Disclaimer: I don't own Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters.
My studies continued. I mastered the arts of magic and illusion, and began dabbling with the science of hypnosis. I'd learned the technique of teaching voice, and then taught myself. I must say that I have a rather fine voice, quite suitable for the hypnotic skills that I acquired. I entertained myself by practicing on the people of the opera house.
I was returning to my home one evening, after such a practice, when I began to hear the most ungodly shrieks and wails. I had never encountered such a sound in the tunnels, and was quite taken aback. I stealthily , and quite nervously moved toward the din. Soon, my torch's light revealed a small figure seated on the cold floor, and sobbing desperately. Upon closer inspection, I realized that it was little Meg Giry, Antoinette's daughter. She had somehow found her way into the tunnels and gotten lost.
I do not, in general, like children, and I certainly did not like this one. She was a noisy little thing, who had disrupted my rather pleasant evening, and shattered the peace of my silent world. Even worse, she could not be allowed to stay there, but would have to be returned to her mother. Exasperated, I picked her up, and began the long trek back to the opera.
Black-clad and masked, I must have been a fearful sight for the child. The screams and the squalling redoubled, and she began kicking me fiercely. I had the near uncontrollable urge to dash the little creature against the stone floor, but quickly fought it off. This was Antoinette's child, after all. Instead I began singing to her. I knew no songs of childhood, and so whatever entered my head is what I sang, I sang of the night and about the comfort of darkness, and of dreaming. The child slowly quieted and fell asleep.
I carried her through the shadows of the opera house, unseen by the few who still were awake. I soon encountered Antoinette who had been searching frantically for her daughter. I could see that she was at her wit's end. What a sight I must have been, as I emerged from the shadows; a tall cloaked man, dressed in forbidding black, singing nonsense to the sleeping child he was carrying. Antoinette flew to retrieve little Meg, tears of relief streaming down her face. We walked together to her rooms, and she silently beckoned me to enter. Meg was soon tucked into her own bed, and Antoinette and I reacquainted ourselves. It was not a warm and joyful reunion. The strangeness and distance was still there. We continued to treat each other with the strained formality of the past. She was pleased to see me, I could tell, as I was to see her. We spoke of inconsequential things for awhile, and then I rose to leave. She bid me adieu, and then very earnestly asked me not to forget that she was my friend. Any time I needed something, anything at all, she said, she would be at my service. Poor Antoinette.
Antoinette was my only link to the outside world, and I frequently required her services. That night after I'd delivered Meg and was returning home, I realized that if the child could find her way into this maze, then other more dangerous intruders could, too. I was completely vulnerable to an armed predator. It was then that I vowed that I would learn offensive and defensive skills. There was a good possibility that my survival might depend on it. Antoinette soon contacted a well-known fencing master, who agreed to train her friend, the eccentric Monsieur Tremonte. He would only take lessons at night, she said, and being reclusive and shy, would arrive wearing his fencing mask, and would keep it on until after his departure. The Master barely raised an eyebrow at such odd stipulations, and agreed to take Monsieur Tremonte on. It was not long before I surpassed the master, and my lessons were done.
The library afforded me many books on weaponry and fighting skills. Because of my living conditions, I gravitated toward the more stealthy techniques. Fencing was truly a fine and noble skill, but was not suited to my needs. Therefore, I learned how to use a dagger and the garrote. One thin volume offered me what turned out to be my favorite weapon. It was devoted entirely to the use of the Punjab Lasso. The idea appealed to me greatly. It was quiet, deadly, and easily concealed. The materials were easy to find in the opera house, and it felt quite suitable, almost as if I'd already known the skill. I practiced alone beneath the Opera Populaire, until I was perfect in technique. I realized that it might more difficult when applied to a moving target, and so I practiced a bit on Antoinette. Needless to say, she was not amused. It did not matter. I was now confidant that I could defend myself against any intruder who might violate the solitude of my home.
The opera house was gradually coming under my control. Its inhabitants were firmly convinced that there was an Opera Ghost, and most went out of their way not to offend him. Monsieur LeFevre, was a weak-willed, spineless man, and so was a joy to work with. By the end of my twentieth year, he was paying me a monthly salary, and was beginning to take my suggestions about casting and directing his operas seriously. I could see that he would be a very well-trained manager one day.
My life settled into a comfortable routine. I studied, pursuing all manners of interests, Icomposed, and spent the remainder of my waking hours frequenting the opera house. The lights and the babble of voices loosened, somewhat, the dark knot of loneliness that was growing in my breast. The long silent hours underground had begun to wear on my soul. I felt trapped, imprisoned. In my world there was no voice to call my name, no affection, no friendship or understanding. In desperation, I watched others engaged in the activities I thirsted for, just for a small taste of what it must be like. I was deeply and bitterly alone.
When Antoinette appeared, with a new little ballet student in tow, I had no inkling that my loneliness was soon to end. She was just a little bit of a thing, with huge frightened eyes, and a mop of curly brown hair. I probably would have ignored the arrival completely, except that some one mentioned Gustav Daae. Daae! A violinist of nearly supernatural abilities, whose violin was like a voice. His original compositions were daring…wild, passionate and dark. I recognized a kindred soul in his music. He was a man who would have understood my own compositions, had he heard them.
Moving closer, I heard that this child was the orphaned daughter of the great Daae. I was saddened to hear of his death, and most curious as to whether his offspring had inherited his unique ear for music.
The conversation ended, and Antoinette led the girl to the dormitories. I decided that I'd pay the child a visit, soon, to satisfy my curiosity. If there was any kind of musical talent there, what a waste it would be to let it lie dormant. It was just like LeFevre to be so short sighted. Would there, I wondered, be any of her father in Christine?
I had always avoided the dormitories. The thought of all of those silly giggling young girls, even sleeping, made me distinctly uncomfortable. That night, however, I made my way in, and soon found Christine. She was lying in her bed, crying softly, so as not to waken the others. The pain and desolation in those muted sobs were evident. The child was desperately alone. I stood in the shadow so she could not see, and threw my voice so that it sounded in her ear. "Christine", I whispered. The sobbing ceased, and a small head peeked from under the coverlet. She said not a word, and her whole expression gave the impression that she had been waiting for me. "Do not cry, anymore, Christine", I remember whispering. She smiled tentatively and told me that if I were the Angel, then she would cry no longer. It seemed like a good idea to go along with her childish fancy, and so I agreed that I was her Angel. She then asked me to sing to her, andI began to wonder what kind of foolishness I'd gotten myself into. Hoping to draw the audience to an end, I began to sing, hoping she'd sleep. To my surprise, she listened for a little, and then began to sing with me. I was astounded. Her voice, though immature and untrained had a haunting and familiar quality. It was the voice I'd imagined singing my operas. It was that magical, pure voice that I'd heard in my dreams. When the song was done, I said goodnight to the drowsy girl. She asked if I'd ever visit her again. I answered:
"Christine, next time you must visit me. I will wait for you in the chapel tomorrow night, child" She smiled and drifted off to sleep.
I hurriedly left the dormitory, and sought out Antoinette. It was most important that I speak with her. I was about to take on a student.