Chapter 2

Christine pulled back the bedroom curtains on this, her wedding morning, to see…nothing. A heavy fog had rolled in off the Seine during the night. But it was unusual for the fog to persist once the April sun peeked over the horizon.

A casual stroller in the 16th Arondissment would have seen the petite girl standing at the ornate window, its cast-iron scrollwork carefully barring the world away. The Maison de Chagny was a particularly imposing, if somewhat unwelcoming structure, its stolid sandstone façade and high gates communicating to the great unwashed that they were indeed not wanted.

Christine pulled her wrapper around her waist when she heard her maid's timid knock at the door. The rabbity girl tiptoed in with a breakfast tray. Christine had no intention of breaking her fast with the rest of the de Chagny family. Not this morning. Not after last night. Christine raised the café au lait to her lips, reliving the previous evening.

Raoul's parents seemed determined to point out the yawning chasm between her upbringing and Raoul's. What better way than a formal dinner party? When Raoul led Christine in to supper, a forest of silverware and goblets awaited her. As Raoul deftly pushed in her chair, Christine was dismayed to see five spoons, five forks, four knives and four drinking vessels. Not for the table—for her!

The entire menu was constructed from the most awkward foodstuffs known to humanity. Artichokes. Lobsters in the shell. Ortolans! Tiny little birds served up whole—how in the world does a person eat such a thing? And the coup de grace—for dessert, a whole tangerine served with a knife and fork. "You surely wouldn't pick it up with your hands, would you?" Madame la Comtesse de Chagny, Raoul's adored mother, purred at Christine.

Raoul ended up cutting the fruit for her and arranging it on her plate as though she was a child. It was humiliating. She knew nothing about wine, and almost sipped the water from the finger bowl, stopped in the nick of time by Raoul's hasty kick under the table.

"I can hardly wait for Christmas," Christine snorted to herself as she attacked her breakfast. She began to dip a slice of her toast into her coffee, when she stopped—remembering how boorish and lower class such a thing was. Then, she went ahead and dipped it. "Who knows, this may be the last chance I get," she thought rebelliously.

While Christine was enduring the dinner from hell, Erik was riding Cesar back from the Carmelite Sisters of Misercordia, a convent four hours from Paris. Even though there was a three-quarter moon, Erik dismounted and led Cesar where the road grew uneven. The horse had been a good friend for many years, and Erik did not wish to lame him

Mme. Giry had sent him that morning with a letter of introduction to the Mother Superior, Sister Therese. Sister Therese had been a ballet dancer with Mme. Giry, but gave it all up thirty years ago. Some said it was a holy vocation that led her to her vows; some said it was for love.

The gentle prioress did not know what to make of the masked man before her.

"How can I be of help to you, my son?" she softly inquired. The man was plainly distraught, for he would look at the little nun, then look away and mutter under his breath. Finally, the man inhaled sharply, and began.

"I have come here to ask for sanctuary."

"What have you done?" Sister Therese's heart started to race. Were the authorities after this dashing fellow, so handsome in his riding coat and shiny boots? Did he hide his face to conceal his criminal past?

This was the most excitement Sister Therese had experienced since leaving the ballet.

"It is not for me, although I have committed many sins and there is a price on my head." Sister Therese gasped. "Please continue, young man."

"I ask your protection for a young woman. A blameless young woman who may need you to shelter her while she begins life anew." Erik removed one of his riding gloves and slapped it against his left hand's palm rhythmically.

"She lost her home—she lost everything in the recent Opera fire. She thinks that she is alone." Slap. "And friendless." Slap.

Sister Therese began to understand. "You love this young woman, don't you, my child?"

The glove stopped moving. "Think, Sister of that broken carpenter whose bride you are. Multiply the love you bear him by ten, and then ten more. That is a fraction of the love I have for this girl."

Sister Therese's mouth drew round in an "o". This man could be dangerous. Why in the world had Antoinette Giry sent him to her peaceful cloister? "My son, you speak in extremes. How can the Carmelite Sisters help this unhappy lady?"

Erik's eyes began to glow with an aquamarine flame. "She is about to make a terrible decision. If she comes here, it will be to have the time and the means to decide what she will do with her young life." He looked into the mother superior's hooded eyes. "Go on, my son." she nodded.

"I intend to settle a large sum of money upon her, so that her choices may be made from her heart and not desperation." Erik's voice warmed as he explained his plan. It was so musical! Sister Therese couldn't help but become caught in the web of words.

"If you can find it in your hearts to shelter my dear Christine, and obscure her from all who may seek her, I am sure that she will again choose to use the divine gift of song. It is a gift that your God gave her. A gift that I, her tutor, helped to refine…"

At this, Erik's voice broke, and a sob rose in his throat. Sister Therese gently took the masked man's immense, yet finely formed, hand into her own delicate one. She could feel him shaking.

"Dear sir, this is indeed a place of refuge. If this young woman comes here willingly, we will conceal her until she is ready to rejoin the world."

Christine let out an involuntary groan as the maids draped her wedding gown over her head. The dress was made of twenty yards of the finest Alençon lace, embroidered with thousands of seed pearls and golden thread, on a base of crystal white silk Duppioni. The gown was beautiful. It was regal.

It weighed about as much as Christine did. How was she going to walk down the aisle in this thing? The gown had, of course, been worn by Raoul's mother, a statuesque Norman lady if there ever was one, and besides, there had been no time to have a new one made.

Raoul had insisted that they marry as soon as the Cathedral St. Chappelle was available. He had become obdurate on the subject, allowing no dissent. Even Christine's considerable reservations had been swept away in the face of Raoul's determination that they should be wed, in style, and at once.

So there was no help for it. As Christine looked at her reflection in the full-length silver gilt mirror, she had to admit that it was a beautiful dress. An exquisite fingertip veil, also of the finest lace, was anchored by the de Chagny diamond tiara. And yet, the face that peered out from this queenly raiment was…sad? Overwhelmed? Trapped?

A sharp knock at the door dispelled all of Christine's errant thoughts. With difficulty, Christine waded over and opened the door a crack.

"How is my beautiful bride this morning?" a sleek voice proudly whispered. Christine jumped back and caught one foot in her train. "You can't see me, Raoul! It's bad luck." Raoul chuckled a little, but stayed behind the door. "The only bad luck for us died in the Opera fire, my precious."

Christine gave a little shudder. Her poor Angel! How could Raoul speak so coldly of him, and on their wedding day? "Go to the church, Raoul. Perhaps you should have a little talk with the priest about having more compassion in victory." Christine shut the door firmly. The maids looked at her as though she had gone off her head.

"What? What is it?" Her shy lady's maid stared at the floor. "Oh, miss, it's just that…"

"Speak up. Just tell me."

"No one ever dares to speak to Monsieur Raoul as you just did, miss." The bashful maid lowered her eyes again and bit her lip. Christine could tell that she regretted saying anything against her master. "It's all right, Estelle. It's true, Raoul is a little spoiled."

Christine took another look in the full-length mirror. A bride, a nobleman's prize of triumph, peered back at her. "After all, he's always gotten everything he's ever wanted."