Chapter 4

I awoke the next morning drooped over on the bathroom floor, near drowning in a puddle of my own face. Shakily I arose, one trembling hand tenuously reaching up to touch against my cheek. What it found was cold, taut skin: the familiar corpse's face.

It took several moments to shake off the disorientation, but eventually I managed to rise to my feet. Ayesha immediately pushed the door open and began to weave in and out of my ankles, purring loudly. I cooed to her mindlessly, and then stumbled past her and into the hallway.

Where was my room, again?

It took me a few moments to locate the door behind which lay my coffin, my organ, and the tiny box from the Far East that promised me another day with Christine. As the needle was drawn, the morphine and the powder mixed, I felt my heart begin to race with anticipation. The pain was expected, and made to seem all the more horrible by my suspense of it; taking it into consideration, I used significantly larger amounts of morphine, this time around.

The already-familiar burning started in only moments after the needle's secretion of my favorite poison, but this time I was fully prepared to fall into my coffin with as little travel as possible. It was only a few stagger-steps to its side, and very little effort was required to crawl within it. The sleep period this time was not so long, not nearly so startlingly similar to a coma; I awoke only ten or fifteen hours after taking my little tumble into oblivion.

There was no performance, this evening, only a brief rehearsal during the warmer hours. This news was realized with no small joy; with Christine free from professional obligation, I had only to hope to find her free of personal obligation, as well. Even while in the thick unconsciousness brought on by my new drug, it seemed that my mind toiled away at how to win her; when I awoke from that deathly sleep, relieved to once more find myself in possession of human limb and face, I knew already what I intended for the evening.

I caught her outside her dressing-room. With everything for our evening prepared, I waited in shadow until she had entered it to change, and then moved to lean against the wall in wait for her departure. As I stood, keen ears trained on her every movement in anticipation, those ears perceived a sudden stillness. With almost no imagination was I able to picture her standing before that gaudy mirror, silent tears rolling down her cheeks. As if to assure the accuracy of my beliefs, I heard a quiet sob, and then whispered words.

"Angel... Oh, my angel... Why do you not come to me?"

My eyes closed against the pain and longing in that voice; my fingers curled into fists. What I had done to her had been nothing short of cruel; my foolish desires had left her, childlike, begging in front of a mirror!

"My angel, please...! Can you not hear me? I am sorry!"

Her voice was rising in volume, the tone becoming sharper, more distressed. Quick interference was necessary, but I faltered upon being presented with two choices. Either Erik Sartre distracted her, or the Angel of Music blessed her with a return. The latter seemed as if it would bear more weight in the child's mind, but the former seemed more aimed towards long-term success.

The entreaties were beginning again, in a low, forlorn moaning. "Angel, my angel, please... Oh, my angel... I am begging you, L'ange de la Musique!"

Without thinking, I nearly threw myself against her door, and gave it a sharp knocking. I heard her go rigid, and then heard the urgent sounds of hasty recovery. "J-just a m-moment!" she called, voice raw. My heart thudded uncomfortably against my chest.

"Mademoiselle, it is I, Monsieur Sartre..."

She hesitated, and then cracked the door. "Monsieur..? What brings you here, for rehearsals?"

A shoulder lifted in a shrug, and I attempted a brave smile. "The same that brings me here for performances, Mademoiselle."

Her eyebrows lifted, as slowly the door began to open wider. "A love for the opera, Monsieur?"

My head cocked to the side a bit. "No, Mademoiselle—a love for the finest soprano Paris has ever known."

Christine froze, and then stepped back. "E-excuse me, Monsieur... Just a moment..." The door clicked shut in my face.

I cursed myself for speaking so bluntly—what had I been thinking? Those pretty eyes, wide and red-rimmed with tears, had swept me up into their world and completely confused my common sense. "You must readjust to normal society, Erik," I muttered to myself. "Otherwise--"

"What was that, Monsieur?"

My head jerked up, to find Christine standing expectantly in the doorway, shawl wrapped around her shoulders. "Ah, nothing, Mademoiselle. Merely.. talking to myself."

A nod, and then she stepped forwards into the hallway, door closing behind her. Just as it was swinging shut, I saw her sneak a final glance at the mirror. I must admit that I was a little disturbed by the jealousy I was experiencing, considering that I was jealous of none other than myself. Would I the man forever have to struggle against this loyalty she felt for I the Angel, I the Phantom?

I looked at her, to find her eyes on me, brows lifted as if waiting for something. The look tickled the corners of my lips, begging for an affectionate smile. She knew I wished to request her company, and yet she was humble enough not to dream of hinting that I did. Perhaps she even doubted it, but I do not believe she was truly that dense.

My arm was offered to her, and she took it graciously. As we worked our way slowly through the mass of people and towards the outdoors, I turned to look at and thus address her. "And so, Mademoiselle, what are your plans for this evening?"

She smiled, almost to herself. "Very little, I am afraid, Monsieur."

I nodded. "And what would you like your plans to be for the evening, Mademoiselle?"

This was rewarded with musical laughter. "In truth, Monsieur, I am rather fond of my plans as they stand already."

"And would you be equally fond of them, if they were to involve a carriage ride and a supper with your biggest admirer?"

Her countenance was lowered. "Monsieur, forgive me, but you certainly are not my biggest admirer."

I knew she was not speaking of the Vicomte. Smiling softly, I stopped walking, forcing her to look at me in question. "Forgive me, Mademoiselle, but I most certainly am."

When her eyes met mine, for just a moment, there was disbelief of the sort that occurs only when one truly believes something magnificent. Quickly it faded, however, as she must have convinced herself otherwise. After all, how could this old man be her Angel?

Even I did not know the answer to that question.

Shaking her head, she began walking again, which naturally pulled me quickly into motion beside her. As we slipped out the stage door and into the Paris sunset, she began to speak, soft tones of apology that were easily recognizable as a coming dismissal. Heart racing, I cut her off with a wave of my arm, and a murmured, "Mademoiselle—your carriage awaits."

Her breath stilled as she turned eyes upon the brougham, and a hand rose to press against her lips. "Monsieur, that is your own?"

I nodded, guiding her towards it and opening the door for her. She lingered before entering, however, taking a moment to look down the side of the carriage and at the horse pulling it. The hired driver tipped his hat to her; she ignored him, eyes fastened upon the horse. After a moment, she shook her head, took my hand and stepped into the brougham. I followed, close on her heels.

"You seemed very interested in the horse, Mademoiselle," I said easily as we both sat down.

"It is just..." She sighed, and shook her head again. "It is foolish."

My breathing took a turn for the shallow. "What, Mademoiselle?"

Her eyes fastened onto mine, staring hard into them for a long moment. "Monsieur, it is only that your horse..." She blushed, and looked down at her lap. "He looks just like the white horse in the Profeta." Immediately, she regretted her words, and covered them with a high-pitched laugh. "You see, Monsieur? I told you it was foolish!"

I forced myself to laugh alongside her, though truly my heart was lodged so tightly in my throat that I barely could squeeze the laughter past it. Perhaps it had been foolish to make use of César outside the very opera-house from which I had stolen him.

Well, more like borrowed, really...

"May I ask you a question, Monsieur?"

I smiled, in truth grateful for the turn in conversation. My deeds, it was true, were not honorable, and though I felt little obligation to show any respect to the general populace, I became significantly uncomfortable when those deeds were placed under Christine's angelic regard. "Of course you may, Mademoiselle," I said, with a gracious nod of the head.

One hand gestured to my clothing, and she smiled. "Forgive me, Monsieur, but.. might I ask why you dressed in eveningwear, for the sake of midday rehearsals?"

I froze. I could not very well tell her that it was all I owned, all I'd had use for since moving into my little hellhole... However, what excuse was I to give? Suddenly, the most artful of moments occurred, and almost without considering my next words, I offered her a dashing grin and replied, "Why, to look my best for you, of course."

She laughed, and did not pursue the subject, though I caught a few odd looks from her as we rattled along the streets of Paris.

"Oh, Monsieur!" she cried, as she stepped down from the brougham. In her shock, she allowed her hand to linger in my own. "Monsieur, where are we?" she asked in amazed tone, as she moved forward into the grass, and into the long shadows cast by the mammoth trees standing guard along the edge of that glassy lake.

"Just a quiet spot in the countryside," I said with a smile, as I fetched the picnic basket from the carriage. I caught up to her, and we walked slowly up the bank, until she paused and nodded. I spread the blanket there for her, and we both sank down upon it. Slowly, purposefully, I began to lay out the lukewarm contents of her supper, complete with the finest red wine I had been able to find on such short notice.

"Monsieur, you have done far too much," she said meekly.

"Ha!" My eyes met her own, and with an almost condescending smile (of the most affectionate sort), I said, "That is an impossible feat, Mademoiselle."

Christine leaned back on her hands, head lolling back to cradle against her shoulders as she admired the woven tapestry of tree branches above us. The sun just barely cast light upon us; his golden glow already was vanishing beyond the horizon, leaving us in the twilight of coming darkness. She seemed not at all uncomfortable in the night; her lips were curled in a contented smile, and her eyes flitted about not in fright but in childlike curiosity. Suddenly her lips parted, to emit sweet voice tuned to lyrical words: "Come, darkness, moonrise, everything that is so silent, sweet, and pale: come, so ye wake the nightingale..."

As if in answer to that poetic quotation of half-prayer, the nightingale's song came cutting through the semi-dark to bless our ears with its airy notes. Both our heads lifted, countenances turning in that heavenly direction, and barely did we breathe for a moment as we heard its call.

I reminded myself a second time to tell her of that sorrowful Persian tale, though now was certainly not the time. This simple happiness in such companionable silence—the only exceptions the heart-felt songs of the birds and insects around us—need not be broken by such a melancholy repeating of ancient words. No, it could wait—without doubt, it could wait.

Instead, in reply to her own poetry, I dug through mind to produce my own quotation: "What bird so sings, yet does so wail? O, 'tis the ravish'd nightingale--she cries, and still her woes at midnight rise..."

Our eyes locked, and both began to smile. She recognized the challenge in my reply, and almost without hesitation, she breathed, "Where the nightingale doth sing, not a senseless, tranced thing, but divine melodious truth."

Chuckling softly, I held up both hands in supplication. "Very well, my lady--I surrender." Those hands were then put to pouring her a glass of wine, and handing it to her with utmost caution. As she took it, her fingertips brushed against the back of my hand; I nearly dropped the glass, and would have, had her own hand not already begun to close around its stem.

The error seemed to go unnoticed on her part, however, and she merely turned her head towards the lake as she sipped at her wine. "It is a beautiful night," she said quietly. "Rare few are so perfect; winter is closing in, I fear, and soon such nights as this will be buried beneath the snow."

"Are you cold?" I asked immediately, lover's concern overriding poet's desire to reply in words just as fair.

She turned to look at me, and laugh almost bitterly. "For a man who so despises the Vicomte, you certainly act as does he."

It nearly occurred to me to become offended, but I caught myself, and managed a smile. "Forgive me, Mademoiselle; I wish only to keep you from harm."

She looked pointedly into my eyes, and said, "Yes. As does he."


Long did we linger upon that bank, Christine eventually consenting to my wishes and taking my coat from me. When our supper was finished, the bottle of wine long drained, we stood and began to stroll around the still lake. Barely did our feet make sound; only the whisper of grass brushing shoe did tell of our movement. It was not long, however, before wine burning in half-fed stomachs began to coax forth quiet murmurs and drunken giggles.

"The lake looks so beautiful," she half-whispered, leaning unsteadily on my arm. It had, perhaps, been unwise to begin the wine long before beginning the supper, for by the time we had progressed to food, neither of our stomachs had felt much like eating—and in addition, we truthfully had drunk of that poison far more quickly than was wise.

"Yes, I suppose," I answered, frowning at it. Suddenly, the desire for immaculate honesty struck me, and before I could reconsider, my mouth was leaping far ahead of my mind: "I do not much care for lakes any longer."

Her head swung 'round in exaggerated motion to look at me. "What? You bring me to dine by a lake, and say you do not care for lakes?" She refocused forwards, a deep frown creasing her forehead. "Huh."

I shrugged. "I do not like lakes. After living by so dreary a one for so long, I can barely bring myself to look upon them. The smell! Dear God in Heaven. And I've fallen into that lake on several unfortunate occasions--the mere idea of lakes, now..." I sighed. "Though I do find the spot to be a lovely one--but, of course, it is nothing in comparison to you."

Even through the dark, I could see her cheeks light up. "Monsieur, you mustn't say such things," she mumbled, beginning to lean even harder on my arm. Luckily, the compliment seemed to have thrown her off from asking about the lake I so easily proclaimed residence beside. "I am just a poor singer, after all, and my position as such barely is defined. I doubt it shall be long before I am dragged back to the chorus..."

"No!" She jumped at my sudden exclamation, and though my head regretted it, my blood began boiling and my speech once again escaped me. "You shall not be put in the chorus again, Christine," I assured her in heated tones. "You are far too wonderful a singer--I will not let them hide such talent away. All of Paris shall see what angelic voice you possess, and all shall weep as I have wept, at having heard you sing."

"But, Monsieur, what say have you—"

Barely could I even hear her, the blood was rushing so loudly past my ears. "Foolish, stupid men," I hissed. "They could not see talent if it were a snake, biting them upon the cheek. Smarter men have drowned in their own—"

"Monsieur Sartre!" She planted her heels, dragging both of us to a halt. She was looking at me with widened eyes, horror written across her face. "Monsieur, I must insist you not carry on in such a fashion! You..." She hesitated, face growing deathly pale. "You sound so like... like him... It.. it cannot be! Oh, forgive me!" Her arm slipped away from mine, and both hands pressed to her cheeks. "I feel as if.. as if I am going to..."

Faint. Without finishing the sentence, her eyes rolled back in her head, eyelids fluttering, and she slumped over to one side. I managed to catch her, and lifted her easily in my arms. The walk back to the blanket was significantly longer than the walk away from it had been, but it was unclear whether it was from the weight of her burden, or a deliberate effort to hold her ever longer in my arms. I dropped to my knees on the blanket, and laid her carefully out upon it. The food and wine I packed neatly away, and then I moved to her side.

"Christine?" Silence. I patted one cheek lightly. A quiet moan slipped from her lips, and a hand raised as if searching. My own hands captured it, and she closed her fingers tightly around my own. Whether it was the wine, or just the general trend of stupidity that I had already displayed tonight, I do not know, but something bid me sing to her in hopes of soothing whatever trouble caused her to hold my hand in so vice-like a grip.

Only a few notes had been sung, when she shot up into a sitting position, hands flung out to either side. "Angel?" she cried, struggling to stand. "Angel! Angel, I hear you!"

I reached out and managed to capture her once more in my arms, dragging her down and holding her against me. She struggled, a scream rising. "Please, let me go, let me go!"

My hold tightened on her. "Christine!" I bellowed, attempting to be heard over the commotion. "It is alright, child, be still! I will not harm you."

"No, no, no!" she moaned, struggle ceasing, though she continued to strain weakly against my hold. "The Angel, I heard the Angel," she cried, as sobs began to wrack her frame. "Please, Monsieur, let me go...!"

"There is no angel!" I snapped, arms releasing her. "There is only me!" My own tears threatened to fall, but pride bid me blink them back.

Christine looked at me, frowning slightly. "You do not understand..."

No, I wanted to scream, it is you who does not understand! I am not some silly man who does not understand! I am your angel, but I am no angel of music! I am only a man...

Only a man...

I breathed a deep sigh, and, around the knot in my throat, managed to say, "The hour grows late. I will take you home."


Christine's words from earlier hours disturbed me, rode with me in my mind until I could not bear to think on it. I doubt it shall be long before I am dragged back to the chorus... No. I had meant what I had said to her (though the saying of it had been utter folly). She would not be taken from the stage, not be taken out of the lead. Far more hideous voices, borne by singers with far less talent, had spent decades in the position she so tenuously clung to.

I stalked back and forth across the dirty sliver of lake shore outside my home, snarling at any motion in the dark that offered itself up as sacrifice to my anger. Christine had been correct, of course; five days now, I had been moving in the circles of men. That was five days without letters, five days without threats, five days without any incentive to continue obeying the orders of the Opera Ghost. What fool could expect mankind to obey laws for which they had neither seen nor heard enforcement in five days?

With such thought in mind, it took me only a moment to fetch my cloak and hat. The mask was nearly forgotten, for with it no longer necessary to hide such horrors from the world, it had all but slipped from mind. However, it was indeed necessary on an errand such as this, and thus did I hurry to fetch it before making the climb up to the Garnier's surface.

I came out on a catwalk, high above the stage. Only one stagehand was present at the moment—the hour was late, most of the staff already gone home or retired to hidden-away bedrooms within the opera house. This unfortunate was sweeping the stage, making a final check of all lights and equipment, before heading towards the door. I swept down upon him, landing only a few feet in front of him. I felt the mask wiggle, and it began to press uncomfortably into my cheekbones. Now that I bore the face of a man, it no longer clung to me like skin; too much meat existed on the bone, now, to comfortably bear the mask.

The stagehand let out a cry of fear, and started backwards. Cold dread had settled in my stomach; this was not a thing that I enjoyed. I had not murdered in cold blood since the rosy hours of Mazenderan; doing so again made me certain I would squirm uncomfortably beneath Christine's pristine gaze when next we met. Silently, I stepped towards him, catching his throat within my lasso's yearning loop and jerking it closed. Sounds of strangling, of suffering, were gurgling forth from the man's mouth as he fell to his knees. Wincing and turning my head away, I gave a last vicious tug, and heard the comforting snap of his neck.

All fell silent.

With a sigh, I freed the Punjab from 'round his neck, and began dragging the man towards the managers' office. I propped him in Moncharim's chair, and then extracted some of his stationary and a fountain pen, with which to write my damning note.

They would not soon forget the Phantom's orders.


Poetry credits:

"Come, darkness, moonrise, everything that is so silent, sweet, and pale: come, so ye wake the nightingale.."
-Christina Rossetti

"What bird so sings, yet does so wail? O, 'tis the ravish'd nightingale--...she cries, and still her woes at midnight rise..."
-John Lyly

"Where the nightingale doth sing, not a senseless, tranced thing, but divine melodious truth."
-John Keats