Author's Note:
Just a few things to move the plot along a little, it will kick in big time in the next chapter. There are about four chapters left in this story if all goes as planned and there are no more little chapters thrown in. I also already have an idea for a sequel, if there is interest.
Enjoy, and please review! Encouragement is most needed now!
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Chapter 34: Try To Forgive
By the next afternoon, the choice of opera had been made—Giuseppe Verdi's newest work—Aida, and Christine knew already the part that she was to play.
She rolled her eyes behind the managers' backs when the choice was announced and whispered conspiratorially to Meg: "Leave it to Andre and Firmin to choose an opera in which all the girls will be as scantily clad as possible!"
This earned her a series of nearly uncontrollable giggles from Meg, silenced only by her mother's stern look and a firm tap of the ominous cane against the stage floor.
There were librettos to be handed out, and then measurements to be taken, and by the time they were able to break for lunch, Christine felt exhausted.
Meg, however, as energetic as always, insisted that they go out to get lunch.
"There's a new café that just opened, Christine, and it's not but a few steps from the opera house!"
"Meg, dear, I'm terribly tired…"
"Please, Christine! You're so pale, you don't get out enough. The fresh air will be good for you. I don't want to go alone."
"She's right, Christine."
Christine spun to see Madame Giry behind her, a half-smile on her face. "Go with Meg. An outing will do you good. You've done nothing but hide in the opera house since you came back from your dinner with the Viscomte."
Christine sighed. "Very well. Come along, Meg, while I change, and show me where this café is."
The two girls headed down the hallway, Meg dancing and twirling en pointe in front of Christine, while the older girl walked slowly behind, her eyes casting nervously about.
-
A half-hour later, they were seated outside at a new sidewalk café, so new that the dust from the stone hadn't settled yet, as Meg put it.
It was nice to be out, Christine had to concede. The bright sunshine helped to drive away the shadows that seemed to follow her wherever she went, and Meg's idle chatter kept her thoughts from wandering. The blonde's cheerful mood dispelled the darkness almost at once, and Christine even found herself laughing when Meg related some of the escapades of the ballet rats that Christine had missed in her absence.
"I'm so glad that you're back, Christine!" Meg enthused, squeezing her friend's hand. "I missed you so terribly—Lisette and Jammes can be so horrid at times, and La Sorelli! She has been feeling ill of late, and I am not supposed to know this, but I heard Maman talking to Monsieur Andre, and it is not the kind of illness that can be cured! Sorelli has been nothing but terrible to us rats lately, screaming at us if we are a step or two behind, and so demanding! Maman said to Monsieur Andre that she will not be able to dance much longer, and the opera will no longer have a prima ballerina!"
"Perhaps, Meg, if you worked very hard, and impressed Messieurs Andre and Firmin in Aida, you might take that position? Madame is always praising your dancing above all, and I do not think it is just a mother's bias. Madame has never been one to show favorites, even when they are her own children."
Meg squeezed Christine's hand again, her eyes lighting up. "Oh, Christine, do you really think so?"
"Yes, I do."
"Oh!" Meg exclaimed, her voice rising in excited pitch until a few passersby began to glance oddly in her direction, and both Christine and Meg collapsed in giggles.
"Oh, Meg." Christine said when she was able to catch her breath, "I do believe you were right. This has been good for me. I don't believe I've laughed this much since…well…since…"
Meg frowned. The shadows had returned suddenly to Christine's face, and the younger girl knew immediately that she was thinking of him.
"Good afternoon, ladies."
Meg looked up, and looked away just as quickly, her face suddenly tinted a bright pink.
Christine glanced up, and saw Raoul, his handsome face wreathed with a cheery smile, and his eyes fixed on her.
"Good afternoon, Raoul." She glanced curiously at Meg, who was staring intently at her hands, and still blushing madly.
"Would it be a terrible imposition if I was to join you?"
Christine opened her mouth to make some excuse, but Meg interrupted hurriedly.
"Not…not at all…I mean, we haven't even eaten yet…we really should be getting lunch, Christine…Maman will be furious if we are late…and…" she trailed off, her ramblings silenced by an inquiring look from Christine.
"Well, then," Raoul began smoothly, "we shall have to be sure that you are not late." He motioned for a waiter. "And in the meantime, tell me, Christine, are you to be the new prima donna, or is Monsieur Firmin hallucinating once again?"
"He is correct." Christine said quietly, her manner instantly subdued. "I am to be Aida in the new production."
"No doubt all of Paris will turn out when they see your name on the programme."
"No doubt they would turn out anyway, no matter who was cast. Parisians have never been able to resist a scandal."
"Ah, but the more beautiful the scandal, the more eager they are."
Christine got up then, pushed her chair away roughly and walked away, her feet moving so quickly that she feared she might fall.
"Christine!" Raoul leapt up and followed her, instantly sorry for his words. She had stopped and was leaning against a street-lamp, one hand covering her face, and he knew that she was crying.
He walked up behind her, put a hand on her shoulder. She tensed when he touched her, and his heart constricted with pain. "Christine, I'm sorry."
"I didn't want this, Raoul."
"What?" He knew very well of what she spoke—her new place at the Opera, but he wanted to hear her confess something deeper, perhaps that she didn't want them to be separated, didn't want the awkwardness between them or the refusal in her eyes and body when he came near her.
"I don't want to be the lead soprano. I don't want to live in the opera house, or perform any longer. I don't want any of it, not if I can't have Erik!" She felt like a petulant child, one who beats the floor with her fists and feet and cries until she gets her way. She felt small and selfish, saying such things to a man who loved her, declaring her devotion to another in his hearing.
She was utterly astonished when he took her in his arms, brooking no argument, and stroked her hair until her sobs quieted.
"Do you remember when your father died, Christine?" It was a foolish question—of course she did, but he asked it nonetheless, and continued only when she nodded against his shoulder.
"You thought that your world would fall apart. We still wrote then, before Madame Giry came for you and left no forwarding address, and you said that you wanted to die. Nothing that had formerly held any pleasure for you held any at all then. It changed, did it not?"
She did not want to agree, but she could not lie. The truth was plain.
"This will change too. You loved music and the opera before Erik found you. You do not need him in order to love it again."
"There are memories in the opera house and on that stage that I can never escape, Raoul. I know that I should be grateful that I hold such a lucrative position, when many women in my state are reduced to cleaning women or whores. I know that I have been granted more than my lot in life, and that is why I accepted—because it would be foolish and imprudent to throw it away. But my soul dies a little more every time I walk onto the stage, because I no longer have anyone to sing for. I gave my soul away, Raoul, and there is nothing to inspire me. My voice is perfect still, training never dissolves, though it may grow rusty, but there is nothing to make it soar."
"I could inspire you, Christine, if only you would give me a chance. You think me a man of stiff manners and noble proprieties, but I can be passionate, too. I feel more than you know, and Erik is not the only man who desires you beyond all reason. There is more than gentleness in my blood, Christine."
"Why do I not see it, then?"
"Perhaps because there is no one to inspire it."
She could find no reply, and he nodded politely to her.
"Good day, Christine."
He walked to the table, said good day to Meg, who immediately blushed, and, with a brief glance back at Christine, went on his way.
"He's so terribly charming, Christine! And so handsome." Meg gushed when Christine returned to their table. "And he is kind! Don't you think so, Christine?"
"Yes, Meg." Christine replied quietly, her eyes and thoughts somewhere far away. "Yes, he is kind."
-
Giselle retired early that night, her third night in the labyrinth, and as she burrowed down into the softness of the velvet comforter and silk sheets, she thought how lovely it was to be able to sleep at night, and wake when one wished. It was something she had grown delightfully accustomed to in the de Chagny home, and she would miss it when she returned to her former—profession.
The very thought made her want to weep. Perhaps she could stay here forever, in this quiet darkness. Solitude could be so very pleasant when the company one was used to was so dreadful. This solitude was pleasant, broken only by the sound of the organ when the man—she could no longer think of him as the Phantom—played. And he played so beautifully, too. He had played a piece the previous night that had been dark, with a vein of passion running through it that made her think it must be from the infamous Don Juan Triumphant, a work that she had heard about for weeks after the disaster.
A disaster that really was not so far in the past, only a month, perhaps, or maybe two. The workers had done an excellent job of refurbishing the opera house, and had done it very quickly, too.
She began to drift off, when a sudden cry from the next room jolted her awake.
"Christine!"
The cry came again, and she was out of the bed in a moment, the robe hurriedly wrapped around her thin frame, and she dashed into the room where he slept, a room that she had not dared to enter before.
He was not awake, not yet, but he was having a nightmare. She could tell from the way he tossed and turned, sweat slipping down his brow, his unmasked face contorted on both sides.
She drew closer, lit a candle, and drew back in horror when she saw his bed.
What sort of man slept in a coffin? It was no wonder that he had nightmares.
She laid a comforting hand on his cheek, not even noticing that it was the right side of his face that her hand was drawn to.
"Christine!" He came awake with a start, jerking upright and seizing Giselle's wrist forcefully.
"Monsieur!" she exclaimed. "It is only me!"
He released her, and dropped his face into his hands. "They've come back. I knew they would come back…she's the only one who could ever drive them away…"
"Nightmares, monsieur?"
"Erik. My name is Erik."
It was completely out of place, this declaration, but no one had ever addressed him with such familiarity before, not when there was no fear to drive it.
"What are these nightmares, Erik?"
To hear his name on the lips of another human, to know that there was someone in the outside world besides Christine who thought him a man despite his face and his past, was akin to salvation for the distraught Erik.
"I see all the faces of the men I've killed, leering at me from the depths of Hell. They whisper things to me, terrible things that they will do to me when I join them. There's vengeance in their eyes, and terror in mine. They mock me for my fear, and then I see another face. It's the face of a woman, and when she turns, I see that it is Christine, and that I've sent her to Hell, too!" He was shaking now, trembling, tears running down his cheeks and dripping from his fingers as he buried his face in his hands. "They won't forgive me, Giselle! I've prayed for forgiveness so many nights, prayed until I wonder if there is anyone to hear me, or if it's all just another glorious lie, but they won't forgive me. No one has ever forgiven me, not even for things that are beyond my control, and the only person who could ever forgive me I've hurt beyond all forgiveness!" He ran a trembling hand over his face. "I cannot even forgive myself."
Giselle set the candlestick aside and reached out to embrace him, drawing his head down onto her shoulder and stroking his hair comfortingly as Madame Giry had. "I have nightmares, too, Erik. We have all done things that we think are beyond forgiveness."
"What do you know of torment, Giselle? What do you know of Hell?"
"I have visited Hell every night for two years, Erik. And in the day, I have gone countless times to the cathedral and knelt before the Virgin, begging forgiveness, longing to feel what others say they feel when they look up at Christ's holy Mother, but when I look up, I see only cold, sculpted stone staring at me, and it is then that I know that I am truly damned. Then I feel the flames reaching out to engulf me, and I know that for a bit of food and a bed to sleep in, for the sight of a sunrise and one more breath, I have sold my place in Heaven. I should have laid down in the gutter and died, and perhaps then I would have found a better rest above. But my courage was lacking, and as you cannot forgive yourself for the lives you have destroyed, I cannot forgive myself for my cowardice. You and I are much the same, Erik, both broken, both bitter at the world's treatment of us, and both unable to forgive ourselves for destroying our souls. But perhaps, if one day we could find the strength to forgive ourselves, then God would look down upon us with mercy, and grant us the eternal forgiveness we so desperately desire."
She laid her head on his shoulder and they cried together, two broken and fallen angels without hope of ascension, and when his tears were staunched, he drew away and looked at her.
She stood and took his hand. "Stay with me tonight, Erik. Perhaps together we can chase away the nightmares."
He looked dubiously up at her. "That is not at all proper, Giselle. Are you sure…"
She laughed, a strangely cheery sound in the dark melancholy of the catacombs. "I am a whore, Erik. It will be pleasant change to have a man in my bed who wishes nothing but to lay beside me so that he might have dreams instead of nightmares."
He laughed with her, and rising, left the coffin behind.
-
Madame Giry lay awake that night, a soft melody lingering in her ears.
He was below the opera again. She had feared that he would return there, and take up his guise of the Phantom again.
Perhaps in the morning there would be notes again, bearing that gruesome red death's-head seal.
"Leave us be, Erik." she whispered, turning over and closing her eyes. "Leave her be."