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Chapter 2 – Life Continues

They regarded each other in silence, the disfigured man and the thin, black-clad woman. The only sounds were the monotonous drip of water off the walls and the wet scenery, and the gurgle of the gutter.

At length, Madame Giry spoke.

"So, Monsieur Opera Ghost. We meet again."

Erik glared up at her resentfully. He made an angry flourish at the ruined half of his face. "A ghost no longer, madame. As you no doubt see."

"Ah. Then you prefer a different title now..." Here she removed something from her bag and showed it to him. "The Phantom of the Bakery, perhaps?"

Erik made a low growl in the back of his throat, lashing out at her mocking hand, but she merely took a step back, holding the bread away from him.

"You mock me!"

"I do."

Erik struggled to his feet. "I assure you, madame, if you have come here to jeer at my humiliation—"

"You will kill me, too?"

Something in Madame Giry's face made him stand still.

"I have never believed that humiliation is anything to jeer at," she said. "Perhaps you have forgotten."

Her words were very quiet, but Erik suddenly felt much as an insect must feel, pinned to a board. Long-buried images tried to surface in his memory, and it took all his strength to hold them back: flashes of a whip, a gypsy man, straw, a sack over his head, the music box knocked from the fingers of 'the Devil's Child! Come and see, the Devil's Child!'...And the girl in a patched ballet frock, who took him by the hand and helped him flee.

"You little fool."

Erik stared. "What did you say?"

"You fool!" Madame Giry's eyes flashed. "You ten kinds of fool! I have spent years mourning your fate, shielding you, fearing you, justifying – but no. No! Do you understand? You threw away every kindness, every chance of life at you own vengeful, miserable self-pity!"

"You dare—"

"Tais-toi! How dare you snivel when poor Carlotta is weeping for her lost lover, when Joseph Buquet is dead! When all of us, every singer, every actor, have had our lives upended and our livelihood destroyed! Murderer!"

"The world..." Erik gasped.

"Oh, don't give me that – merde! You have seen cruelty, yes, terrible cruelty – but you would have seen compassion too, and goodness, if you had but looked."

She paused, breathing hard. A few strands of hair had come loose from her braid, and she raised her hands and fell silent, impossibly, taking the time to pin her hair back in place. Erik could only watch.

When she resumed her tirade, she kept one hand up in the air for a moment, showing him, then dropped it to her side.

"I am done holding my hands at the level of my eyes, monsieur. From now on, I will look well to see where I am going. I advise you to do the same."

"Indeed." Erik found he had regained the faculty of speech, though not the use of his though not the use of his legs, which were shaking madly. "And how, pray, am I to do that? I am a murderer, madame. And a fool. As you have so ... eloquently pointed out."

"Yes. You are that. You are also homeless, filthy, and living on food which, I daresay, will do nothing more than let you die fat. If you intend to live, I suggest you find a residence other than this gutter."

Erik gave a short, disbelieving laugh. "I seem to have burned down my opera house. Where would you have me go?"

He had expected another lashing of her vicious sarcasm. Instead, she reached into her purse and held something out to him. It was a small card.

"You have skills, monsieur, which is more than can be said of a lot of other architects in this city. Skills which, to some, will quite outweigh the eccentricity of hiring a man with a scar over half his face."

She held out the card. "I know this gentleman. He will not see your face, or your wretched state, when he sees your sketches."

Erik tried to snatch the card from her, but found to his dismay that his hands were shaking as badly as his legs. He nearly dropped it into the mud before Madame Giry placed it securely into his palm.

The engraved writing read: "M. Jean-Marie Duchamp and Associates. Architects. 2, rue de la Sorbonne."

"I will let him know to expect you."

He could laugh in her face.

He could trample this ludicrous card into the mud, open his mind again to the dark music of the opera tunnels and fly home, shadow-like, to the prison where he belonged. Back to the sweet darkness that waited for him, called to him, caressed his mind with a hundred burning tongues...

He was on the edge, the no-man's-land between the abyss of the Opéra and the terror of the world.

And once again, a girl in a patched ballet frock was holding out her hand.

After a long time, he forced his mouth to form the unfamiliar words. "My thanks."

Madame Giry's mouth thinned. "Do not think me kind, Monsieur. You have scorned my kindness and scattered it to the wind, I have none left. But as God is my witness, I helped you once, and now your sins are mine also: You have made me a murderer. I cannot forgive you. I can scarce live with myself. But if you should live to find your honour... Well. Perhaps you may redeem us both."

Wordlessly, acting on some bizarre impulse, Erik opened his other hand and held it out to her, palm up. In the yellow light of the gas streetlamps, the ring sparkled like tears.

Madame Giry looked down at it, then back at him.

"You did not steal that."

"No," he muttered.

Had he wanted her to scream again? To faint? To take it away from him, his one prized possession, and thus prove herself as much a monster as the rest of the world? He did not know, so he could only stand there, holding the ring and her damned card.

"Then I believe it is yours," she said at last. "It is well; we all need something to keep safe. Au revoir, child."

She turned around, picked up her bags, and walked away unhurriedly, with the graceful, controlled step of a former ballerina. Erik watched her retreating back until she disappeared around a corner, and only then noticed the small bag at his feet.

She had left him the bread, after all.

He opened the bag. There was something else there, too.

o o o

"Maman!" Meg exclaimed, jumping from the divan to run to her mother's side when she heard the front door. "We've been worried, you have been gone so long! Even Christine returned hours ago. Let me help you with that." She took the damp carry-bag from Madame Giry and, unable to resist, peered curiously inside.

"Thank you, my dear."

Madame Giry unbuttoned her coat, shook the rainwater off it, and threw it over her arm while she searched for her house-shoes.

"I'm sorry to have worried you; I was obliged to spend some time ... looking up an old acquaintance. Incidentally," she smiled slightly, "Monsieur Antoine at the boulangerie asked me to convey his regards. And his entirely inappropriate treats."

She nodded at the topmost package in the bag Meg was holding. Meg unwrapped it at once, delighted.

"Almond rolls!"

"Unfortunately, yes. Two. Do remember to share with Christine, they are equally unsuitable for her. You said she is back?"

"I am, Madame Giry."

Both of them turned to see Christine walk into the dining-room, carrying a coffee pot and a tray with a light supper of bread, cheese and cold cuts. She set them carefully on the table, before going to embrace Madame Giry.

Madame Giry patted her back lightly. "There, my dear. You needn't have worried. I was hardly going to join the next Montmartre riots."

Meg and Christine exchanged a grin at the image of Madame Giry waving a fist and shouting about the freedom of workers, or whatever it was the occasional riots they heard of seemed to be about. When Meg went to unpack the purchases, Christine sobered, remembering what she had been about to say:

"Monsieur Gaillard stopped by earlier. About the rent. He was very polite."

"But insistent?" Madame Giry waited while Christine poured the coffee. It was black and rich, the way they always had it at the Opéra, and it made the small room come alive with the comfort of home.

"Yes. He chattered endlessly about rising maintenance costs. He doesn't want us practicing in the apartment, either: it seems the family on the ground floor have been complaining about us 'thumping on their heads'. And they don't like the piano."

Madame Giry closed her eyes briefly, then shook her head and took another sip. "Where would he have you practice?"

Christine rolled her eyes. "He suggests the courtyard."

"Yes, on top of the carriages!" Meg put in, coming back and throwing herself into her chair. "I think he believes ballet to be a form of the can-can, maman."

"Well. We shall have to talk with the neighbours."

"It will not be so bad," said Meg, "if they take on Christine and me at the Variétés. Blanche says they have been short of dancers all season."

Madame Giry looked up at in surprise, her gaze going from her daughter to Christine. "What happened with the Opéra Comique? You have heard from them, so soon?"

Christine studied her hands, wrapped around the cup in the way she had done when she was a child. "They didn't want me," she said in a small voice.

"Didn't want you!" Madame Giry frankly stared in shock. "Good God, whyever not? They have all heard you sing!"

Christine stiffened her shoulders. "They have also heard other things about me, Madame Giry. The whole affair with," she faltered, "with the Phantom, and my role in Don Juan. They think I might be more trouble than I'm worth."

"They think she had a hand in it," Meg explained. "Since all the things that happened served to advance her career... No doubt Carlotta and Piangi's friends helped fan the rumours that Christine was the Ghost's, uh... His paramour, or co-conspirator. Or both. At any rate, it seems they don't wish to take the chance."

"What chance?" Madame Giry asked in astonishment. "That Christine Daaé is a murdering lunatic?"

Christine gave a humourless grin. "I would not be the first diva with more ambition than talent. And besides." She looked up, her brown eyes huge and childlike in the candlelight. "Perhaps I am responsible for the disaster. In part. It was because of my voice that ... that some of those things happened."

"Christine..." Meg squeezed her hand quickly, "You can't blame yourself for – for existing!"

"Enough of this." Madame Giry said firmly. She set down her empty cup and rose from her chair. "I will sort out this dreadful mess tomorrow. It is late; please be so good as to take all the tea things to the kitchen and go straight to bed. Both of you."

"No, Madame Giry, please." Christine looked at her imploringly. "Do not trouble yourself, it will be no use. Really, I would rather dance. The Variétés will pay both of us well."

"You would rather dance than sing?" Madame Giry frowned. "Are you certain, my dear?"

Christine bowed her head. "I'm certain."

"And what does your fiancé think of this notion? You could continue singing when you are wed, but the ballet..."

Christine looked up, biting her lip, and shrugged. "I am not married yet."

Madame Giry gave her a shrewd look, but said only, "Very well. Good night, Christine. Good night, Meg."

"Good night, maman."

Madame Giry took a candle and headed towards her dressing-room, weaving around the boxes which lined the corridor, still awaiting unpacking. She resolved to renegotiate the loan with her cousin in view of all these recent developments. There was some money put away, but unless her own employment prospects improved, they would have to find a cheaper apartment. The situation could get difficult without Christine's singing, but perhaps the debacle of the Opéra Comique was just as well: clearly, Christine did not wish to sing in any case, and no money in the world would have compelled Madame Giry to force the girl after what she had been through.

Alas, she thought to herself with grim humour, if things continued in this vein, she would be forced to borrow back some of the money she had left at the feet of the man formerly known as the Phantom.

All things considered, "666" had seemed a rather obvious combination for his safe.