christine's wedding gown! It's gone!"
-
Note: The ending part here was revised. Thanks Aliiak for pointing that out. Like I said, it was put together really quickly. Nade: schoolwork's such a pain, hmm?
