Ch. 6 - Letters

Nearly six weeks passed, as Erik awaited his reply. Every day, when he returned home, he urgently searched through the post, waiting for his answer, but none came. The insufferable plague of hope had assailed him like a disease in the first weeks after his letter had been sent, but now, he felt an even more unbearable emptiness as it began to leave him.

He paced the floor of his study, unable for once to work in his restlessness. He stopped momentarily to pour himself a brandy, which he downed quickly, and finally sank into an armchair by the fireplace in defeat. He closed his eyes, tears appearing on his dark lashes. Why had he not learned in all these years of silence, that God was deaf to his prayers? And yet, he still prayed them. In all his unworthiness and sin, he could not bear to give up that tiny comfort. The comfort of the belief, however small, that somewhere, someone would find compassion for him in his misery, and if not God, what hope did he have? The only living soul that had ever seemed to care of his anguish had betrayed him and left him to die. He stared into the fire, his tears reflecting its light as they traced their path down his face.

A sudden knock at the door startled him out of his dark thoughts. With a muffled curse, he pulled a silk handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his damp face and mask as he hurried to answer the door.

In the lamplight, a small boy uncertainly regarded him for a moment, and then, in a nervous voice explained his presence. "This letter has arrived for you, monsieur. It was delivered to the wrong house by mistake. My apologies, monsieur." The boy handed him the letter, and Erik murmured his thanks as he stared in wonder at the return address. His reply had come, for good or ill, he would know now at last if his condition could be treated.

He shut the door and returned to the chair by the fire, holding the letter in front of him and never tearing his eyes from it as if afraid it might disappear at any moment. His hands were trembling so badly now, he could scarcely will his fingers to open the envelope. Finally, he regained control of his movements and carefully removed the letter, spreading in out before him. It read:

Fondest Greetings Monsieur de Noir,

I must admit that I was most surprised by your letter and very much intrigued by its contents. I believe through a combination of my research and your suggestions, a procedure such as the one you described might very well be possible. I have already experienced some success in this area, but of course, I could not guarantee the final result, especially considering the severity of the deformity you described. The procedure is also not without its risks, as I am sure you are well aware. However, if you are still interested, I would be most anxious to make the necessary arrangements. I have ample room and would be very much honored if you would agree to be my guest for the duration of the process. Please let me know the date of your proposed arrival as soon as possible.

With warmest regards,

Maxwell Van Hausen, M.D.

In stunned silence, Erik let the letter fall from his hands. The doctor's words echoed through his mind, "...a procedure such as the one you described may very well be possible..." It wasn't a guarantee, but it was a possibility and that was more than he had ever had in all his life.

He rose quickly from his chair and began the necessary preparations for his journey. He anticipated that he would be gone at least a year, and he needed to make arrangements for his home to be cared for and for his designs to be sent by post so that his newly found success would not diminish in his absence. He would leave in the morning. By the time the good doctor received his reply, the man who sent it would be standing on his doorstep.

Erik could not help but allow a rare smile to spread across his face. This was his chance - his chance for a real life, if not a happy one, at least a life with a resemblance of normalcy. And who knew, maybe one day, even love – a love that was returned this time. He knew he was being foolishly optimistic, but just this one time, he allowed himself the luxury.

The next morning dawned bright and clear, further encouraging his optimism as he ordered the last trunk loaded into the carriage that would take him to the train depot. He turned back into the house for one last look around to be sure all was in order, which of course it was.

There was only one final thing to be done. If he wished to take this step toward the new life he was seeking, he needed to sever all ties with his past one. He reached for the envelope that lay on his desk. He touched it softly with his fingers, staring at it with a trace of regret. She would be upset by its contents. No matter what she had done to him, he still cared enough to regret that he would cause her pain. Straightening, he thrust the envelope into its pocket. It was what was best for everyone. He would be free of his past and able to start anew, and she and the vicomte would be free of the Phantom forever.

He locked the door carefully, and walked to his carriage, turning his face to feel the warmth of the morning sunshine upon it. This was another of his newfound delights, and he now relished the touch of the heavenly rays. He stepped lightly into the carriage, and to the footman gave his final instructions, "To the depot at once, and please, monsieur, see that this is delivered to the newspaper office in Paris as soon as possible. You have my thanks." The carriage rolled away from his home, the one place where he had found some measure of peace. As Erik watched it disappear in the distance, he silently placed his future in the hands of a God who for whatever reason seemed deaf to his prayers no longer.