Author's Note:
Well, this is the final chapter, posted along with the epilogue. I just started school, so the beginning of the sequel may be a little while in coming, but I promise it won't be too long. Please put me on your author alert list and keep up with me, I will deliver you the sequel! It will be set in the time period between this chapter and the epilogue.
I want to take a moment to thank all my readers, those who reviewed and those who didn't, and express my appreciation for your support of this story. I have never before finished something of this magnitude, and it is largely due to the support I have recieved. Thank you all, and I am looking forward to writing the sequel, and other fanfictions after that. Please stay with me, your support and encouragement means more to me than I can express.
Please enjoy, and review!
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Chapter 36: To The Gates Of Hell, I Will Follow You
Paris, 1872
One year and three months after the disaster at the Opera Populaire
Christine had never been one to cry onstage. But one year later, as she looked out over the audience and took her bows, she could not help the few tears that ran down her cheeks as she heard the people of Paris applaud her for the last time.
She saw Erik, sitting in Box 5—he was the only one who dared rent that box, a matter that he and Christine laughed over often—debonair and dashing as always in a black suit, his white porcelain mask firmly affixed to one side of his face. He was still as reclusive as ever, preferring to sit in their modest home and compose music or draw sketches of buildings, or, more often, draw her.
But in the year since their reconciliation, he had not missed a single performance.
She would miss this—the applause, the shouts, the cheers, the flowers thrown onto the stage, the bouquets in her dressing room. She would miss the bustle backstage before and after performances, the congratulations and feeling of accomplishment that made the grueling hours of rehearsal worth it.
Perhaps she would perform again, wherever she and Erik finally settled. But it would never be the same. Here, she performed for the people that were as much a part of her as if she had been born Parisian, as if she had lived all her years in France.
She hardly remembered Sweden, so young had she been when she and her father had left to come to Paris.
Yes, this was her home. And as she stood on the stage and received Paris' applause for the last time, she felt the ache of leaving it more strongly than ever.
-
"He was here, Christine!"
Meg tugged on Christine's laces as the older girl prepared to attend a post-performance party, an event that often became rather tedious. But tonight, Christine was glad to be going. The knowledge that she was leaving had made the time spent with her friends and acquaintances within the opera house a great deal more precious.
Meg was already dressed, attired in a lovely blue gown that brought out the blonde of her hair, pale and shiny as cornsilk, and arranged into a style that made her look older than her sixteen years. She was the prima ballerina now, having acquired the position shortly after Sorelli left.
"Did you hear me, Christine?"
Christine nodded absently, Meg's observation further dampening any happiness she might have felt this evening.
Raoul, too, had not missed one performance in the year that had passed since they had parted for good. He had never spoken to her, not once, but their eyes had met many times, and after every performance, she had found a pink rose, tied with a white ribbon, lying on her dressing-table.
I will love you forever.
It was not strange to her that a man such as Raoul would know the meaning of pink and white in roses. Nor was it strange to her that he would leave a symbol so like the red rose, tied with a black ribbon, that Erik had left her so many times.
Each time she left it on her dresser until it died, then kept the petals. A drawer in the table was filled with the withered pink remains, leftover from a year's worth of performances. The ribbons she threw away.
Meg was hopelessly in love with the Viscomte, blushing to her hairline every time he passed her, and she was hardly able to form a coherent sentence if he ever spoke to her.
Christine knew that Madame Giry would whole-heartedly approve of such a match, but she doubted that Raoul would ever pursue the young ballerina. Romance within the Populaire held far too many painful memories for him.
Christine and Erik had not spoken of Raoul, or of Giselle, since that fateful afternoon in the labyrinth. The only reminder of the beautiful young prostitute was a detailed sketch that hung in Erik's drawing room. Christine was not jealous. There were portraits and sketches of Christine everywhere in the house, and she did not begrudge the dead girl this small memorial.
Erik had told her something of the three days that Giselle had spent in the lair, and Christine had come to understand what a mark the girl had left on his soul. She did not begrudge her that bond, either. In fact, she was grateful to Giselle for what she had done. She knew that the girl had had a hand in bringing Erik back to her. Many a time she had taken a moment after Mass to light a candle in memory of the young woman.
The living reminder was Raoul.
Her heart broke each time she saw the pain in Raoul's eyes, the longing and love in his gaze, the adoring way he looked at her when he stood up and applauded her loudly at each performance, as though she were a queen, a goddess…an angel.
Christine wondered if she would ever see him carefree and boyish again.
She looked at Meg as the younger girl drew a gown out of the wardrobe and began another stream of chattering in regards to how beautiful Christine would look, and she hoped that perhaps, after she had left, Raoul would notice Meg, or perhaps some other young girl, and find happiness with someone else.
Anywhere you go.
"I broke our promise first, Raoul. There is no wrong in going on with your life." she whispered, so softly that even Meg did not hear it.
The engagement ring that Raoul had given her lay, ever sparkling and vibrant, in a drawer in her dressing table. It had been there for over a year, resting quietly among the dried rose petals.
"Go on, Meg." she said when at last she was finished dressing. "I'll be along shortly."
She drew a piece of stationery and a fine-tipped pen from another drawer, and began to write.
Dear Raoul,
By the time you read this, I will have already set sail for wherever it is that I am going. I do not know, really, except that it is somewhere in Europe—Erik has made all the plans. I suppose we may go to England, and he says that I must see Italy. I would like to visit Sweden again as well. I do not remember anything except France, for the most part, but I do remember the house by the sea, and I would like to visit it again.
Where we will finally settle, I do not know. Perhaps someplace in Europe, or perhaps we will go to America. Opera is becoming popular there, and no doubt there will be a way for Erik to support us with his compositions.
Wherever we go, I have made Erik promise me this, that when I die, he will bury me in the cemetery where my father is buried. Perhaps then, you can visit my grave, and remember me as I was in happier times.
Wherever life takes you, Raoul, if we do not speak again, know that the memories of what we shared will always be precious to me. You are in my thoughts and prayers daily, and I wish you only happiness.
Forgive me any pain I caused you.
When you think of me, as no doubt you will, think of your childhood sweetheart. Think of the picnics in the attic and the stories we read while Father played the violin. Think of the afternoon when my scarf flew into the sea and you rescued it. Think of only the happy times that we shared, dear friend, and I promise that I will think of them as well.
Forever your loving friend,
Christine
She slipped the letter into an envelope, sealed it, and put it into her handbag.
-
Erik was sitting in an armchair next to the fire when Christine entered their bedroom late that night.
"Did you enjoy yourself?"
She nodded tiredly, leaning over to give him a kiss before turning so that he could undo her laces. "Firmin and Andre are still trying desperately to convince me to stay for another season. They declare that the Populaire will go out of business if I am not there. I suggested that they rehire Carlotta, and Firmin nearly went into a fit of apoplexy."
"You have acquired my sense of humor, Christine." Erik remarked dryly.
She smiled wanly and he regarded her with some concern. "Are you certain about leaving, Christine?"
She turned to face him, her face serious. "You know that I would stay in Paris all my life if it was not for you, Erik. But I know that we both need this. There is too much here, too many memories, too many reminders of the lies and deceits that we put each other through. There are no new beginnings for us in Paris. We should not have stayed this year, but I felt so guilty leaving when I had only just signed the contract. Now my contract is finished, and I know that this is the right thing to do, Erik. I will miss it terribly—Paris has been my home for as long as I can remember, but anywhere will be home if you are there, my love."
"I don't deserve you, Christine." he murmured softly, a hand going to the uncovered right side of his face.
She pulled the hand away and clasped it tightly in hers. "No, Erik, it is I who do not deserve you. You deserve so much better than what you have been given so far, and that is why I say we should leave. Paris will forever see you as the Opera Ghost, the deformed madman who terrorized the citizens and destroyed the opera. You are a phantom to them, but elsewhere, you will only be an unfortunate man. And when they see what genius lies within you, they will accept you, and then when one day your operas are being performed at the Populaire, you may come back and laugh. It will be you, Erik Couturier, who has the last laugh in this life, not those who have scorned you all your life."
"If you are certain, my dear."
She gently turned his face so that he looked into her eyes. There was no hesitation in her answer.
"Erik, I would go with you anywhere. Be it to the very gates of Hell, I would follow you."
-
Raoul was not at the docks when they boarded the ship to Italy. Madame Giry and Meg were the only two who came to bid them farewell.
Meg hugged Christine tightly again and again, tears rising in her eyes as she said goodbye to her friend.
"I'll miss you so much, Christine!"
"I'll write you every week, Meg. And you must write me, too. You must tell me all the gossip, and all of the mischief that the ballet rats have been up to."
"I will!" Meg promised.
Christine turned to Madame Giry. She embraced the older woman warmly, tears spilling down her cheeks.
"Thank you for everything, Madame." She paused uncertainly and bit her lip. "I wish…"
Madame Giry nodded. There was no need for words, she understood perfectly. To leave Paris was to escape the pain, to build a new life where she was only Christine and he was only Erik.
"I'll write." Christine managed through her tears.
Madame Giry nodded, and turned her eyes to Erik. "Take care of her, Erik." she admonished.
He stepped forwards and embraced her. "Goodbye, Antoinette."
She took his face in her hands and looked into his eyes. "Do not forget."
And as he smiled, eyes suspiciously moist, she knew that he would not.
-
Sweden, 1862
Six months laterErik and Christine stood on the cliff, the warm summer sun shining down on them, looking at the place where the old house had been.
"Are you sure this is the place?" Erik asked, looking at the bare patch of land that Christine was gazing at so fondly.
"I'm sure." She wiped away a tear. "It's gone, Erik."
He put his arm around her waist and drew her close. "I'm sorry, Christine."
She shook her head. "It's just as well."
They stood there a moment longer, the warm breeze ruffling her hair and wrapping the skirt of her thin dress about her ankles. She had come barefoot, had leapt off of her horse—she and Erik had rented two from a livery in the town for the ride out to the sea—and run through the long grass as carefree as a child, eliciting a smile and a laugh from Erik. He did both so often lately.
She closed her eyes, inhaling the scent of sun warmed grass and salty ocean air. "Isn't it beautiful, Erik?"
"It is," he agreed. "It is beautiful."
She thought she could hear the faint strains of a violin in the distance, and impulsively she reached out and grabbed Erik's hand. "Do you hear that?"
"Hear what, Christine?"
"The violin." She tilted her head back so that the sun shone on her face. "Look, father!" she shouted joyfully, her fingers curling tightly with Erik's. "See your Angel of Music!"
She turned to face Erik, and she entwined the fingers of both her hands in both of his. She smiled, and he thought she had never looked more beautiful than she did then, her long, curly hair loose and flying about in the breeze, her pale face glowing in the sun, wearing only the thin white cotton gown with the small embroidered flowers that she loved so much, her feet bare. She looked free at last, and Erik knew then that their decision to leave six months ago had been the right one.
It had freed them both.
She smiled up at him. "Thank you, father," she whispered softly, matching her gaze to Erik's. "Thank you for the Angel of Music." She leaned forwards and kissed him, her palm flat and warm against the right side of his face. "Thank you for Erik."
She tossed her hair back and looked out over the sea. "Where are we going to go next, Erik?"
He smiled. "Have you ever seen Greece?"
He knew that she hadn't.
She shook her head, eyes alight. "Let's go."
He kissed her again and turned to collect the horses from where they stood grazing.
Christine remained on the cliff for a moment longer, staring out across the ocean. She lay her hands across her stomach for a moment, still flat under the loose cotton dress, her waist still possessing all of its shapely curve.
"Where would you like to go, little one? The world is yours."
She reached up and slowly drew something from her bodice. With a quick flick of her wrist, it sailed over the edge of the cliff and into the breeze.
She turned and followed Erik down to the meadow. She smiled at him, her secret twinkling in her eyes as she spurred her horse into a gallop, laughing at the surprise on his face.
He shot after her, and her musical laugh combined with his deep chuckle, echoing across the meadow, as beautiful as any song.
And behind them, a red silk scarf drifted on the breeze, and then floated down to rest on the water, to go wherever the waves should choose.