But I have resolved, you see, to commit to this history, and I fear turning away from it as much as continuing. Let me then return to the narrative and away from these contemplations; maddening mind-games, as easy as they are to play.
As I said, before the death of my father, I had been installed in a choir in France. In this town, the Vicomte de Chagny was my friend and playmate. We met on a day he was out with his governess, on which he rescued the scarf I was wearing when it blew away into the sea. I gave him a kiss in thanks, and that is how we met. I still find it terribly romantic.
My father played the violin and told us stories, and Raoul, dear, sweet lad that he was, called me little Lotte, after the girl in them. The matter of gender was never, you see addressed. We were far too young for such matters, and I... I could not have answered such a question one way or the other. I was a child of the Angel of Music, so said my father, and angels are sexless and beautiful, lonely and brilliant. He told us storied of the Angel of Music-- wonderful tales, full of promises. But Raoul, to acquit him early, never suspected anything of my true nature at that time, and, to his credit, I believe he heard the name Christine, no matter what was said to him. I know he believed me a girl, even then.
After the death of my father, I stayed with the choir only until I was sixteen. I had a horror of blades, and never allowed the monks to cut my hair, so, when it came upon me to leave, it seemed quite natural to do so disguised as a woman. And where else should a child without home, or family, or prospects go? To Paris, of course, and the great Opera Houses, to seek one's fortunes. It was a very short time, considering the excellency of my training, before I had obtained a position of a chorus girl at The Opera house, and had arranged lodgings with an excellent lady I called Mamma Valerius, who had known my father when we were still travelling, and who I remembered quite fondly as living now in Montmartre. She remembered my father, and that he had a child, though the woman was quite old by this time, and did not remember what sort of child it was. She recalled only my voice, and that, for reasons which you know, had not at all changed!
I made few friends at the Opera really: I was close with the daughter of matron who kept the boxes, a wonderful woman called Madame Giry. Her little daughter Meg was and has been my faithful companion and friend, and her devotion to me and to my family is complete. And no small wonder, she has given to myself and my husband the greatest gift a couple could ask for: our son, Richars. She is named god-mother of the boy, and only we three know the secret of his origins. When I say that she is faithful in this matter, know that she considers me the true mother, and herself only the vessel for the love that Raoul and I share. The sweet, wonderful girl. Had I been whole, had there not been Raoul, had... oh, any number of things not happened as they did, who knows what life might have been like!? Do you ever dream like that, sweet Meg? Perhaps it would shame you to know that I have, on occasion. But I am a happy woman, happy in my family, in my friends, and in my circumstances.
Why then, do I write this? Why do I risk throwing it all away upon the chance of discovery of this hard evidence?
Because what of my life has not been a great risk, for fear of what might be discovered beneath my skirts; the mask I wear.
And again, there is that, a thing which has not been spoken of save in shushed tones since it happened, a thing talked of so rarely and so quietly, a thing so monstrous and so amazing that I am occasionally tempted to think myself mad, my own memories a terrible delusion! I remember it all clearly, but as one remembers a nightmare. But Raoul was there and Meg was there, and occasionally, I can coax one of them to drop some hint that I am not, in fact insane, that I remember what I remember truly. I wish that was more comforting to me than it is. I wish that... oh, confound what I wish! Here it is: I am writing this confession to write about Erik, and to tell what happened; the curious tale of that horrible monster who was my kindred soul, and whom, I pray, is mercifully destroyed. I say kindred, yes, I have written it! This script is for Erik, in whatever hell he burns or heaven he sings, and I think that it is some still-lingering shade of him that compels me now to write these cursed, terrible, condemning lines.
I tell this story, I believe, to exorcise him from me, once and for all.