I awoke as tired as I had been when I fell into my troubled sleep. I had not thought about Stefan in what seemed like ages; some memories were best not dwelt upon, and that was one of them. I had enough in my life to regret without seeing his face whenever I closed my eyes.
As I climbed out of bed, I saw a note on my bedside table. It was from Erik, informing me that he would be out for at least a few hours, and that if I was so inclined, I might take the opportunity to bathe. I decided to take that comment as a polite suggestion rather than a broad hint. I really liked the idea of being clean once more; I hadn't bathed in weeks.
I found my way back to the small room with the bathtub, wondering exactly how I was going to accomplish the task of bathing. In my experience, it required a great deal of hauling water and heating it; something done by maids in my grandfather's home. I had no idea whether I was supposed to get water from the lake, or some other, cleaner source, and I had not seen anything that looked as though it would be suitable for heating water.
Both problems, however, were eliminated when I entered the bath room. He had already filled the tub with water, which appeared to have come from a pipe that emptied into the tub. Reaching in to feel the water, I realized with amazement that it was very warm; the pipes surrounding the tub somehow heated the water in it. The man was truly a genius.
On a table beside me, I found a bar of sweetly-scented soap, expensive looking bath salts, an ornate comb, a blue hair ribbon, and a soft towel. I was impressed by Erik's thoughtfulness, though I wondered why he would possibly have such things on hand. As I soaked in the luxurious warm water, I contemplated that question. I had already figured out that he had been in love with someone, someone who had not loved him back. The floral soap and bath salts must have been for her; he must have prepared his home to be comfortable for her.
I thought for a long while about Erik's past love; it was easier than thinking about my own. After about an hour of soaking in water that was finally becoming cold, I realized that I might want to be dressed before Erik returned home. I ran an expensive-looking comb with carvings on the handle through my ragged hair, plagued by the thought that there was very little I could do to make my hair presentable, except tie it back with the blue ribbon I had found. I wrapped myself in the towel, and returned to my room, where I decided that I ought to wear the blue dress I had found in the costume room. I was finally clean, and smelled faintly of roses, and the idea of wearing a beautiful dress again was very appealing.
Finished with my toilette, I went back down to the main room to await Erik's return; and when the minutes ticked by, and he did not come, I began to look for some way to amuse myself. The bookshelf out here was even larger than the one in my room, and I searched for something that I could actually read; my Italian was shaky at best, and my English worse, leaving French and German as my only options. As much as I had enjoyed Erik's music, the volumes on music theory had no charm for me; I passed over architecture recalling the odd effect it had on me last time; my interest in history was minimal; his collection of philosophy contained none of my favorites. That left only art, and I selected one which I thought would be the most entertaining; my surprise was incredible when I pulled the book from the shelf, and found stuffed between the pages several dozen drawings.
They were all of the same woman; an exceptionally beautiful brunette with pale skin and perfect features, whose startling good looks made me feel immediately inadequate. Some pictures showed just her face, outlined in rough pencil sketches, while some showed her in full opera costume, done in beautiful charcoal. This was the woman; the woman Erik had loved. She must have been a performer with the opera, and a beautiful one.
"What are you doing!"
Erik was standing over me, his eyes glowing with rage, his handsome half-face contorted.
"I beg your pardon?"
"I asked you what you were doing!" He snatched the portraits from my hands, and stalked away. I got up from my seat; I was short enough standing beside him, let alone sitting.
"I was reading, and found these. Is there a problem?" He turned back towards me, and glowered into my eyes, trying to intimidate me with his height and the impressive width of his shoulders.
'You had no right-"
"No right to what? Accidentally find some portraits you drew? I hardly see the severity of that crime." I had not escaped from prison and dragged my sorry self all the way to Paris to bend over backwards every time a man looked at me with anger in his eyes. I was so sick of being the victim, I could just die.
"You-" Now he was both angry and confused; apparently he hadn't anticipated my response.
"Forgive me if I don't understand; you seem to think that I have committed some horrible crime, which I most certainly have not. I am sorry if I have intruded upon your privacy in a manner you find offensive, but you need not dramatize the mistake!"
"Dramatize? What in God's name-" I just couldn't keep my mouth shut; he was just begging for me to tell him exactly what I thought of him, and I would do just that. The voice of reason in the back of my mind, the one I usually managed to ignore, was telling me that I might only really be angry with him because I couldn't stand to admit to myself that I was attracted to him. As I had done so many times before, I managed to silence that voice before it could really get to me.
"Forgive me if I offend you, I do not mean to insult, but you seem to believe that life is some kind of opera, with you starring as the misunderstood villain. And now, if I might ask, why is it that you always try to intimidate me? I have tried to be kind, and tried to be understanding, but you insist upon pushing me to anger with your bullying."
"My bullying? How dare you! I saved your miserable life and brought you here; I had no responsibility to do so." Once again, I saw a pain behind his anger that made me think more carefully about what I was going to say.
"You have just made my point for me, and for that, I thank you."
"And what exactly do you mean by that?"
"I mean that you have proven to me how compassionate you can be, therefore I see no reason that you cannot act that way more often."
That remark silenced him; he just stared at me with disbelieving green eyes, while I finished composing my thoughts.
"You saved my life, and yet, you seem intent upon frightening me away. You went through great trouble to make sure that I was comfortable, to give me everything I needed, andI am very grateful to you. I know that I have no claim on your kindness, but why do you try so hard to make me hate you every time I begin to like you?"
His breathing had grown unsteady, as if the truth in my accusations had stolen the air from his lungs. His jaw tightened, and his eyes closed; I had the sudden urge to touch his face, and make him look at me, but thankfully, he walked away before I could make a complete fool of myself.
"Who was she?" I knew he might find my question impertinent, but I wanted to know more about this woman who held Erik's heart. He was silent for a long time before he said anything, and when he finally answered, his voice was shaking.
"Christine Daae. She was a chorus girl, in the ballet troupe. I...I trained her to sing, taught her to use her voice. She had a voice like an angel..." Of course, she would be both beautiful and talented. "I looked after her since she first came here, when she was just a child. And when she was seventeen, I lost her. I arranged for her to sing in Hannibal, and when the world saw how beautiful she was,it snatched her away."
"What happened?"
"She fell in love with the Viscomte de Chagny." He said the name as if it were the most terrible of curses, his voice dripping with both hatred and anguish. "He was rich, powerful, handsome—she chose to leave me, and marry him. I offered her all that I had, and she chose him." His back was still turned; his shoulders were slumped and his head hung in bitter defeat.
"And you were surprised?"
"Surprised? Well, I suppose it was foolish of me to ever think a woman like Christine would choose me, because I have only half a face! Whatever was I thinking? I suppose you think this is funny, that a disgusting man such as myself would ever aspire to such love?"
"I merely think that you highly overestimated the ability of a seventeen year old girl to see beyond what she has been taught to look for."
The only reply he had for me was a shocked stare.
"I was a seventeen year old girl not so very long ago; I wanted comfort and stability, not mystery and uncertainty; I guarantee she wanted the same when she chose the Viscomte."
"You're saying you would have done the same?"
I hesitated, but I thought that after he told me so much that he had obviously never revealed to anyone, it was only fair if I told him what I had done, and let him decide whether he could stand to be around me anymore.
"I'm saying that I did do the same."
I sat down, afraid that his penetrating eyes would burn a hole into my head.
"When I was sixteen, I made the same choice Christine did; and for worse reasons, I might add. There was a boy in our clan named Stefan. We grew up together; he played the guitar, and I was training to be a dancer. I used to make him play for me, so that I could practice; I needed it desperately, you know, I was horribly clumsy. We fell in love-as much in love as two children could be. We agreed that when we both came of age, we would be married."
"And you left him?"
"Well, I like to think it was more complicated than that, but yes, I left him. Because I wanted to live a different life. I had just watched my mother die of an illness that could have been cured if only we had been able to find a doctor willing to treat a gypsy; I was tired of that life, and I wanted to start all over again. So I left; Stefan pleaded, but my mind was made up."