Thanks to everyone who has responded so positively to this story. A few new readers/reviewers have even joined us. In this chapter we get a glimpse of this strange situation from someone who finds himself caught in the midst of a story not his own.
Through Tristan's Eyes
Christine's hastily written note had in no way prepared Tristan for his experience at the opera house. Finding Madame Giry had been simple enough, though without her help he doubted he could have left the Vicomte behind. She had simply told the young man that Christine would be mortified to be seen by her husband-to-be in her sickbed. Eager to please, the Vicomte remained behind with Madame Giry's daughter, Meg, for company.
He had assumed after that it would be a simple matter of following Madame Giry to Monsieur Angel's home. He had not realized the lengths Christine Daaé was prepared to go to in the protection of her teacher. To her credit, Madame Giry apologized for the blindfold and for the close proximity to his person necessitated by the very long walk down a winding staircase. She was not one for idle chatter, most of the conversation consisting of "Step up. Step down. Watch your head," but he would be lying if he said he found having her arm wrapped through his to be unpleasant.
"We are close now," Madame Giry finally said. Tristan could hear the sound of water lapping against stone as well as the haunting echo of someone crying. "Step up, and watch your head," she commanded.
He did so, coming to a halt when he felt her hand go to the blindfold. He blinked in the sudden light, the few candles seeming like the sun after the long darkness. "This way, Monsieur."
Tristan followed her past what looked like the edge of an underground lake and up a short stone staircase into a bedchamber. The first thing that caught his attention was the huge bed in the shape of a black swan that dominated the room. The second was the foul smell of infection and the number of bloody towels strewn around the small, huddled figure on the floor next to the bed. Madame Giry went to her at once, helping the poor girl up, moving her out of the way so Tristan could attend to his patient.
Monsieur Angel lay on his back in the bed, his eyes closed, his skin pale. Tristan quickly took a pulse, finding it strong, if not slightly slower than he would have liked. His next action was to examine the wound for sepsis. His eyes widened slightly in astonishment as he looked it over. It was a healthy color, the edges held together by stitches neater than any he had ever left in a patient.
Christine Daaé gave a small sob, and Tristan turned in time to hear her say, "I've killed him…"
Quickly, he reassured her that she had not, taking her hand, guiding her fingers to the pulse that beat strongly at Monsieur Angel's throat. She touched her Angel's cheek, his eyes opening in response to the strange connection he shared with the girl. "Christine…" he whispered.
It was too much for her. She collapsed in a faint, Tristan catching her before she could hit the ground. "Christine," Monsieur Angel called again, his voice full of worry.
"She is fine, Monsieur, simply exhausted. It seems saving your life took quite a bit out of her." He glanced around the room, looking for someplace to set the young woman down.
Groaning, the man in the bed moved over. "Put her here. There is no place else."
It was highly improper to Tristan's mind, but there was no help for it. Carefully, he laid her on the mattress next to Monsieur Angel. Madame Giry stepped in then, putting a pillow under Christine's head, tucking the blankets around both her and her Angel. She brushed a strand of hair out of Christine's face and then ran her hand over Monsieur Angel's cheek. "Rest now, Erik. I will watch over her."
He caught her hand as she drew back, squeezing it. "Thank you, Cecilié, for all you have done for Christine."
For the first time since he had met her, Tristan saw Madame Giry smile. "You are not the only one who loves her. Now be quiet and let her sleep." When the man closed his eyes, she turned to face Tristan. "Come, I think we can leave them be for the moment." Frowning at the dirty towels on the floor, she gathered them up then raised an eyebrow at the physician, inclining her head toward the door.
Giving one last glance to the unlikely couple in the bed, Tristan followed her from the room.
Madame Giry led Tristan back down the stairs and into the large chamber that seemed to serve as Monsieur Angel's parlor. Perhaps music room or study would be a better term he thought as he noted the pipe organ and stacks of sheet music, books and artist's supplies piled everywhere. As wondrous as those were, it was the water lapping against the side of the stairs and the small boat tied up near where he and Madame Giry had entered that he found fascinating.
Turning to Madame Giry, who was stuffing the dirty towels into a cloth bag, he asked, "Has there always been a lake under the opera house?"
"Oui, Monsieur. It was built on marshland that had to be drained for construction. Once it was finished, they let the water return."
"And Monsieur Angel, he has lived here a long time?"
Madame Giry frowned even as she moved piles of paper from two chairs so they could sit. "Over twenty years." She looked toward the bedchamber warily. "Come, sit down, Doctor. It is not healthy to pry too deeply into Erik's affairs."
Gazing longingly at the books stacked in the far corner, he did as she asked, but was unable to keep silent. His curiosity was what had drawn him to medicine, he had always had an insatiable need to know the how and why of everything. And what greater mystery than a man who lived in the shadows under an opera house? "Christine's Angel has a temper, then?"
Madame Giry pressed a hand to her mouth. "Monsieur, please!"
"I'm sorry, Madame, but I feel like an actor in a play in which I have been given only my lines, with no idea of where they go. Mademoiselle Daaé has asked for my help and I have given it—to a man wanted by the police if the Vicomte is to be believed."
At that, Madame Giry began to cry.
Tristan shook his head. There was a reason he had never married, and this was it. Somehow, when it came to women, he seemed to always be saying the wrong thing. "Madame Giry, please, don't cry. I have no intention of betraying Monsieur Angel. It's just that I know only enough to be dangerous to him, enough to make a mistake and arouse the Vicomte's suspicions. And he is suspicious enough, believe me."
Removing a lace-edged handkerchief from her sleeve, Madame Giry wiped her eyes. "I'm sorry, Doctor. I explained about the Phantom to the Vicomte the other night, after the Bal Masqué, and you see how well that turned out. His heart was like stone, not a shred of compassion for my Erik."
"I would hear this story, if you could bear telling it again."
She raised her eyes heavenward and sighed, but she still told him of the gypsy carnival and the small boy locked in a cage, beaten by a brute of a man, forced to show his deformed face to the catcalls and laughter of the crowds. "And so I rescued him, brought him here, and he has lived here ever since. All this—" she gestured at the artwork, the music surrounding them, "—he has taught himself just from observing what goes on in the opera house. He is a genius, Monsieur."
"And a murderer?" Tristan asked.
Looking away again, she nodded. "If one believes that there is no one in the world deserving of death. I would have killed the man who kept Erik in that cage if I had not been just a girl. I have seen many horrible things in my lifetime, but nothing as evil as that man."
"And the stagehand, what was his name? Buquet, did he deserve to die as well?" When Madame Giry had mentioned the Phantom, Tristan had recalled the incident from the fall. It had been in all the papers.
"I don't know. Perhaps. He was much too fond of little girls. I was always finding him in the dormitories, telling them frightening stories, or skulking around the dressing rooms. I never caught him with any of them, but that does not mean he didn't try to put his filthy hands on them. Even Madame Buquet does not miss him." She sighed again, and pressed the handkerchief to her eyes. "I know I am making excuses for him, but he has suffered so much, and he truly loves Christine…." Her voice trailed off. "She saved him, you know."
"Yes, I know. I was there," Tristan replied feeling more confused now that he knew Monsieur Angel's story than he had when he knew nothing.
"No, Doctor, I don't mean tonight. She saved him ten years ago, when he was going mad with the knowledge he was doomed to spend his life alone. He was angry all the time then, at the world for despising him, at me for bringing him here where he felt trapped. He wanted what we all want, a friend, someone to talk to, someone who would listen to him."
"The same things he wants now—"
"The things he has now, in Christine. When I first brought her here to live, when her father died, she was a lonely, unhappy child. She spent most of her time in the chapel, grieving and praying for her father. Erik heard her crying one day and came to me, wanting to know who she was. When I told him about her father, he realized that here was someone just like him, all alone in the world. He began to sing to her from the shadows, he talked to her, became her secret friend. And Christine, oh, Christine blossomed. She had an Angel of Music looking out for her, as her father had promised." Pausing, Madame Giry wiped at her eyes again.
Tristan shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "Madame, from your description, their relationship is based on a lie perpetrated years ago."
"You weren't there." Christine stood at the bottom of the stairs, her eyes flashing indignantly, her whole being trembling with rage. "Our love was not born of a lie, but of a child's wish for someone to love her, and my Angel's dream of someone to love. And love me he does, in spite of the heartache and pain I have caused him. How can I not love him in return?"
He should have known better. Any woman with the courage to do the things Christine Daaé had done over the past two days would not tolerate aspersions being cast on the depth of her love. For a moment, Tristan felt a pang of jealousy. What he would not have given at one point in his life for a woman such as her, all fire and passion, magnificent in her anger, more beautiful still in the compassion and tenderness she showed her Angel with every look, every touch. No wonder the Angel lost his heart to her. But, alas, Tristan was long beyond the time when he had the mental and physical energy for such a spirited woman.
Christine put her hand on the stone wall, swaying slightly. Tristan began to rise, feeling something was wrong. She spoke again. "If you wish to know how I feel, why I choose to be here, then ask me. Do not make assumptions about my life."
In front of her now, his gaze intent on her face, Tristan asked, "How do you feel now, Christine?"
"Funny," she answered as she began to slide down the wall, "I feel very funny." She landed in a sitting position on the floor, the expression on her face puzzled.
Grabbing her wrist to take her pulse, Tristan could feel tiny tremors rocking her. Her heartbeat was pounding against his fingers, her skin wet with sweat. "Christine," he called to her.
Her eyelids fluttered. "I'm so tired."
"Christine, when was the last time you ate?"
Her brow furrowed in concentration. "I don't remember."
Tristan glanced over his shoulder at Madame Giry who was wringing her hands anxiously. "I need something sweet, now! Fruit, sugar, anything like that."
She moved away for a moment then was back with a basket. "Meg brought them food earlier, but it was then we found out Erik was sick. Christine must have forgotten all about eating in her worry for him." She pawed through the contents of the basket, coming up with a somewhat squashed piece of cake. "It was Jammes birthday. Meg thought Christine might like a piece." Breaking off a bit that was mostly sugary icing, she held it to the girl's lips. "Christine!" At the sound of her name, Christine opened her mouth, and Madame Giry popped the cake inside.
"You've done this before," Tristan said.
The woman nodded. "Christine gets dizzy spells if she does not eat." Seeing that Christine had swallowed, she gave her another bite of cake. "Usually she is very good about keeping to her meal schedule, but the past two days…eh!" She shook her head. "I should have been paying more attention."
"It is understandable that you were not. I imagine the Vicomte was running you ragged."
Christine grabbed Madame Giry's hand. "What has he been doing?" she asked, her mind sounding somewhat clearer after the ingestion of sugar. She took the rest of the cake from the other woman and continued eating, looking back and forth between Tristan and Madame Giry.
"I have told him that your Angel died after surgery, Mademoiselle. He seemed quite glad of the news, I'm afraid," Tristan said.
Closing her eyes, Christine sighed. "I have made such a mess of things. Poor Raoul! I told him I would marry him. Now I shall have to break his heart." She looked back toward the bedroom, her eyes filling with tears. "As I broke my Angel's heart not so long ago." Turning her gaze to Madame Giry, she said in a whisper, "He has said things that make me believe the night of Il Muto he was on the rooftop with Raoul and I, hiding. He heard every word I said about him to Raoul, saw me kiss him, saw Raoul declare his love for me." She wrapped her arms about herself, shivering with emotion, feeling her Angel's pain. "I have been such a stupid, foolish girl. I have done nothing but cause hurt to men who wanted nothing more than to love me. I truly deserve neither of them…"
"Do not feel sorry for the Vicomte," Tristan said, unable to keep his dislike of the man from his tone. "He showed no remorse at being told he had killed Monsieur Angel. I do not think he even considers him human. He is a good example of the folly of elevating one man above another solely based on his heritage. A man should be revered for his deeds, not the accident of his birth."
"Can you stand, Christine?" Madame Giry asked. When the girl nodded, Madame Giry helped her to her feet and led her over to a chair. She went through the basket of food, making up a plate for her. Christine dutifully began to eat.
Between bites, she asked Tristan, "What will you tell Raoul about me?"
Checking his watch to find that he had been gone from the upper levels of the opera house nearly three hours, Tristan replied, "I will tell him that you are suffering from exhaustion and nerves. It is close enough to the truth. I recommend bed rest for at least a week, and regular meals. But now I should go give a report to the Vicomte, as he is probably climbing the walls. Let me check on Monsieur Angel once more and then you can lead me back, Madame Giry."
Christine followed him to the bedchamber, hovering anxiously as the physician checked the sleeping Phantom's temperature and pulse one last time.
"He should probably sleep the rest of the night. If he wakes up and is in pain, another dose of morphine will not harm him."
"He hates it," Christine said. "It is a measure of how much he is hurting that he asks for it at all."
"Probably good to use it sparingly then. Some people come to like it so much that they do not want to give it up. I shall return in the morning."
"I will find somewhere for you to sleep, Monsieur," Madame Giry offered. "It is the least we can do."
"Yes, thank you. Shall we go?"
Christine climbed into the bed, careful not to wake her Angel. "Thank you again, Dr. Jarred. I am truly sorry for all the trouble we have put you through. I do not envy you your conversation with Raoul. He can be quite stubborn."
Tristan gave her a smile. "As can I, Mademoiselle, when it comes to my patient's best interests." With that, he followed Madame Giry from the room, submitting once again to the blindfold and the long, dark walk back up the stairs.
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