Chapter Summary: We are introduced to Tomas, Erik's "eyes and ears" on the world when he delivers a letter from Annalise. Meanwhile in Paris, another man seems to be stepping into the role left vacant by the disappearance of The Phantom of The Opera.
(NOTE: The quote from Shakespeare is: Portia - From Merchant of Venice (IV, I, 184-186)
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Erik had not left his ruined monastery since Annalise, his Angel's lovely angel, had returned to Paris. He found he could no longer bear to go out into the light of day where the pain and loss that were his constant companions would be highlighted and magnified for the whole world to see. He could not think about walking to the hidden spring in the woods were he had spent those sweet, precious, all too brief hours in her company. Erik could not even bear to look at the woods anymore. He had buried himself away from the world once again and was not sure that this time he would be able to find his way from the darkness that enveloped him. He began to regret telling her that she should not write to him; yet he did not wish for her parents to find him out. Erik did not wish for one parent to find him out.
"You have everything," Erik whispered bitterly to the darkened room. "You have my Angel. You have her sons. You have ... her daughter. And I have nothing. Nothing!" He could still see Annalise as she ran down the hill that last afternoon and into the waiting arms of her father. "Will you ever stop haunting me?" He placed his head into his hands. "Have I not paid enough for my sins?"
The sins played behind his closed eyes, never far from his every breath, taunting while awake and haunting while asleep. Erik could remember the feel of life as it ebbed away from every victim he had claimed, strengthening him, filling him with a sense of invincibility. He remembered the incredible depth of burning desire that his Angel had stirred within him. He remembered the slow-burning hatred he felt for that man; the hatred that had finally turned to blind rage. He remembered how that rage had consumed him, eating him alive from the inside out until there was nothing left but to destroy the thing that was destroying him. How close he had come to having both! He could have killed that man and had his Angel for eternity. Yet he knew that had he killed that other man it would have destroyed his Angel and that would have killed him.
Now, Erik had been given another glimpse of Heaven only to find that - once again - that other man held the keys to his release. Erik was certain those keys would never be given to him. He would spend his remaining time on this earth in that locked cage of his youth and in some unknowable, untouchable Hell for the rest of eternity. He knew he would never find peace.
"M'sieur?" a voice called to him from the doorway.
Erik did not lift his head or acknowledge that there was even another presence in his darkened purgatory.
"M'sieur," the voice tried again. "I have returned from the village."
"I know, Tomas," Erik replied wearily. "I have no need of you, please just go."
"But I have something of importance from the priest to give you."
Erik lifted his head to look at the worn man standing across the room from him. He had found Tomas one day, shortly after he had purchased the ruined monastery, sleeping underneath the remnants of what had once been an altar. Erik had discovered that Tomas had been running from the law since the days of his youth, never resting in more than one place for a few days. He would steal what he needed to survive and take his pleasure and comfort where he could. Tomas had been staying at the ruined monastery on and off for years; it was his safe harbor. Tomas had not been frightened of the face that Erik presented to the world for he had seen horrors that not even Erik could imagine. The two wandering souls had found in each other a void that needed to be filled. Now, for a few francs each month and a safe place to stay, Tomas had found a purpose to his life. Erik needed someone to be his eyes and ears to the world and Tomas willingly took that role upon himself. In return, Tomas looked upon himself as the one true protection that Erik had against the forces that would destroy him.
"What is it?" Erik wanted to know.
Tomas crossed the room. "M'sieur Pfieffer said I was to deliver this to you and if you wanted to reply, you should give me the letter for him to post."
"Letter?" A light began to dawn in Erik's dead eyes.
Tomas pulled an envelope of creamy stationary from his pocket, handing it to Erik. "This is the letter."
Erik took the envelope from Tomas, not realizing that he was no longer breathing.
"M'sieur?" Tomas asked.
"Go," Erik told him and realized quickly the tone of his voice. He looked up at Tomas. "I am sorry and I am very grateful to you for bringing this to me."
Tomas tilted his head to one side. He was not one to let the emotional whims of this strange man disturb the sameness of his life. "I shall go and tend to the meal," Tomas told him and turned, leaving the room and closing the door behind him.
Erik looked at the envelope he held in his hands, the feel of the fine linen like the touch of an angel's breath against his fingertips. He was not sure where he found the strength to stand but he needed the daylight from the windows to be able to read the words he was longing to see. Erik walked over, pulled back the heavy, dark draperies and sat on the window seat, opening the letter with shaky hands.
"My Dear Erik - for you have told me not to call you Monsieur Lachaise," the letter began.
Erik could not see the rest of the words so he drew the letter to his chest, holding it against his heart. She had written! She had not forgotten him! She had ignored his wishes and written to him! She was as stubborn and as independent as she was beautiful. Erik drew a deep breath, steadying his pounding heart and lowered the letter to continue to read the words she had written to him.
"I pray this letter finds you in good health and well of spirit. I hope that you will find it in your heart to forgive me for breaking my promise to never write you but I just know that you will be able to guide me in a matter of a delicate nature."
She wanted his forgiveness? He who needed to be forgiven was being asked to forgive? A stray memory drifted up from the dark recesses of Erik's mind, the words escaping his lips before he knew they had passed. "The quality of mercy is not strain'd. It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven Upon the place beneath; it is twice bless'd; It blesseth him that gives and him that takes," he said softly. Erik wondered for a brief moment what kind of magic this mere letter was weaving upon him but it was only a brief moment as he once again turned his attention back to the flowery script.
"I have missed your presence and our daily talks. You have a wisdom that I can only hope and pray shall be mine when I am of an age when such things are the fruits of our lives. It is this wisdom I seek out for I know that you have loved deeply and dearly. I could see it in your eyes when you spoke of the angel that you had lost. You still love her, one has only to look to know such is true."
Still love her? Erik thought. Sweet, sweet child, I have never stopped loving her.
"I know that what I ask of you next may bring bittersweet memories of your angel but I find that I must ask someone who will answer my questions truthfully. I have tried speaking of this to my parents but Maman looks as if she has seen a ghost when I mention it and Father wears the same expression, though, at times, he looks as if he wants to kill someone."
"That someone being me," Erik said softly.
"It troubles me to know that I cannot turn to my parents on such an important matter in my life without causing them pain. I - and I speak plainly to you for I know you would expect nothing less - am frightened that my questions may be causing a division between my parents. They have always been my security, my safe place in which to hide and to think that I am the cause of this trouble brings such pain to my heart!"
Erik could not honestly say to himself that he was unhappy about a rift between that man and his Angel but he was distressed that Annalise felt herself responsible. He resumed reading.
"There are many young men who seek my company at events and parties. They have all been very nice to me and I find I enjoy their attention. It makes me smile as I write these words and think of their kindness, the sweet things they whisper to me, the strength of their arms as we dance. I had never imagined that such feelings were possible when I was a child listening to the fairy stories Maman would read to me. The stories never told of how a heart could swell with emotion at just a mere glance! And now I find myself wondering how one knows that one is in love."
The bitter laughter rang off the stone walls. Love? Love? How could this innocent child understand what she was asking of him?
"There are two young men of whom I am particularly fond and I find my feelings become jumbled and confused when I try to sort one from the other. Andrew is my brother, Gustave's, friend and he is well-featured and reminds me of Father - strong, gentle, safe. He is very nice to me and I know that he looks at me in a way that he looks at no other. I find myself comfortable when I am with him. Yet he speaks bluntly to me - did I say that he was American? They speak their minds, I find, caring little for the niceties and more for the truth - and expects me to understand and know what he means. I did not think this was how a lover was supposed to behave."
Why did all young girls want to fall in love with the image of their father? Erik did not wish to think too hard or too long upon that question as it stirred memories he fought in vain to forget.
"The other young man is an acquaintance of another brother and his name is Michaud. When he looks at me or dances with me, I find myself blushing down to the very soles of my satin slippers! Michaud is so handsome with his dark hair and dark sparkling eyes. I find that even I as think about him my stomach flutters, my breath comes in sighs. He stirs in me a warmth of feeling that I have never known before and I think that - at times - it frightens me! I am not foolish enough to think that I am the only one who has these feelings and thoughts when they are with him; but what I am to think when Michaud holds me and tells me that he seeks me out specially? Can I trust his words? Are these flutterings and sighs love?"
Erik looked out the window at the bright summer afternoon, wondering upon the whims of a fickle God. "Will You throw my past into my face for the rest of eternity?" he demanded angrily before turning back to the letter.
"I know that you understand what it is to love. Please, my dear friend, tell me what it is to love; I am so confused. Help me to understand what it is I am feeling. If it is not love, then I need to know that. If it is love, then tell me how I am to know. I realize that I ask much of you but I turn to you because I know you are wise in these things and will be honest with me. I trust you with future of my heart, dear Erik. Please help me. I remain your loving friend, Annalise."
Stunned, Erik sat quietly, reading and re-reading those last lines. She was trusting him with her future. That man's daughter was trusting him with the most precious things she possessed - her heart, her happiness, her life. It was the gifts he had wanted from her mother and the things he would never have. Now the daughter was offering it to him freely. It amazed Erik and a strange smile curled his lips.
"I wonder what you would say to this, Monsieur le Vicomte?" he wondered aloud. "You cannot let the past go so your only daughter turns to that very same past to resolve her future." And Christine had not forgotten him! His Angel still remembered and the thought made Erik's heart soar. Even now she could still reach out from a distance to hold his heart in her delicate hands. "I still hold a place in Christine's heart. I wonder if you even know that." Perhaps, through this child, there might be a way for his Angel to be with him. "Your wife and your child, how easy it would be to take them from you. What a fool you remain!" Erik hissed into the silent room.
The hope that he might someday be reunited with his Angel was something that Erik had carried with him through the years, across the oceans. It was a hope that sank quickly as he remembered the letter he held and the child who had sent it to him. She had been one of the few who had accepted him without question and now she was confused and in pain, looking to him for guidance. Erik knew he could do nothing to cause her further distress and would, in fact, do anything she asked of him. He shook his had sadly. Would the tug-of-war on his emotions that first Christine, and now her daughter, exerted over him ever end? It was a question he found he could not answer as he stood, crossing the room to his writing desk.
Even as Erik sat down, pulling stationary and pen from a drawer, the bitterness he still felt for that other man quickly faded. Something about the blind faith this young woman had in him after such a brief time spent together crowded out all other emotions. She was trusting him and without fear. It was a new and wonderful sensation for Erik and he did want any residual hurt to crowd out and destroy this feeling. He wished to hold it and savor it, keep it safe and guarded. Above all, he wanted to help this precious human being sort out her feelings and discover what it was to love. What it was to love another with the same depth and longing and desire as he had felt - and would feel forever - for her mother, his beloved Angel.
"My Sweet Annalise," he began to scratch across the paper.
And while Erik composed his emotions, placing them on paper, another man - a day's ride away in Paris - sought to compose his emotions about the same young woman.
He had given up fighting against the feelings she had raised within him. Her voice, her face, the very smell of her, was with him every second of the day. He presented to the world the face and image expected of him but deep inside he was tortured by this woman. Her image, her touch burned so fiercely within his soul that there were moments when he thought the only solution to his to torment would be to offer her as a living sacrifice upon the fires of love. Let the flames consume her and be done but the thought of her not being within his reach would reduce him to a mere shell of the person he thought he knew. He took those thoughts of himself without her and turned and twisted them around to a way that would keep her by his side forever.
He made delicate, discreet inquiries at parties attended, salons lounged in and discovered secrets long kept hidden. He turned to the darkened streets and back alleys of Paris, searching for the right people who had been there, the nobodies who did the manual work all too necessary for the enjoyment of those like himself. A few francs, a few bottles of wine and even the most reticent tongues began to tell. All he had had to do was sit back and listen as those anonymous faces filled in the details that the more genteel members of society did not know. He had been amazed at the wealth of knowledge he had gained for a mere pittance of the funds he had been willing to expend.
Very carefully he had selected certain elements from the taverns he had haunted. They had the looks and manners to accomplish what he wished without being discovered and to vanish once the deed was done. He had paid them well to place bribes, to order items, to lay in place the dominos that would fall and push her into his arms. And should all of his plans fail, they had supplied him with the means to his end and the knowledge of how to use those means. Yet, had these men but cared when they looked into his eyes, they would have known it was a knowledge he did not need.
He had taken lives before when crossed.
He was quite capable of doing so again.