Chapter Two – Farewell to a Friend and Mysterious Men

Paris 1874

Christine

I stare out of the window of the black mourning carriage through my sheer black veil. The day is drenched in blissfully cooling rain, but it allows me no pleasure. Lydia and Samuel, along with their daughter Amanda, sit across from me, their faces expressionless but for Lydia, her cheeks coated in a translucent mask of salty tears.

My hands are folded in my lap, my fingers playing with each other, when I feel a little appendage take my own fragile and cold one. Little Amanda, not even five, has grasped my hand from across the carriage. "Auntie Christine?"

"Yes, Amanda?" I respond kindly, taking the time to smile at my niece.

"Why is Mommy crying so much?" I close my eyes and inhale deeply, savoring the chill air in my nostrils.

"Mommy's crying, bien-aimé, because she has lost something very dear to her." I cannot bear to tell Amanda the truth of her uncle's demise. She barely knew the man and I'd loathe myself for telling a child something I am not prepared to tell her. "She's lost something that she's known for nearly her whole life. Give her time to get used to life without it. She will be crying a lot."

"Don't be an ignoramus, Christine de Chagny," Lydia snaps rudely. "Tell the child the truth or say nothing at all. I will not have my daughter told lies." I fall into silence, a silence so deafening it could destroy the ears of God. To pass the time, I fiddle with my veil and my nearly-gothic black mourning dress. On my finger is the ring Raoul gave me to signify our engagement, a stunning Swarovski creation, though nothing like its predecessor...

Stop it, Christine. Don't think about that. You swore that you would not think of those times. I clear my mind of anything to do with my life before being le Vicomtesse de Chagny as we pull up to the cemetery. Vivid memories of my last visit here bring long-postponed tears to my eyes, and I take Amanda's hand for comfort. With her big blue eyes she looks up at me, wondering why her aunt would squeeze her hand ever so tightly, but I pretend I can't see her expression.

Amanda, Lydia, Samuel and I walk down the gravel path to the cemetery, our eyes on the ground. About ten feet from the gate, we are passed by a tall man in a long cape. I cast my gaze upwards and see that he is wearing a black fedora that's brim is lowered down over the side of his face. I think nothing of it, but Amanda nudges me in the side and whispers, "He looks like the Devil in disguise."

"Don't you ever go near mysterious men, Amanda," her mother says coolly, looking at me with confused eyes. I give her a serious gaze, reminding her not to even think about my experiences with mysterious men. Stop it! You're not supposed to be thinking about that! I look down at little Amanda, her blonde curls blowing about in the breeze as she walks, thinking about how much she reminds me of Meg. I curse myself knowing that I ruined Meg's chances of marrying a Marquis, and in turn earned his companionship for myself. I ever I needed Raoul, it would be now.

Erik

Le Vicomte de Chagny is dead. Le Vicomte de Chagny is dead from natural causes, nonetheless. I breathe freely knowing that he is no longer around keeping Christine from me. Then again, why would she return to a monster, even after her snobbish husband is dead? I never held anything against Raoul personally, save for his having Christine as a wife. Maybe I owe it to him to visit his grave, seeing as I let him live voluntarily when I could've killed him just as easily.

I leave my organ bench, where I have been reading the daily paper that Antoinette brings me, and proceed into my chambers. Finding the closet, I pull out a nice suit, fully black, of course, and put it on. I walk to the washroom and clean myself up, though I cannot see how well I've done at it in the absence of mirrors. I go over to my bureau and remove my white mask, placing it on the polished wood. I adjust my hairpiece, making it look as natural as possible, and slip a black mask on, knowing from practice that it is in place.

My footsteps echo harmoniously around the cavern as I walk out onto the shore to fetch my cape and fedora from their proper places on my coat rack. I throw my cape about my shoulders and position the fedora so it all but covers my face, leaving no room for people to tell that I am in fact masked. I pull aside one of the sliding doors in my wall and hurry out into Paris.

The day is rather dreary, clouds casting ominous shadows on the roads and buildings. Nobody takes the time to pay attention to me, the ridiculous-looking black-clad stranger in their city. I, however, see them as the intruders upon me. Their thundering carriages can sometimes be heard from my lair, making it hard to sleep or even to think.

I am generally familiar with the cemetery in which le Vicomte is being buried, seeing as I have visited before. Unfortunately, my most recent visit was nearly four years prior to this date, and it is a day I do not wish to remember.

The guests have not yet arrived for the burial, but I see the ornate casket of one who could only be nobility resting beside a freshly-dug gravesite. I inch closer and stand mere feet from it. Yes, the name emblazoned upon it is recognizable; le Vicomte Raoul Harrison de Chagny. I can only imagine my poor little Christine weeping over his death. It serves her right for marrying him. Don't you curse Christine, Erik. It's not her fault you're a monster rather than a wealthy vicomte.

Tipping my hat to the casket, I speak softly, "Best wishes to you," then add, if only for Christine's sake, "my friend." Guests have started to file in towards the grave, so I take my leave, turning around and walking briskly out of the cemetery, the bitter wind prodding my face with its icy fingers.

As I round the corner past the gates, I see a group of mourners coming slowly towards me. There is a couple on the younger side of middle aged. The woman looks to be a de Chagny from her hair and her stature, though her husband is much burlier. There is a little girl as well, her blonde curls dancing in the air as she walks, who I assume to be their daughter. But she does not hold her mother's, even her father's hand.

Beside the little girl is a woman, clearly of less age than the de Chagny one, dressed in a long, completely obscuring black dress that looks more like a sack, but it shows enough for me to know that she is indeed very slender, almost to the point of breakable. Her hair is covered in a black hat and veil, but I can see a few loose, curly brown tendrils that have loosed themselves, hanging limply by the side of her face. Her face is somber, expressionless.

The little girl stares blankly at me and I pretend to ignore her. She appears to speak to her mother, and in turn the mother responds, but looks at the other woman with scrutiny and confusion. The woman turns to look at me as we pass, and I catch a glimpse of her face, though she cannot see me beneath the shadow of my fedora's brim. Large, sad brown eyes peer out at me and I nearly collapse on the spot; Christine.

I whirl around, raising my hand as if I will call her, but she is gone. Slowly, I lower my hand and sigh mournfully. Serves you right, Erik. Serves you right for ignoring her all these years, not bothering to look for her.

Struck with a sudden idea, and knowing that I've attracted attention, I walk out of the cemetery and around a corner, looking at many of the headstones from the back. Sneakily, almost catlike, I slip around the edge of the cemetery and walk down some of the back pathways until I've reached a familiar one. I walk down its length and find myself at a large tomb engraved with the name "Daaè." With great swiftness, I hide behind the tomb, just waiting. Somewhere deep inside myself, I know that she will come.

My thoughts prove true after quite a long while. Down the path walks le Vicomtesse de Chagny, her footsteps gentle and slow. She has removed her hat and veil, allowing her hair to flow down her shoulders in a chocolate mass of curls. Though just as beautiful as I remember, she looks like she has gained many more years than the few she has. Her eyes have deep circles around them, her face paler than a corpse's. My beautiful little angel, reduced to a sobbing, ghostly skeleton.

Christine walks to the tomb, mere feet from where I hide, and kneels upon the stone steps. I look to see if she is praying, but she is merely sitting and crying. I cannot stop myself. I hear my own voice echo softly, "Wandering child, so lost, so helpless, yearning for my guidance!" Christine jerks to attention, casting her wide-eyed gaze around the clearing, seeing nothing but chill air and fog.

My heart leaps as I hear her voice, "Angel of Music, you must leave now! I have sworn not to see you!" Tears force themselves away from the barrier of my eyelids, trailing down my cheeks from under the mask and pooling in little droplets at my chin.

"Oh, Christine, what's happened to you?" I ask myself quietly. Her voice is broken, it need of some tender care and guidance, but even in its spoiled state it could make the Devil Himself weep. Le Vicomtesse stands and positions her hat atop her unruly curls yet again, taking her leave from the sight. "I swear, Christine, I'll save you from this. One day I'll find you. You alone can make my song take flight! I'll bring to you the Music of the Night!"