On those words the troupe stood and bid Christine adieu. Christine politely showed them out the door, closed it softly, then sank to the floor in tears. Her chance was ripped away that quickly. All her work, all her sacrifice - all for nothing. What would Erik say? She looked to her Angel, as she always had in troubled times. Hoping he would hear her, she called out to him, quietly at first, then in increasingly loud sobs that echoed through the secret passageways and finally reached him, where he sat at his oaken table. It was less than ten minutes later that he arrived at her side.

"Christine! Are you ill? Are you hurt?" He saw no mark on the girl but the tracks of tears on her reddened face.

"No. They have taken Margeurite from me. Angel, they have replaced me with Carlotta, because of Raoul!" She painfully recited the sad story in a barely audible voice, not daring to look up at him, fearing he would blame her. He had warned her repeatedly over the years to allow no outside entanglements to interfere with her art. Now look at the mess she was in.

Erik listened to the story, forcing himself to remain quiet and still until the end. Christine had done no wrong, nor had the deChagny boy, as much as the Phantom would like to have placed the blame on the ridiculous boy's fashionably dressed shoulders. The blame lay with that shrew of a woman. He regarded Christine, her pretty face wet with tears, her head hanging in shame. La Carlotta would pay.

He gently placed one finger under Christine's chin and lifted her face to meet his gaze. "This is not your fault. You will sing the part of Margeurite. I will…dispose…of La Carlotta."

Christine had never spoken to him about the legends of his past feats of terror, but now one surfaced in her mind. It was widely believed that Thomas had been murdered by the Phantom of the Opera. She had seen his quickly shifting temper; it was not entirely inconceivable to her that he might have "disposed" of Thomas. She did not want to be a party to murder.

"Angel, you won't really harm her, will you? Not like," she swallowed with difficulty, "like Thomas?"

"You heard about that." He sighed a low, unhappy sound. He would not lie to her, though he knew the admission would diminish him in her eyes. "I do not deny that I killed him."

Christine began to shrink away, but he only shook his head slowly.

"Please believe me when I tell you that I did nothing worse to him than would have been done when his…crimes…against the ballet girls were discovered. I only stopped him before he could do more harm." Her eyes held a deeper sort of betrayal – she really had wanted to believe him an angel, incapable of evil. Unfortunately, he thought despondently, I really am just a man. In an attempt to heal some of the breach, he continued. "If you do not wish Carlotta killed, I can promise you in good faith that she will survive. She cannot be permitted to do this thing, though. She must be removed. Hold yourself blameless, Christine, for anything that might happen. I will try to be just with her. Bonne nuit. Continue to practice your part. I will see you at the Masquerade Ball."

She watched him stand and leave through the mirror-chamber. Half her heart recoiled in horror from the callousness of her "Angel." He was an admitted murderer, though he insisted that the victim was deserving. Christine was not unaware of Thomas' disgusting reputation. Among the ballet corps there were numerous disgusting stories regarding the man; if Erik had caught him and punished him for these things, she hardly lamented the man's death. The other half of her heart reveled in his protection. She was powerless in the face of the Vicompte and the managers, but her avenging Angel was not. Either way, she could do nothing about the situation but follow her teacher's commands. She would rest, practice her part, and be ready.
Word that La Carlotta had managed to oust Christine Daae from the Faust production spread throughout the Opera Populaire. Within a day there was not a scullery maid who had not heard of the devious deed. This was the Opera Populaire. Even the meanest servant had an ear for music, they knew the choice had to be political. Political choices were not uncommon – the friendly feelings quiet and demure Christine had inspired in the hearts of her contemporaries was.

The managers met a never-ending barrage of protests. Christine was perfect for the role, cried her defenders, her voice was sublime. Who exactly did they think they were, to substitute Carlotta's tired, ill used voice for Christine's perfection? Overwhelmed by the near-mutiny among their staff, the cowardly managers passed the blame onto the Vicompte, explaining that were it up to them, Christine would still be the leading lady. Raoul soon found that his visits were met with hostile glares rather than civil hellos.

The growing discontent might have done real damage had it not been time for the Masquerade. In true Parisian fashion, hostilities faded as all thought turned towards preparations for the party.