Danielle was busy that evening helping Anne McTalley, the other housemaid, cook supper. The Québec air outside was rapidly cooling off from the delightful warmth of the daylight hours to a wintry bite. Soon after Gaston and Danielle had returned to Westmount, Professor Lequesne came home from McGill University down on Rue Sherbrooke.

Professor Edmond Lequesne was a gentleman a few years over Gaston's age, who cut a rather imperial figure in his suit, with an aquiline profile, and well-combed, thinning hair. If his eyes would have been sharp or cruel, he would have retained the air of a hunting hawk. But there was a gentle kindness around him that made him popular with the students; an easygoing attitude that was wonderful in a teacher.

Gaston immediately rose from his seat, and cleared his throat, beginning, "Monsieur, I wish first of all to thank you for the hospitality of your home, and to apolo--"

The master of the house took Gaston's outstretched hand in a gruff-but-friendly handshake. "Make no mistake, Monsieur Leroux, you are most welcome here."

"I--well, merci." Gaston smiled. "I assume your wife has spoken of me?"

"I have heard much," the professor answered with a chuckle. "Amanda told me you are researching for a new novel?"

"Oui," the author replied, seeking in his writer's litany for a suitable explanation. Should he mention the ghosts? The Opera? The de Chagny case? In the end, he settled with a simple sentence. "I am writing the story of the Phantom of the Opera."

Edmond Lequesne's mellow smile fell. More sternly, he said, "So you say you're writing a story about le Fantôme, eh? Have you spoken with any of the eyewitnesses to the chandelier incident?"

Gaston raised his eyebrows in surprise at the man's sharp turn in mood. "No, Monsieur. It's as though they fear speaking of it."

The tall, thin man nodded. "Come with me. Let us go to the study to discuss more of this."


Down the hall of the first floor was the Professor's office. It was rather small, large enough for a decent-sized desk, two chairs, a lamp, a shelf of books, and a Degas-styled oil painting of ballerinas. He gestured to the brown leather chair, and started, "Do you know what I teach, Monsieur Leroux?"

"No," Gaston answered honestly, taking his seat, and watching M. Lequesne sit comfortably behind his desk.

"Music." He pushed aside a pile of paperwork, revealing a black violin case that had lain beneath them. "But I haven't always worked as such. Once, I was merely a young boy with a violin, under the tyrannous tutelage of Georges Reyer at the Paris Opéra."


Edmond Lequesne was a young, bright-eyed boy with a beak-like nose and curly russet hair. He had an easy smile, and an attitude to match. He was always early for rehearsals, and practised meticulously on his new violin, a gift from his wealthy English grandmother. Reyer would never admit it, but he was pleased well with Edmond; the boy was a very promising performer, who took to Faust like a canard to water.

Outwardly, he scoffed at the stories that Buquet told the ballet rats; all of those living under Garnier's opulent and awe-inspiring roof knew of the infamous Ghost. The management spoke little of the whole affair, but did not hesitate to leave a monthly salary in his private box. Edmond's friend Pierre regularly made fun of the uptight and stuffy Lefèvre behind his back.

The stories the staff told each other were fantastic accounts of well-dressed skeletons, echoing footsteps, and strange voices. Of faces framed with fire, and demons guarding the furnaces, that the very foundation of the Opera reached into Tartarus, and the Ghost had escaped and made his home in the cellars deep down below. Few ever dared venture deeper than the tiny chapel underground. And even then, only the devout or the fearless. Inwardly, he shivered when alone in the dark, and took to frequently looking over his shoulder.

And then, his idyllic life at the opera house abruptly changed. Edmond had paid little attention to the new managers, or the triumph of a chorus girl. But at the turn of the new year, Reyer handed him a strange score. He read the title:

Don Juan Triumphant.

Inside, the music was twisted every way. Notes climbed and plunged over the lines like an intricate design, and a scrawling hand had written the lyrics of the libretto. He read them easily in conjunction with the music's melody; it was searingly passionate, and more complicated than any other piece Edmond had ever tried to play.

He didn't know Christine Daaé. Not before the opening of Hannibal, and not after, either. She was destined for the stage, after all, and he, for the orchestra pit. He only saw her during rehearsals once or twice. But one night, as he passed the dressing room that had formerly been that of La Carlotta, he heard her pretty voice singing quietly:

I remember
There was mist...

Her song stopped him in his tracks. He listened through the cherry-painted French doors.

I used to dream he'd appear;
Here in this room he called me softly,
Somewhere inside, hiding
In this darkness which I know I cannot fight,
The darkness of the Music of the Night.

Can I ever forget that sight?
I can't escape from him,
I never will!

But his voice filled my spirit with a strange, sweet sound:
In the night there was music in my mind...
And through music my soul began to soar,
And I heard as I never heard before.
Yet in his eyes, all the sadness of the world...
Those pleading eyes that both threaten and adore.

I know I can't refuse;
He is all that matters--
Wishing I could hear his voice again;
He alone can make my soul take flight.

But just as he was about to knock and politely inquire upon her, he heard footsteps. They sounded as if they were directly behind him. He spun around, and his eyes darted over the corridor.

No one was there. But the footsteps continued. He heard them pause in just the same spot where he was standing, then, continue and make the turn.

Edmond hurried away to his chamber that night.

After months of practise, it was the opening night of Don Juan.


Edmond rose, and began to pace the hardwood floor. "If I live to be one hundred, I shall never forget the one and only--albeit incomplete--performance of Don Juan Triumphant! The police blocked every exit. They were plotting to catch the Phantom, whom everyone now knew was a living man who dwelled underground. The opera patrons were bewildered by the barricade. I was a lesser violinist of the orchestra, mind you. The overture was ...like something you hear in a dream. Impossible to comprehend, yet somehow you understand inside. And then there was the plotting of Don Juan to seduce Aminta, an innocent serving girl, by a trading of identity...a masquerade, of sorts. Signor Ubaldo Piangi disappeared behind the back curtain, and never emerged again. Mlle Daaé entered. She sang a lovely phrase...then Don Juan re-entered from the other side."

Gaston leaned closer. "Did you not just say that Piangi would never--?"

"At his first note, I knew it was not the stout little Italian. I could not see him clearly, as I was deep in the orchestra pit, but I heard him. His tenor was full and commanding in its raw passion. The composer had stripped away the excessive dramatics of opera, and laid out a haunting song of pure desire. As if such a song was the closest he could ever come to the sensation of making love. Denying a denial.

"But most shocking, of course, was Aminta's response.

"Her voice reciprocated Don Juan's passion note for note. It was truly amazing to hear innocent Mlle Daaé sing so rapturously. No amount of acting skill could have produced such a transformation, Monsieur. I never said anything afterward, but I believe ... she must have had a love affair with him."

Edmond paused. More hesitantly, he spoke again. "Then, the man's voice sang out of the libretto. We were confused. He sang so softly, but then his voice swelled with power, but it was also like a plaintive cry: Anywhere you go, let me go, too! Christine, that's all I ask of-- And then, chaos began. I could see Reyer's face, twisted in horror. The audience released a collective gasp. Later, I was told stories of how Mlle Daaé pulled off Don Juan's black mask and wig, and the face beneath was horrendously disfigured. I never saw it myself, though." He frowned. "They said it was like a skull with strips of rotting flesh hanging from bare white bone. A sunken eye... one man I knew even claimed that he had no nose! " He shook his head dubiously. "I heard the chandelier before I saw it coming down toward us. I dropped my violin; the two hundred kilo chandelier was crashing down upon the pit! I struggled against the paralyzing panic, and grabbed my score and violin, out of habit. I had been seated near the center of the pit, and as I tore from my seat, the impact just missed me. The chair where I'd been, however, was smashed and burned. The flames pursued me, but I ran. They licked at my legs and back. But I made it backstage, dropping my violin, but tucking the score into a pocket.

"Soon enough, in the pandemonium backstage, the actors, stagehands, and others were forming a mob to track down the murderer who had killed Joseph Buquet and Ubaldo Piangi. Before I could think for myself, I had a torch in my hand, and we were madly running down farther and farther into the depths of the opera house. Past the backdrop store, the fourth cellar, the fifth ... We reached the subterranean lake, and finally found an enormous cavern: a grotto carved out of the rock, if you will. Amazed, we found a full pipe organ, a bed shaped like a swan framed with lace curtains, an open coffin, a bizarre wax figure... and the mirrors. Dozens of large mirrors in gilded frames. All smashed and broken."

All these things Gaston pictured as they had been in his dream. He clung to Lequesne's colloquial words; another piece of the odd puzzle, the strange affair, was falling into place. But before he could say anything, Edmond finished his story.

"But what of the man we had been seeking so desperately? Not a trace. Some people I saw take some things, but I touched nothing. It was like desecrating a pharaoh's sacred tomb. I don't know how those modern explorers do it. It felt cold and-and cursed there, like a mockery of life. Most of us left directly. And I, for one, never set foot back inside the Opéra after that night. I left the next day for England."

"You know it is restored," Gaston said tentatively. "Much of its former grandeur--has returned."

Edmond spared a glance at Gaston, brow raised, at the hitch in his voice. "Has it returned, indeed?"

From a locked drawer, Lequesne pulled a thin sheaf of parchment. As Gaston looked closer, he saw that some of them were half-burned, some scorched, some still smelling of fire. But the title was still clear on the top page: Don Juan. The retired musician handed the pages to the writer wordlessly.

The author made no answer, but stared down at the sheet music in his hands, reading the lyrics beneath the lines and notes. "I know little of musical notation, sir."

"Let me play it for you, then." Edmond deftly opened the black case, and removed his violin. After a few practise notes drawn out with the bow, he shut his eyes, and pulled the bow across the strings. Instantly, music flowed from the instrument, warm and golden.

Gaston listened, and felt himself slip away, just like when the man's voice sang from Romeo et Juliette. Intoxicated and mesmerized, he could only listen as the music wove a silken web around him. He could almost hear the lyrics, written upon the half-burned libretto:

Past all thought of "If" or "When,"
No use resisting!
Abandon thought and let the dream descend...


-


Authors Note: I hate this chapter so much! It took forever to write, and I know it sucks. My muse Henry took an unannounced vacation. -growls- The next chapter will be much better, I promise, my dears.