Chapter 2

The dress was hideous. The bodice was as tight and revealing as Christine's skimpiest corset. The sleeves drooped from her shoulders and the skirt was of some gauzy material that chilled her legs in the cold halls and allowed them to be scorched under the stage lights. She felt uncomfortable and ridiculous all at once. She wondered how they expected her to sing in such a constricting garment. Even more than that, she wondered who designed the horrendous thing. She scowled at the thought of wearing such a dress in front of so many people.

Oddly, the theater had been sold out for the night. Every seat, save for the well guarded box five, had been purchased. Some people had even paid to stand in the wings. Apparently Don Juan Triumphant was very alluring for the patrons. The news of the mysterious stranger in scarlet, who had suddenly appeared at the masked ball, demanded his work to be performed, and then vaporized, had reached the ears of Paris and the surrounding cities. Even some wealthy aristocrats from Britain had attended, as well as some of the most famous theatrical critics. Even though Erik's opera was no more than a trap, the revenue that the performance would be paid for itself.

The audience gossiped about the opera. Some were excited for the event whilst others seemed ready to jump upon any detail that did not suit their taste. On one occasion, Christine even heard remarked that some people believed the mysterious composer was a hired servant of some other musician, paid for a publicity stunt. Christine wondered what Erik made of all this talk.

"Diva to curtain," Meg whispered in Christine's ear. The ballet girl was trembling with anticipation and fear, but still wore a brave smile on her pretty face.

Christine echoed Meg's heroism and returned a smile of her own, "Coming, Meg," she said.

The first macabre strains of the overture resounded through the opera house. The patrons and critics tensed, unsure what to make of the alien sounds. One priggish man covered his ears and even tried to leave his box, but the way was barred. However, despite such unfavorable actions, Christine could not help but notice the older woman who had clasped her hands with delight, the critic whose face had burst into a rapturous smile, and the group of young men that nodded and grinned excitedly. She wondered what the public's reaction would be at the final curtain.

The singing started. Carlotta and the chorus sang wild, burring notes and strange words. Meg was on, flirting with an overdressed Piangi. Piangi began his part, plotting with accomplice vile plans for the gypsy maiden, Aminta, Christine's character. At last Christine was on, uncomfortable dress and all. Her voice echoed through the opera, even the bigoted critic was entranced. The music swelled with the plot, if Erik would appear it would be now, right at the start of the aria, Past the Point of No Return.

Christine braced herself. Would Erik come from below the stage? Would he simply watch from his box? Would he enter the play itself? What was more, what would he do? How angry was he? What revenge would he have in store? Whatever happened, Christine was certain that she would be miserable with the outcome. What did it mater of Raoul or Erik died? One surely would, a hole in her heart would be made, and there was nothing she could do. Fatalistically, she prepared for the aria. Erik would come.

"Master?" Passarino asked.

Christine swallowed. Erik would come.

Piangi's vibrato-excessive voice sounded. The obese Italian warbled into the aria, perspiring under the stage-lights and his own massive weight.

Piangi was singing Don Juan, Erik's, song. What did that matter, Erik would still come.

Christine played her part beautifully, singing rapturously despite Piangi's rather unattractive form, age, and now, smell.

The duet became more impassioned, Piangi failing miserably at his part and Christine stealing the show. Her crystalline voice held the audience captive; more than a few gasps of awe at her notes was heard.

Finally, the aria was concluded. Don Juan carried poor Aminta off. More arias followed, each one better than the first, sometimes issuing shouts of applause, even before the act was over. Don Juan had begun trying to use the gypsy, but had, in turn, fallen in love with his victim. At the end, when the Don was being pursued for his crimes and Aminta was freed of him, he sang an aria of his love for her. The song was so beautiful that even Piangi's bellowing voice could not butcher it. The Don begged the maid for forgiveness, which she bestowed. The mob caught him, but he had tasted true love and forgiveness and was, in those ways, triumphant over what had long held him. Of course, the Don was not able to go without his punishment, and was then killed with a smattering of stage-blood. Aminta closed the show singing of her confused feelings now that she was alone.

The curtain fell. Erik had not come.

However, something else happened, something so extraordinary that it took Raoul and the guards completely by surprise. The crowd applauded. The cheers were not limited to the polite clapping that usually accompanies a show, but rather the audience issued forth a great roar. People rose from their seats. Even the prig critic pounded his gloved hands. Old and young alike, their eyes damp with emotion, lauded the performance.

The opera managers gaped. People actually enjoyed that bizarre, dark story and the equally macabre music. Already people were rushing towards them, demanded when the next showing would take place. Reporters shouted a myriad of questions: Who was the composer? Where was he from? Why had he not signed his work? Where was he now? Why had such talent been hidden under the bushel basket, so to speak? The managers, in a state of shock, simply gargled that the composer was an unknown man whom had requested his opera to be performed and disappeared without a trace. The pressed was hooked, and promised a write-up. The critics were preparing their reviews as well. Don Juan Triumphant was hailed as a new era in music history.

In the darkness of the backstage, Christine sat alone. Why had Erik not come? She felt a twinge of worry for him. What had become of him? Was he simply hidden, enjoying his music from a safe distance? Or, had something happened to him?

But what could have happened to him? Christine thought.

"Christine!" Raoul rushed to her, "Dearest, you mustn't be alone now. The Phantom is sure to be about, waiting for you. Come, we must remind the managers what the opera was for!"

Raoul took Christine from her hiding place, which proved to be a bad move on his part. She was attacked, as it were, by a hoard of raving fans. Everyone wanted to see the little soprano who had replaced Carlotta, for that was obviously what the outcome of the night, if nothing else. With great difficulty, Raoul shoved and pushed the adoring populace away. He drew Christine close to himself to protect her from her own fame, and fought his way to the managerial box.

"Ah!" Andre called, a cigar in his mouth and liquor in his hand, "Our little exploit has come off quite well, eh?"

"Monsieur!" Raoul chided, "Have you forgotten what this whole plan was for?"

"Oh, but my dear Viscount, the Phantom has indeed paid for himself with what he has brought to our opera. We can even divest with Carlotta as a bonus! Quite a rewarding night, really." Andre puffed his cigar. Firmin was too busy, and too drunk, to talk.

"But think of Christine! If money is all you care for, think of your new diva!" Raoul was growing red in the face, "He carry her off if we let him loose like this!"

A few reporters jotted down Raoul's speech.

"He had have her," Andre replied, "He's been sending us letter since we arrived demanded that she play the lead parts. I'm sure he allow her to return to our world for performances..."

"How can you say that?" Raoul cried.

"Oh come, the man will be rich and famous before the evening is out, any girl would love that," Andre said, taking a drink. His speech was very slurred.

"Christine, tell them you disagree!" Raoul shouted, "Demand your safety, you're the diva now!"

"I..." Christine said, weakly, "I think I need some fresh air."

Raoul's anger turned to concern and he led his friend out from the crowds and into the darkened streets. Christine leaned against the opera wall, inhaling deeply.

"Are you ill, my love?" Raoul asked, taking her hands.

"No, no I am well," Christine reassured, "It's this dress. Raoul, escort me to my dressing-room, I simply must change out of this. I'm stifling!"

"What if he is waiting for you?" Raoul asked, paling.

"Oh, Raoul, I've seen him before, what harm could come if I saw him again," Christine said, brushing off Raoul's paranoia.

"Christine!"

"I will die if I do not change!" Christine snapped.

Raoul sighed and reluctantly led her to the dressing room. He watched her go inside, and he stood directly outside her door, though he knew that he would be helpless against the ghost.

Raoul's fears were quelled when Christine exited her dressing room a few minutes after entering. She was clothed in a loose, pale-yellow gown and a brown cloak.

"Come, my dear," Raoul said gently, "I will take you home with me. You will be safe there."

"Thank you," Christine said softly, "But first, might we stop at the graveyard? You and Erik interrupted me when I went earlier."

"Not tonight," Raoul said, "The gates will be closed. Tomorrow?"

"I will wait, then."