"It's about Death, isn't it." Christine's whisper broke the silence.
"It's about freedom. It's about finally being free from…from a prison too wretched…" She looked at him knowingly, and Erik stopped trying to justify the lyrics. "Death can be a mercy, Christine. Sometimes it's the only way to end suffering…"
"And sometimes it is not." She stood and looked down at him. "Come, Erik. No more waiting. Tell me your story."
Erik nodded. It was indeed time to tell her. Sighing in resignation, he stood and guided her to the oak table. "Please, do sit."
Christine sat down in the large, comfortable chair Erik used when he was composing. Erik drew up the piano bench and sat across from her, putting more than a yard of air and oak between them. He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a sheet of paper that was nearly black with cramped writing.
"Christine, please do your utmost to just listen. I know that is not your forte, but…" Erik forced himself to look her in the eye. "this will be difficult enough, without any commentary. Before I begin, please do a favor for me. Take out that beautiful ring the Vicompte's little brother gave you. Place it on the table where you can see it. I want you to think of the difference between the paradise he has offered you, and what you would be condemned to if...if you insist on loving me."
Christine swallowed hard and nodded her assent. She dug the ring out of her reticule and placed it on the table. It reflected the lantern light beautifully. She looked up at Erik. His eyes were more sunken than usual. He looked as though he were about to confess evil deeds, not just tell the story of his childhood.
"I was born to the Duchess de Valliere about twenty-five years ago. According to…"
"That would make you…" Christine couldn't contain herself.
"Nothing," Erik's reply was louder and sharper than he intended. "Please do try to restrain yourself. It makes me nothing. Officially, I died shortly after birth. She did not even name me. Hannah did that."
"Hannah was the nursemaid my mother hired to keep me out of sight." Sarcasm edged his voice. "I suppose I should be grateful I was not simply killed. Hannah was old and nearly blind. She cared for me very kindly. If she did not love me, she at least felt pity. She showed me compassion."
He paused. This was more difficult than the writing had been. Then, his shameful tale passed no further than his own eyes. That another was listening made him feel sick with embarrassment.
"She did not show me my face. She kept mirrors far from me. Kindly old woman. She told me that I looked "different" from other people, but that was all. It was my mother who made sure I knew what a horror I was…and am. When I was three or four, she gave me my first mask. I was to wear it at all times, to avoid frightening the servants." He uttered a low, lost chuckle. "The funny thing is that no servant would come into 'our' wing of the house. I was a demon to them. Hannah laughed at them. She taught me…oh…everything. She taught me to read and write. She taught me to sing. Her voice was old and cracked, but it was a good voice, or maybe I only remember it as good. She said that an Angel must have gotten stuck in my throat. We lived together for seven years. She fell ill, and died…"
Christine sat motionless on her side of the table. She had tried to imagine what sorts of stories he might tell, but she never imagined something so terribly painful as this. Her instinct was to run to him and wrap her arms around him, but he had placed her on the far side of the table for a reason. He did not want her there. She held the reigns on her instinct and stayed still.
"She died naturally. I don't think there was too much pain. I cared for her the best way I could, but I was only a child. I left 'our' wing of the house searching for my mother; there was no one else to take care of me. I found her in our library, reading a romance novel… I remember that she looked very beautiful to me then. She couldn't have been much older than I am now. I went to her, took off my mask and asked for a kiss," that horrible chuckle floated up from his chest again.
"Can you imagine, Christine? Thinking that anyone would want to kiss a thing like me. I still do not understand how you compelled yourself to commit the act. How stupid I was! She slapped me down to the floor; a rightful punishment for my affront to her delicate sensibilities..."
"No…" murmured Christine.
Erik continued, ignoring the interruption. "Soon afterwards she took me on an outing." Beneath his mask, his face was set in a bitter grimace. "To the fair. Doesn't that sound nice, my Angel? Doesn't that sound motherly?"
Christine could only shake her head. It did sound nice, but the tone of his voice hinted at terrible things to come.
"She took me to the fair. To a special tent at the very back of the grounds. Can you guess?" His eyes flicked up, taking in her pale, sick expression. "Shall I go on? Christine, my dear, you do not look well at all. A glass of water, perhaps? Some bread?"
She did not feel well at all, but her malaise was nothing a sip of water could fix. Yes, she could guess what tent it was. She slid her hand across the tabletop, hoping that Erik would take it. He did not.
He was watching her with an expression she could only associate with an injured farm animal awaiting the axe. "Go on, Erik."
Erik stared at her hand. Was she trying to offer comfort? He was undeserving of her pity. He pressed on.
"For the hefty sum of one hundred francs, she sold me. The master of that tent took my fine clothes and the silk mask my mother made me wear. Rags and a burlap sack were good enough for the likes of me. He put me in a cage. He was kind - there was straw on the floor, and a bucket for…" Erik stopped and considered his audience, "but I cannot say such a thing. It would offend you." He stopped to retrain his thoughts. "The fair workers came to gawk at me, but I frightened them…just like the servants, they saw the monster in me. They called me 'The Devil's Child', and that became the name that hung over my…exhibit. I was popular, Christine."
He looked up at her with a twisted smile. "Popular. The people flocked to see me. They paid good money to see the face that I so carefully hide. I tried not to see them, but they were always there. Soon, I learned to want to see them. You see, if too few people came, if I didn't make enough money, Herroux would become…angry. Mostly he only used his fists and boots, but sometimes he used the whip."
Christine lost her struggle. A short, harsh sob escaped her. She stood and would have run to him, but he lifted a hand. "Sit, Christine. You asked to hear it, and now you must listen. In the midst of all this, there were two things that kept me sane. The first was music. Music has always been my saving grace. Music..." He seemed to be rolling the word in his mouth like a fine wine, savoring its flavor. "When I was alone, when no one was jeering or beating or screaming, I could sing. When the throngs pressed on me, I could compose in my mind."
"The second thing was a girl. She was not pretty, even a little bit. She could not sing. In compensation for her shortcomings, she had the undeniable merit of courage: she was unafraid of me." He laughed, a more genuine sound. "Her name was Leslie. She came at night to brought me a blanket and some pastries. Somehow, she convinced Herroux to let me keep the blanket. Without her, I would never have survived the first winter. I don't know which would have killed me first: the cold or the starvation. I was very careful never to show her my face. She was my first and only friend. She reminded me how to be human, I think."
Erik mulled the many kindnesses Leslie had shown him. He heard her parting words to him and smiled. The smile was short-lived. He returned to his story. He could not bear to look at Christine's face anymore. She looked as though she would break into tears or vomit any moment. I disgust her, as well I should.
"She also took care of me when…" He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. This was the part he'd glossed over in his original story. This was the part that his own brain struggled not to remember. "She took care of me when things…got worse. You would still have worn swaddling clothes, I think, during the tight times. People no longer came to the fair. They had no money for such frivolous entertainment. This meant that there was less money after shows. herroux was…not pleased. Leslie treated my wounds whenever she could. The scarring…but that is unimportant. In the third year of my captivity, Leslie was there, visiting me. We were pretending to celebrate my birthday. I was trying to teach her to sing – a hopeless endeavor. Herroux overheard us. He was drunk and angry and frustrated by the meager 'take' from that day's crowds. When he heard my singing, he went mad."
"He beat and whipped me. What I did was evil, Christine, but I couldn't die like that that. I don't remember exactly how it happened, but I…" the flow of words stopped. There was no reason she should ever hear a thing like this. She was trembling like an aspen leaf in a high wind; tears were coursing down her face and dripping into her lap. He pulled his clean handkerchief out and handed it to her. He couldn't imagine what she was weeping over; Herroux's murder, perhaps?
"Somehow I wrapped the whip around his fat neck. Somehow, I strangled him. You see, Christine? Do you see now? I am a murderer and a freak. Look at that sparkling ring. It is beautiful and pure, like you, Angel, like you. That is what the boy has offered you. Hadn't you better take it?"
Christine only stared at the table. Emotions of an intensity she never imagined existed paralyzed her in their burning grasp. She hated Herroux and Erik's mother with a fiery passion. If Erik had not killed the man, she would have searched for him and killed him herself. She loved the girl, Leslie, as she loved Meg - though she'd never met her. But Erik, her poor Erik…what did she feel for him now?
Raoul's offer of comfort and safety glimmered on the table bare inches from her trembling fingers. Raoul, who had never known a moment of fear or discomfort in his life, who had never suffered. Raoul, who could give her a lifetime of luxury and safety.
"I see you have nothing to say yet. Very well." Erik continued. "Though I killed him, he knocked me unconscious. I woke in Leslie's wagon. She and her mother saved me and tended my wounds to the best of their ability. Do you see how Death can be a mercy, sometimes? had I died, it would have been over. No more suffering. But, no, time after time, when I should have been dead I keep living, useless and worthless. Of course, Leslie and her mother couldn't keep me. I was a murderer! Leslie brought me to the river that runs through the gate and helped me in. That is how I came to the Opera Populaire."
"What heaven did I discover here? Music, Christine! Sweet, wonderful Music!" He was smiling a large, joyous smile. "It sustained me. I stole what I needed to survive. I still do…add that to the noble titles I wear: freak, murderer, thief. I began work on my home. I haunted this place, frightening away the worst of the lot. There were terrible actors and worse musicians here, then. Carlotta truly was the best the Opera House had to offer. Years passed, each blended into the next. I learned to play, to sing… I pursued every branch of knowledge the library could offer. I built all this." Erik gestured dismissively out over his demesnes. "Nothing of interest happened until, one blessed afternoon, the managers were hearing the audition of a poor, unknown violinist from some country far to the north. I expected very little, but as I had little else to do, I stayed to listen."
Christine lifted her eyes, but he would not meet them.
"Your father was the most talented violinist I had ever…have ever…heard. He was a genius, Christine. His performance was like something out of my dreams. I had just decided to do everything I could to smooth his way into my opera house, when my entire world froze around me. Do you know what happened, Christine? An Angel, straight from heaven, started singing. At first I didn't believe the sound came from a human throat. It was holy…holy. Oh, Christine! Your voice, untaught and immature, took possession of me. You were but seven or eight years old, but I was your servant from that moment. So selfish! I only thought of your voice, what an extraordinary instrument it was and what earth-shaking potential it had. I wanted it for my music. So selfish…" the low, hypnotic voice trailed off for a moment. "I admit that I followed you and your father. I wanted to be with you. I wanted to be his son. You think your little apartment drab – to me it seemed a mansion, a palace! To be in such a place, with so much love…you do not know what it is to sit in the cold, alone, and watch warmth and love through a pane of glass. You do not know and you never shall."
She knew what happened next. The story would soon be over. Christine felt older and strangely world-weary, but she also felt wiser. When Erik was done, she had a plan – if only he would allow her to come to him. The Angel of Music's eyes were on her.
"You are still here. Miraculous. I applaud your constancy. Your father passed away, leaving you bereft. I came to you, to comfort you and offer my services as your teacher. I suppose you know the rest." He stood and walked to the pipe organ. He touched the pipes fondly, then turned back to face her, as a condemned man might face a firing squad. "That is why it is better I wear the mask. Without it, I am the Devil's Child: weak, ugly, a contemptible worm. With it, I am the Phantom of the Opera and the Angel of Music. That is my story; judge me as you will."
