Erik would never have admitted to hope, but there was a sense of lightness after Christine's letter and the conversation that followed. He felt that he was finally coming to understand himself and that each kernel of self-knowledge was a step further away from madness. He became aware of just how little he knew of kindness and set about to learn with the single-mindedness that had served him so well with every other subject that had caught his interest. It was like learning a language. He learned rather more than he wanted about the female hierarchy at Meg's school, and their little maid grew less afraid of him. He learned to speak to Giry of the things in his heart, of the madness that had driven him during the last months at the Opéra (although not of the final night). He wished that he had been able to speak to Christine this way, comfortably and quietly. He hoped to be able to tell her one day of his regrets.
He bought a violin, pens, and paper, and got back to his music. He missed the organ, but there was no space for a keyboard in their small flat. It had been many years since he had spent much time on strings, so there was the pleasure of novelty. He forced himself to do his own shopping, to go out in daylight when he needed to walk out the problems in a piece. He found that he had little to be afraid of, which surprised him. One of his deepest fears had always been recapture, so he had tried to spend as little time as possible out in the world. But the streets were very different for a tall, well-dressed man in an imposing mask than they had been for a hungry child with a marred face. He carried himself with authority and was met with deference. This, too, released something in him that had always been tightly drawn.
It was with great curiosity that he watched himself change. Even his compositions were different. He found himself writing shorter pieces—sonatinas and mere songs—that were less complex and more pleasing to the ear than what he had written before. He realized how much of his former life had been permeated by fear—of discovery, of recapture, of rejection, of loss of control. His games of manipulation had been meant to keep the Opéra denizens as fearful as he. Living with women was also schooling of a most interesting sort. He had never exactly thought of Giry as a woman. To him, women had always been great mysteries, with Christine at the pinnacle of both beauty and inscrutability.
Erik, for all that his physical self was so repulsive, had always been a person of great sensuality. He considered it penance for all his sins that he was trapped in flesh of such hunger and yet that no one would ever want to touch. As a younger man, he had not been able to resist the temptation of his secret doors and hiding places and had spied shamelessly on everyone, in particular the ballet corps. Given that they were theatre folk and therefore not very concerned with propriety, he had seen enough sex to think that he rather knew what was going on and that he resented missing out.
Now, living in close quarters with them every day, Erik found himself taking women down off a pedestal and thinking for the first time of them as human beings. He had given very few people credit for humanity—he had tended to think of them as either obstacles or providers of whatever he wanted, be it money, paper, or a bottle of wine with an interesting label. He thought with shame of how many Christmases he had ruined by pilfering gifts. The more he thought back, the more he thought of himself as a willful child, treating the Opéra and its members as his own dollhouse. Would his life be long enough to allow him to make up for the harm he had caused?
He paid attention. He learned that Meg missed a certain species of hair ribbon that had been lost in the fire and tracked it down for her, although by the time he was in the third modiste's shop, he was so tired of fripperies that he nearly reverted to his old ways. He also bought himself a decent pair of gloves while he was out. One could never have too many. He discovered that Aimée, the maid, looked the way she did because her former employer had forbidden her any food but bread and milk, and she had carried this rule with her. She was still enough in awe of him that he made Giry tell her to eat actual food. He tried to get Giry to talk to him about her sadness, in the hopes that she would rouse herself. No one had known that she ever helped him, and she was still young enough that surely inaction would harm her.
"I will never forgive myself, Antoinette, if you let this turn you into an old woman." She waved her hand at him and grumbled, but he could tell by the twist of her mouth that she was pleased.
It was all very quiet and comfortable. Erik grew used to company and also more content in his own skin. It amazed him to think that he—the Opéra Ghost—had friends. He could no longer hang onto his old view of the world as a place to be shunned, to struggle against. He was learning to be peaceful, and rather than quelling his creative instinct, he worked harder than ever.
He had set up a drafting table under the parlor window and taken to working there, so that he could listen to the click of Giry's knitting needles or her banter with Meg in the evenings. Meg had been trying to find a dance school for herself but had been disgusted by the quality of instruction. Meg rattled on for a quarter of an hour, Giry clucking her agreement, until Erik could stand it no longer and rumbled at them.
"You should open a school, Antoinette." Meg was wild for the idea, and Giry's protests were becoming quite half-hearted, when there was a bustle in the passageway. Footsteps flew along the corridor, and the last voice he ever expected to hear again cried out from the doorway, "Meg! Madame!"
He turned from his desk, and there she was. The country had done her good—she had gained weight and color, and there was more true joy in her smile than he had ever seen. Giry glanced at him, but Erik sat very still. It was after she had hugged both women that she noticed him, and the color and joy both drained away.
"God," Christine said, staring. "My God."