Chapter Nineteen - Still Here
The very public death of Joseph Buquet in the middle of a popular opera had not benefited the Opera Populaire.
Hoping to recapture the confidence of the audience, Messieurs Andre and Firmin had made certain that year's Masked Bal would be the most magnificent one in years.
Meg and Christine spent hours with the seamstresses, excitedly choosing their gowns.
Christine was going as a rose and had selected a dress of the most delicate shade of pink, all trimmed with lace and crystals.
Meg would go as a swan, in shimmering white satin. It would contrasted with her mother's black costume with its Oriental trim.
In all those weeks since they had shared café au lait and pastries, Christine never again mentioned her engagement. She kept the Vicomte's ring well hidden.
As the day of the ball neared and the wardrobe rooms became cluttered with masks of every description, Meg saw that Christine seemed to avoid those displays of false faces as much as she could.
Meg felt herself drawn to them, fascinated by them. One evening, after their last fittings, she lingered over them.
She found a white silk-half mask that reminded her of him…she slipped it over the left side of her face and looked in the mirror.
What is it like to go through life like that…concealed…hidden from the world…and why…
She shuddered a little at the thought, unwilling to imagine the loneliness…a loneliness he'd hope Christine would ease.
Christine isn't that strong…she lacks the courage to help him…even if she didn't love Raoul…she could never….
Setting the mask aside, she went down to the chapel, thinking Christine might be there.
The little room was empty, the candles flickering, the stained-glass light making the angels radiant.
Carefully folding her skirt to cushion her knees, she knelt to say a prayer for her father.
He watched Meg kneeling alone in the chapel, her hand resting over that little gold cross of hers.
She lit a candle for her father and rose to go,
"Mademoiselle Giry!"
She turned, only out of instinct. She knew she would not see the man who spoke, that there was no one else there.
He was still alive…still here…in his theatre…
"Yes, Monsieur?"
Even as she spoke, she thought it was so odd to call a ghost Monsieur…but he was no ghost, was he.
She knew very well that he was a man…and she wondered if he had a name.
"Tell me one thing, little Giry. This ball…will Christine be there?"
"Yes, Monsieur. She will be there."
