Since Christine's enigmatic dedication, sweeping success, and subsequent thrilling disappearance the Opera Populaire had become an overnight sensation. Composers with a fresh work wanted the shy, pretty virtuoso to sing their female lead. The managers were swamped with artists who claimed to have written their work "just for her." Most of these they turned away after cursory glances at the scores or lyrics. Because Christine was a beautiful young girl, many of the parts were written from the perspective of male fantasy. Mssrs. Debienne and Poligny were painfully conscious that, did they attempt to permit one of these racy operettas on stage, they would only be saved from the Opera Ghost by death at the hands of the very protective Mme Giry.
In her younger years, La Carlotta attracted crowds of admirers who thronged the halls on performance nights seeking her attention by waving fragrant bouquets. Christine and Meg would often sit at the top of the huge curving staircase and watch with childish awe as the Prima Donna gracefully greeted and dismissed her devotees. Now Christine found herself to be the object of veneration. She kept Meg close by whenever possible; she even welcomed Raoul's oppressive presence, since his high-society status gave him sway over the crowds.
The young diva's retiring demeanor only endeared her to her followers. Her shy smiles and genuinely grateful curtsies were a refreshing change from the supercilious attitude of La Carlotta. Her self-possession and modest dress allowed them to respect her – something Carlotta's licentious behavior never permitted. Christine was amazed at her own popularity and the speed of her rise to fame, though the rest of the opera house just nodded knowingly. In the managerial offices, Mssrs Debienne and Poligny struggled to keep up with requests from patrons for Annual Passes. They blessed the day the Swedish violinist walked into their Opera house with his skinny daughter.
Whether she was rehearsing for her next performance, taking dinner with Meg or Raoul, or signing playbills for avid followers, Christine's thoughts were on her Angel. Her voice never sounded as rich and full in performance or rehearsal as it did in informal practice beside her teacher. The absence of his music and his voice left her feeling constantly hungry, constantly thirsty, but she could neither eat nor drink. He had only been absent from her side for two days!
At night, in the silence of her little bedroom, she imagined herself on the stony shore of his subterranean dreamland. How had he come to be there? Erik had promised her his story; in just one more night, she would know.
For his part, Raoul felt Christine was finally learning to appreciate him. He reveled in the opportunity to protect her, as well as the opportunity to be seen with his beautiful flower on his arm. Her celebrity worried him, since the adulation of the public would only make it more difficult for her to settle down to a proper life at home. He let that go in light of his more immediate problem. How would he manage to catch and expose her mysterious voice teacher? She would not speak of her Angel, no matter how Raoul prodded. Now, two days after eavesdropping on her conversation with her "Angel", Raoul tried again to pry the truth from her.
"Christine, your teacher must be amazing. Your voice is the most beautiful I have ever heard! All the opera aficionados say that there is not a voice to parallel yours on this continent."
"Thank you, Raoul."
"And you've really never met him? That's most… unusual"
"No. He is only a Voice."
"Is that not frustrating for you?"
"It is not my place to question."
"Could you not simply ask him to appear? You could refuse to sing until he showed himself."
"It is not my place to demand."
"He is quite strict with you, is he not?"
"My Angel only does what is necessary to teach me."
"You do not truthfully believe an Angel is visiting you, do you?"
"Raoul, have you seen the latest fashions for men's opera canes? I saw one gentleman with Oriental scrollwork in silver down the side of his…"
"When does he come to you? Do you look in your closets and under your bed for this hidden intruder? Do you think your father would approve?"
"Oh, Raoul, I cannot answer these questions! I wish you would not press me so." She placed one hand to her bosom in an affectation of delicacy. "I feel faint. Will you kindly escort me to my room?"
All such conversations seemed to end with a request to return to her room. If Christine was truly this delicate she would need a nurse to care for her once they were married. How would she ever manage to bear his children? Raoul stole furtive glances at her now, as he returned her to her room. Her cheeks did look pale. Meg claimed that Christine had barely eaten a mouthful over the past two days. Fame was taking a serious toll on her fragile health. He would be her shelter, would guide her to a way of life more suited to her feminine nature.
At her door, he stopped her, knelt in front of her and reached into his breast pocket. Christine's eyes widened, her breath caught in her throat. The gestures were unmistakable.
Not now, she thought miserably. Raoul, you sweet, foolish boy!
"Christine, you are unlike any girl I have ever known. You are beautiful, talented…every time I see you, you are more entrancing. You need care and guidance. Let… let me be the man who takes care of you. Christine, will you marry me?" He opened a tiny black box to reveal a sparkling ring. Christine gasped. This was ridiculous. How could she turn him down without breaking his heart? He was so earnest in his affections. As nice as he was, she did not - could not – love him. He was a pleasant companion at the best of times; most of the time, though, he flatly irritated her.
"Oh, Raoul! I…I…I'm so surprised! And…and flattered. This is most…unexpected…" her words straggled from her faltering lips. He knelt there, expectantly gazing up into her face. "But.. but I can't…accept you just now. There are…so many things…and I'm…just…
Crestfallen, but unsurprised, Raoul took the jewel from its box and pressed it into her trembling hand. He wrapped her fingers around it and stood slowly. "There, darling, keep it and think of me. I understand that you can't accept right now, but in time you will see that we were made for each other. Just think, someday you could be the Vicomptesse deChagny! I would care for you, Christine. You would have your tiniest whim…"
She tried to hand the cold piece of metal back to him, but he would have none of it. "Keep it Christine, please."
Sweetly, sadly, she sighed. "If it will satisfy you, then I will keep it. Please know that I consider you a dear friend. I really must rest now. Today has been…overwhelming."
"Is there any task I can perform for you, Christine? Anything you need done, I will do it. " Raoul hid his disappointment bravely. He had half expected this sort of reaction – she was so emotionally vulnerable. Now was the time to be patient with her and eventually she would see reason. One had to be patient with women.
"No, thank you." Christine's voice was tinged with desperation. "I can manage. Goodnight, M. deChagny!" She dropped a little curtsy to him and closed the door the rest of the way. Raoul listened for her to turn her deadbolt, but the telltale 'thump' of a heavy iron bolt sliding home never came. Did she never lock her door at night? He did not dare believe it could be so easy as that. He stood outside her door, daydreaming about her golden curls and soft little hands. He was walking away when he heard her calling out softly.
Once she felt she was alone, Christine scrutinized herself in the mirror. Usually her complexion mimicked the blooms of early summer roses, now she looked pale and washed-out. Erik's absence was taking a serious toll on her normally robust health. Once, many years before, he told her that he would hear her if she called from her parlor. How that could be she did not know - but she believed.
"Erik?" She called softly. Then, gaining strength simply from pronouncing his name, she called again, loudly. "Erik? Please, come to me, Angel."
After finishing the notations on his life, Erik fell into a wretched state of torpor. The memories of being small and helpless invaded his spirit. He could only sit with his head on his knees; that is, until he remembered the music – her music. The music of her movement and her kindness; the music she made when she studied her languages or brushed her hair. Then he dared to think of their music.
The soft melody that surrounded them each time they touched, and when they kissed…! Such beautiful music; it was a symphony he had always thought beyond his hearing. Here on his carefully prepared parchments he could watch as the melody grew from a furtive, clumsy tune to a passionate opera. Erik played each movement as he wrote it, ironing out imperfections. For better than forty hours, the cavernous arches of the Opera Populaire's foundations rang with the booming voice of the pipe organ and the powerful baritone of its master. Neither fatigue nor hunger touched him – he lived on the music.
Now, he could hear her voice echoing down the passageways. Her call was persistent. It drew him away from his music, distracted him from his composition. Did he detect a note of desperation? When it was clear that he'd have no peace unless he at least went to check on her, Erik stood and reluctantly gathered up his cloak and hat. It would hurt nothing to check in on her and see that everything was as it should be.
