Chapter 4

As soon as you arrived, I recognized you,

to myself I said: 'Tis he! 'Tis he!

I know it! I have heard you ...

Have you not spoken to me in the silence

when I sought some solace

for the anguish of my soul?

And was it not you, dear vision,

That flamed in the limpid darkness

And whispered words of hope?

-Eugene Onegin, Act I

"You are going to appear to me? I will see you?"

Erik could not read Christine's tone of voice. He heard hope, astonishment and what he hoped was excitement, but there was something else, too - perhaps fear, or uncertainty. Perhaps confusion, or a hint of doubt. He tried not to panic. After all, he was going to be giving up the whole deception shortly anyway.

She stood in her little practice-room and looked up toward the Heavens, as she was wont to do when speaking to the angel.

"Yes," Erik said.

His conversation with her today had been most reassuring. He'd learned that damned Vicomte had indeed barged into her dressing-room after the gala (the presumptuous little fool!), certain she would be delighted by his presence, and while Christine had welcomed him cordially (Erik supposed he would have to forgive her for that; after all, he was too besotted with her to be angry with her for long), when he unilaterally proclaimed that they were going to supper, she had refused. That, Erik felt comfortable assured, would be the end of the matter.

These spoiled young rich men were not accustomed to having to try hard to get anything they wanted. He would give up and set his sights on some other pretty girl. No doubt they were all the same to him. He did not see how remarkable she was. He saw only wide brown eyes and a pretty figure, and there were enough of those elsewhere.

Irritatingly, Christine had told the fop about the angel of music. But perhaps that would prove to have its advantages, he reflected. It might make the Vicomte think her mad and put him off.

Perhaps he ought to feel guilty about that. But he could not. He hid a selfish smile.

"After all this time... I thought you did not... have a form," Christine said.

An interesting way of putting it, Erik thought. "I can," he said, "when I wish to."

"I see. Is there a particular reason you will be appearing to me now...?"

"Yes." He tried to go on, but discovered he could not find his voice.

"Have I erred in some way?" she asked, and he felt a twinge of guilt. "Monsieur de Chagny...? I did not mean to encourage him. I did not tell him I wanted to go to supper with him... he simply..."

"You have conducted yourself blamelessly," he hastened to assure her.

"Thank Heaven," she said, relief in her voice. And then, "When is this to be?"

"Tomorrow, at our usual time. I shall appear to you at the church." He was referring, of course, to her church, the Église Lutherienne de la Redemption. There were several churches closer to the Opéra, but he knew if he recommended a Catholic church, she would be skeptical.

"Oh... And... how will you... look? How will I know you? Do you always look the same, or can you change your form?"

If only I could! he thought miserably. But he replied simply, "I shall make myself known to you."

"Will people seeing you cause a … commotion?"

"So you think the faithful would be surprised to see one of the angels they profess to believe in?" he asked rather nastily.

"I don't know. I think perhaps. Angels do not appear very often. I am so fortunate that you chose me," she said, and he felt another stab of guilt. "And... I have read that whenever people see an angel, their first reaction is to fall down in terror."

"I shall appear in mortal garments." Suddenly he had a stroke of inspiration. "And I shall be wearing a mask."

He waited uneasily for her reaction to this.

"That is a good idea," she said.

He let out an anxious, pent-up breath. If only everything that was to come could go so smoothly.

The next day

When Erik arrived at the church Christine was already there, sitting quietly in the secluded alcove he had directed her to.

She was simply attired in a plain dark coat and an old pair of black gloves. An old straw hat, freshened only with a nosegay of little daisies he imagined she'd picked on the way, covered her dark curls. Still, she looked exquisite, a shaft of sunlight falling over her and outlining her in glowing gold.

He glided silently through the nave, coming to rest a few feet in front of her.

Her eyes were closed in prayer, head bowed, and she did not notice him.

For a few moments he gazed up her in silence. He wanted to memorize every detail of her face. He might never see it again.

Suddnly he wanted to run out of the church, pretend none of this had ever happened. She had not heard him; she could still go.

Suddenly, however, she opened her eyes, and it was too late.

Her face lit up when she saw him, and she leapt up so fast she dropped the worn Bible she'd been holding. He stooped to pick it up, glad to have the chance to look away from her, for her beauty terrified him. It reminded him anew of how stupid he'd been to raise his eyes to her, how impossible it was that he could win her. It was like a slap in the face. It seemed to mock him. She was gentle and good - her expression kind and distant - but her beauty was a cruel thing, quite separate from her, just as his ugliness was from him.

Why had he had to fall in love with her of all women? Why had he had to fall in love at all? God knew he had tried not to!

"Thank you, Monsieur," she said breathlessly, as with trembling hands he handed the fragile little volume back to her. "Are- are you the...?"

There was a lump in his throat. He swallowed. "Christine, I am... your teacher."

"It is you!" she said, recognizing his voice. "I knew it was you. Though I had not expected you to be..." She looked him up and down.

"Hm?"

"Attired like this, you seem quite like an ordinary man."

"I very nearly am," he said wryly.

To his surprise, suddenly she seized his hand in both of hers. "I have so much to thank you for... I can never repay you!"

The shock made him weak in the knees. Still, it was blissful - he wanted to remain standing there like that forever. If only that were possible.

She quavered at his expression. "Have I been too forward?"

"No- no- not at all, Christine."

"Forgive me," she said, releasing his hand. "But I am so grateful. Oh, how good it is to be able to say that to you face to face!"

"There is nothing to repay, Christine," he said when he trusted himself to speak.

"Is it strange for you to be in human form?" she asked under her breath, taking in the sight of him.

Well... "It is not the form I would have chosen," he said wryly. At least that was true.

She didn't understand, of course. "I am sorry."

"Thank you. But you are not to blame, Christine." She couldn't possibly know what he meant by that either, of course. What a buffoon he was being.

To change the subject, he gestured to a pew and sat a careful few feet away from her. He was too afraid to come any closer.

They sat in silence for a long moment. Eventually he realized she had been waiting for him to speak.

Better to have the whole thing over with at once.

"As I told you, Christine," he said, "I have asked you here for a reason. I must... beg your forgiveness, Christine."

"Do you have to leave me again?" She stared at him in alarm. He had left once before, when she was fifteen, to spend three years in Persia. His absence had wounded her deeply.

"No," he said. "I will stay as long as you wish, Christine. I have no intention of leaving again." Indeed that was the case. He wasn't sure he could leave her now, even if he wished to. It would probably kill him.

Christine relaxed.

"It is worse than that, I fear," he said.

She looked as though she were trying to imagine what could be worse. "Are... are you a fallen angel?" she asked in confusion. "No - of course not. Forgive me for suggesting such a thing. The music you have given me... it is surely divine. It cannot be infernal."

"No, I am not. It is not quite so grave as that, I suppose." He drew in a deep, shaky breath. "The fact is, I have deceived you, Christine."

"What?" She looked at him in confusion. "But... no! What do you mean?"

He told her.

She was silent for a long time, so long it frightened him.

"Christine-" he said.

"-I don't understand," she managed at last.

"I think you do," he said. "I think in your heart you have suspected it for a long time, Christine. I am no angel. I am..." A deformed freak. A monster. "Just a man." Well, that is flattering yourself. "I am Erik."

"You must be an imposter - imitating his voice, pretending to be he! Where is he? What is the meaning of this? What have you-"

"-The angel is an imposter, I am afraid."

"He is not!" Christine cried.

Her voice carried as only a coloratura's could - he'd trained her well.

A few rows away, a prim-looking elderly lady, who until then had looked blissfully absorbed in contemplation of the divine, aimed a surprisingly venomous glare at her.

"Sometimes his voices comes from right beside me, and yet there isn't anyone there!" Christine said.

"I am highly accomplished in the art of ventriloquism."

She glared at him disbelievingly. "No-one could be so convincing."

"I thank you, but it is not true. Would you oblige me by looking over there?" he said, pointing into a nearby dark corner.

She did, though reluctantly.

"Do you see?" came his disembodied voice from out of the shadows.

With a cry, she leapt up.

When she looked back at him her eyes were blazing with anger. "How dare you? How dare you deceive me this way?"

Throughout all their acquaintance, she had called him 'tu' - the informal 'you'. The Angel was a close enough companion for that, a dear and trusted friend, almost like family. Now, however, she had switched to calling him 'vous', the formal. He felt the distance at once. He was a stranger to her; they were meeting for the first time.

"I am sorry," he said miserably. Indeed, he was not - he could not be. He still firmly believed he hadn't had a choice. But what else could he say?

"Who are you really?" she said. "Tell me at once."

Erik relaxed a little. Five more seconds with her, he thought. "I am a musician. A composer."

"What is your name?"

She was asking for his surname. He hesitated. He could give a false name, of course. It was the safest thing to do. But he wanted there to be as few lies as possible. The ones he had already told her were starting to felt like a net tangled around him.

"I was born in a little town outside Rouen. Yonville. I was christened Alphonse Masson," he said. The name felt strange in his mouth - he had not spoken it in years, not since he had learned that Alphonse was the patron saint of the deformed. He loathed it. He didn't want anything to do with this Saint Alphonse, whoever he was. "But I do not like that name. Now I am Erik."

Based on that information she could, if she wished, find out precisely who he was. He had never told anyone so much about himself. To share details of his life was to make himself that much more vulnerable to capture, to his crimes finally catching up with him.

But what did he care? If she hated him enough to report him to the police, then he did not want to live anyway.

Besides... he wanted her to know who he was. he did not want to be a phantom to her.

"And are you going to let me see who you are, Monsieur Masson?" she said. "Or is your intention to conceal yourself from me forever?"

He stiffened. "What?"

"So you won't take off your mask? You are determined to be underhanded?"

Those four words paralyzed him. "No... no," he said, his voice shrill with panic. His next words came rapidamente. "If you ask that of me, I shall leave. You must never see my face. Never!"

"You are out of your head," she said, peering at him.

"I am nothing of the kind."

She glanced at her watch, a pretty, delicate silver thing hung on a short chain around her neck. "I must go. Rehearsal is about to begin," she said, standing up.

Despair washed over him. Rehearsal did not start for another two hours.

"Of course," he said.

It was all he could do to stand there as she walked toward the door. He wanted to collapse to the floor.

To his embarrassment, his eyes misted over.

Then, suddenly, Christine was back before him. There was a stormy look on her face.

"Yes?" he said, blinking hard.

"Why did you tell me I couldn't marry?" She looked half-afraid and half-angry.

He came as close to the truth as he dared. "If you had a husband, he would not let you be on the stage."

"Perhaps not, but be that as it may - whoever you are, it is not for you to decide whether I marry. It is no concern of yours!"

"You are right, of course," he said. There was no other possible reply. Still, inside he was screaming. For God's sake, don't throw yourself away on the likes of that damned Vicomte! You must not marry him!

You must not marry anyone but me... he thought despairingly.

"I would be grateful if you would try to remember that in future," she said.

He blinked himself back to the present. "In future?"

She drew in a deep breath. "Heaven help me, I cannot do without your assistance," she said, sounding as though the words were being dragged from her. "They have asked me to audition for the Countess in Il Muto-"

Just in time, he stopped himself from saying he knew. She could not know that he was aware of everything that went on in the opera house. "-Congratulations-"

"-There is nothing to congratulate me for yet- where was I? - Ah, yes, I cannot prepare for my audition on my own. After you have been deceiving me all this time, the least you can do is help me."

Hope rose in his heart.

"So... if you have any consideration at all," she said, "then if you would be so good as to be at our usual meeting-place tomorrow at eight o'clock precisely- and in person this time, if you please."

He stared at her, his sorrow banished instantly. He was too thrilled even to be irritated at being ordered about. He could have levitated several inches off the floor. This was, without question, the best moment of his whole life.

A part of him didn't want her to think he could be commanded and summoned like this. But truth to be told, he would have waited for her all day should she ask it of him. Why should he not admit it? There was no use hiding from the truth. Let her think what she would.

"I am at your service," he said.

"Oh." Christine looked startled at having won so easily. "Thank you," she said crisply, when she had recovered her composure. "That... ah... that is... good of you." She paused, then added, "For your information, I shall be telling several people where I will be and that they should tell the police straightaway if I am even a minute late to rehearsal tomorrow morning, so you would do well to keep that in mind."

"As you wish," he said. He could not hide how miserable this proclamation made him feel, though he'd known it would be coming.

"Yes," she said, eyeing him suspiciously. "Well, then," she said at last. "Until tomorrow. Eight o'clock, if you please. Good-bye." And she marched away, her head held high.

Erik waited til the church door had closed behind her before making his way back down the aisle.

The interview had been an unqualified disaster, he knew. Short of Christine striking him across the face or screaming, he could hardly think of any way it could have gone worse.

But he would see her again. That was more than enough.

End of Chapter 4

French:

Monsieur (pron. approximately "mi-SHER") = Mr., "sir".

Mère (pron. "mair") = Mother

Rue = street