http/perso. size=1 width=100% noshade>Chapter 9
My hands trembled as I penned my note to Christine. The excitement from the night prior left my nerves shaken; apparently, not all of me recovered from the ordeal as much as I had hoped.
It was a long night, after retreating into my little hole beneath the ground. I spent many a fitful hour tossing (as much as one may, in a bed of such confined quarters) and turning, struggling with half-dreams that left me as frightened as a child. The lack of sleep, coupled with my exertions, was not in the least agreeable with my health; however, no choice was left to me: I had to push onwards with my efforts, for so much was still to be done!
When the letter had been completed to my specifications, I lent back and gave it a final once-over with narrowed, scrupulous eyes.
Dearest Christine,
I hope you shall offer me the
forgiveness I do not deserve, for taking such a long and unexplained
absence. I have missed you dearly, and hope to see you soon, that I
may explain to the extent that is possible my reasons for departing
so abruptly, and for so long a time. If you would meet me at the Bois
de Boulogne this afternoon immediately following rehearsals, then I
would know you had forgiven me—or were at least willing to hear my
reasons.
My brougham will await you
outside the Garnier, to grant you passage should you so desire it. I
believe you shall recognize it—if not, look for the "horse from
the Profeta".
Warmest regards, etc.,
Erik.
With a final nod of approval, I sealed the note and tucked it into my breast pocket. I briefly considered having it sent in the old-fashioned way, but instead chose (as usually I did) the more dramatic of methods. I made the slow climb up into the Garnier, and took up residence behind her mirror. She had just finished dressing for rehearsal—this time, I noted pleasantly, in the costume of the lead rather than that of a chorus girl—and was giving herself a final once-over at her vanity.
I saw sullen eyes dart towards the mirror, saw those eyes cloud over with tears. To her credit, however, she blinked them away before they could interfere with what little stage makeup was afforded to rehearsals, and then with a deep breath she darted from the room.
I waited for only a breath's time, and then slipped through the mirror-door and advanced hastily to her vanity. The letter was propped between brush and mirror, and I had just turned to go when something bid me pause. I took another look around her room, and my body began to go utterly still. I found myself incapable of movement, when suddenly so surrounded with everything that was hers. Her brush, with several golden strands still tangled in its bristles; with the patience of a father, I gently plucked them free and discarded of them.
Her dresses—several of her costumes, and one of her own street-dresses—hung on a rack to one side. I moved over to them, brushing my fingers across the fine material, allowing my hands to linger upon the fur of her wrap, to float lovingly against the lace upon her hat, to grace the tiny feather that crowned it. I allowed my ravaged lips a tiny smile beneath that mask, as I moved from clothing to dresser again, now lifting her perfume bottle and allowing myself a tiny whiff. Oh, that smell... The same that haunted me in my dreams, mocking that which I could not forever wrap my senses around.
I picked up her gloves, cast so carelessly aside, and laid one against my own palm. How tiny her hands were! Hardly half the length of my own, though mine were so slender that they did not far outweigh hers in width. I curled my fingers around the empty ones of her glove, and held it for a moment, before berating myself for my foolishness and setting them back where I had found them—though I admit, significantly more neatly than they had been.
I had again turned to go, when my eyes found something else: a photograph, framed and set lovingly aside. It was a younger man, and handsome; at first, I feared the worst, and moved towards it with a quickly-growing anger. However, upon closer inspection, it was found to be not the Vicomte, but a different man. He looked almost familiar, though I was certain I had never seen him before. I stared at him a long while before recognizing certain features; the cheekbones, the bridge of the nose, the curve of the eyebrows. The fellow looked very nearly like Christine, only with features far more masculine; her father, then? It was certainly believable...
Muscles went rigid as, suddenly, I heard the door click. Before I could even take a step in the direction of the open mirror, the door swung open, to reveal an extraordinarily shocked Christine. Her eyes took in first the mask, and then immediately locked onto what she, apparently, felt to be far more important: that which I held in my hands.
She did not scream, as I would have expected. Instead, with trembling limbs, she held out a hand and took a frightened step towards me. "Please," she managed, voice struggling to escape from cords constricted by fear. "Please, Monsieur—my father's picture." This time, her voice sounded a bit stronger. "It is very important to me..."
I knew not what to do. I could not speak—if she did not recognize Erik's voice, still she would recognize the angel's, and I wanted this masked figure, the one who had brought down the chandelier, to be linked to neither (although without a doubt she was smart enough to link angel and chandelier, I wanted not at all to help her solidify that connection).
I saw that she was crying, though whether it was from fear or concern I know not. "Please," she sobbed. "Please, give it back..." Her hand thrust forwards a little farther, as if to demand that for which her vocals begged.
Slowly, cautiously, I began to push the hand holding the photograph towards her. When it had nearly spanned the distance, she darted forwards and snatched it from me, as if not trusting me to give it to her on my own. When it had been won, she clutched it tightly to her chest, and took several hasty steps backwards. It was not until she had gained her prize that she began to take in the rest of the situation: the open mirror, the letter on her vanity, the objects that had been moved about and touched. A shudder ran over her frame. Lips parted to speak, but before sound could emit, I saw Meg enter the doorframe.
"Christine, what—" Her inquiry broke off when she saw me, and hardly a moment's pause was afforded her before her vocals resumed their exercise, with not more inquiry but instead an ear-shattering scream. Abandoning the letter to fate, I turned and fled back through the mirror, just in time to hear Christine wheeling to hush Meg.
"Wait!"
And then I was through the mirror, the door had closed, and I was fleeing down through passageways back to the safety of my lair. Upon reaching it, I collapsed on the far shore of the lake, my breath whistling in my throat as I struggled for the oxygen that my abused heart so needed. I thought for a moment that I would be sick, but it passed as I slowly began to catch my breath.
I had truly made a mess of things. I had only to hope that she would, somehow, not suspect the Phantom of having planted the note there upon her vanity—but how could she not? Would she come to the Bois? ...Did I want her to? What if she came full of questions, full of accusations? But what if she did not come at all? Which was worse?
I pushed myself up off of the sand, halfheartedly dusting myself off before making my dejected entrance into my home. My limbs still shook, but instead of taking the cup of tea and the long rest that I knew I needed, I instead went to my study and fished out my morphine and that medicine which I had so long avoided. It was time; if I did not administer it now, I would never have recovered in time to meet Christine. With a long breath and a silent prayer (though to whom I know not, for not since childhood had I believed in God above), I pressed the needle beneath my skin, and sank into a mixture of bliss and utter agony.
Rehearsals that day, I later discovered, were in utter shambles. No one could concentrate, lines were often forgotten, and every small noise sent the corps de ballet screaming and scattering, each one convinced that the Phantom was after them. Eventually they were abandoned, and each actor went home.
All, except one.
I stood, leaned against a lamppost, watching and waiting for the arrival of César's pretty, prancing trot, leading my brougham and its sacred cargo to me. And, in spite of all I had hoped and feared, he came, pulling up almost directly in front of me. The driver, a hired man, tipped his hat to me and then called to the lady within that they had reached their destination.
She spilled forth from the brougham in a flurry, half-running to me, one fist curled around her—my—letter, the other wrapped around her collar. "Monsieur," she spat, "you had best explain yourself, and quickly!"
My eyebrows rose, lips contorting into a half-smile. "Ah, Mademoiselle, to what do I owe the pleasure of such an affectionate greeting...?"
The humor was, to her, invisible. She merely glowered at me and waiting for the explanation she so desired.
"Ah, very well..." I offered my arm to her. "Shall we walk, while we speak?"
Christine looked on the verge of denying me, but grudgingly accepted, and fell into step beside me as we made our way down the avenue, into the depths of the park.
"You see, Mademoiselle, I was perhaps a bit dishonest with you when we spoke previously of what family I had remaining to me. A cousin, you see, was left to me, one far younger than myself, to whom I have often offered my every resource should ever he need it." I paused, eyes darting to her, and then quickly departing again when I found only anger residing on her countenance. "Ah... Anyway, after last we spoke, I returned home to find a letter from this cousin of mine, declaring that he was in fact in need of my aid... A dire illness had befallen him, you see, and it was not clear whether he would survive. It was more likely, if he was given the proper treatment by a renowned surgeon in London, but he could afford only half of the fee being asked. Because of this, he wrote to me, asking if I was possessing of the funds required. I replied that I was, and that my arrival would be shortly following that of my letter.
"Because of the urgency of his illness, Mademoiselle, I had unfortunately to leave in the dead of night, without even the time to pen you an explanation for my departure. For this, I am sorry—I wish that circumstances had been different. I had not expected to even be gone for such a long time, but his illness proved more difficult to cure than had been foretold, and I dared not leave him when he was in such a condition."
Christine was looking now at the path before us, eyebrows crinkled tightly above those lovely sapphires. I looked at her for a long moment, until her head began to tip in my direction; at that, I quickly looked away, feigning innocence. "Monsieur, your cousin... He is well, now?"
"Yes, Mademoiselle, very well. Thank you for asking."
Her lips pursed. "And would you be offended, Monsieur, if I were to tell you that I believed not a word of what you had said?"
I laughed. "You may believe what you wish, Mademoiselle. Far be it from me to give you permission in one way or another."
This seemed to please her to some degree, for we walked for a time longer without speaking. When finally she did speak again, it was to ask, "Forgive me, Monsieur, but.. where was it you said you lived?"
My mind stumbled, grasping wildly for some hint of what I had last told her. I could not recall, but had a relatively good guess; I recalled my mother once talking of an apartment she'd held briefly in Paris... "On the Rue de la Chaussée d'Antin, Mademoiselle."
Her feet ceased to move, causing me to nearly stumble at the sudden pace change. I turned to face her, and found her glowering up at me. "I knew you for a liar the moment we met, Monsieur!" she snapped. "Last you told me you lived on the Rue Chaveau-Lagarde, and now you say the Rue de la Chaussée d'Antin! Where will you live next, Monsieur? On the Rue Scribe itself, I bet!"
My heart froze in terror. "Oh, Mademoiselle, forgive me... I, I have recently moved, Mademoiselle, and..."
"Lies!" she hissed. "Lies, lies, lies! Can you do nothing but lie, Erik?" She took a step towards me, and curled her tiny little fingers around my shirt collar. "I tell you only truth, and you repay me with lies? Well tell me this, Erik, and tell me true—why do you lie to me?" I stared down at her, baffled, completely incapable of making an answer. She shook her head, and released me. "I do not care where you live, Erik! I do not care about your money, or your family, or whatever job or title you may or may not hold." She sighed, and looked down at my feet. "Erik, I checked. No one has ever heard of you, not in terms of the construction of the Garnier or anything else. You are a myth, a ghost!"
Don't say it, please, God...
"...Perhaps even, a Phantom?"
I looked steadily into her eyes, lips quirking. "What do you mean, Mademoiselle?"
She stared at me for a long while, and then shook her head. "No, of course, you will not tell me the truth of that, either." She drifted away from me, and I trailed after her, like a lost puppy. She paused beneath a skeletal tree, one hand resting on the back of an iron bench, as she stared out over the shadow-filled park. Night was falling, and the air was growing chill; I reveled in it. "Monsieur, there are perhaps a great many things you should consider. I am not growing younger; I am past the age at which I should have wed. My family was nothing; my mother I never knew, and my father no more than a very talented violinist. I have no expectations of grandeur... and yet, I have received an offer which no one in her right mind would turn down."
I stepped forwards quickly, hand catching her arm. "Christine, do not say it..."
Gently, she removed her arm from my grasp. "It is so, Monsieur. The Vicomte has proposed to me. There is little to lose for him, really; most of his inheritance goes to his brother, and what he does gain is little enough to speak of. I do not think he considers it a loss; I think he does in fact believe that it will take only me to make him happy." Her eyes found mine, and she smiled a bit. "Of course, I am sure you realize as much as do I how foolish that belief is, but.. he is still a boy at heart, Monsieur; he does not know better, and I am loathe to tell him the truth of it, for if I do then perhaps I will lose the offer that no girl of my station could dare hope to dream..."
I shook my head. "Christine, you must not marry that boy!" I, perhaps, said it with a bit too much force; she looked at me as if physically struck. I took a breath, and readjusted: "Forgive me, Mademoiselle, but.. I could not stand to see you wed to such a foolish child. Please, Christine—he could never please you."
She frowned. "He pleases me well enough, Monsieur, and I should thank you to not presume to know so much of what would make me happy." I saw in her eyes, however, that my words had struck home; almost immediately, she turned to me, and gave another little sigh. "If there were perhaps another offer... One preferable to the Vicomte's... But, alas, there has not been."
My eyes turned aside from her, and my shoulders sagged. Even I was not so naïve as to mistake what she meant; she was very nearly asking me to offer myself to her, but even then, I could not. Though I desired her, did she in truth deserve me? And still I had not told her the truth; could I ever? How could I bear to see her face, when she discovered that she was to wed a monster—a corpse? Would she be willing to wed the dead?
"No woman in her right mind would wed one over twice their age, Mademoiselle," I said, though my throat tried so hard to close around the words.
"On the contrary," she snapped, "women do it quite often, Monsieur! The only difference would be that I did it by choice, when most are promised without their consent." Her tiny hand took my elbow, and managed to half-turn me towards her. "What a woman would not do, in her right mind, Monsieur, is wed one who would not even tell her where he lived." This she said gently, not in the manner of fighting that she previously had.
Shaking, very nearly crying, I pressed a hand against her cheek. She leaned into the touch; her cheek felt cold against my hand, and out of habit I tugged her wrap tighter about her. "You need warmer clothes, Mademoiselle," I said in constricted vocals. With a sigh, I continued, in resigned tones, "At the Bal Masqué, Christine. Meet me there, and afterwards, perhaps... Perhaps I shall show you my home."
