Chapter 9

The innocence of your champion

would soon be tarnished

if he had to tell of the magic

that gives him such power!

If you do not dare ask him, we will all rightfully believe

that you yourself are torn with worry, that his innocence is not what it seems!

-Lohengrin, Act II, Scene IV

(Music suggestions:'The Master is Painting' by Alexandre Desplat)

The Vicomte wasted no time in telling Christine about the note, of course. He had intended for it to make her think badly of Erik, of course, but in fact it had the opposite affect on her.

She was pleased, reassured her that Erik was not angry with her. If he had been, he would, she had no doubt, have found a way to include her in the snub.

As for the Vicomte - well, she did not care if he was annoyed. It served him right, she thought, for sticking his nose into matters that did not concern him.

To Erik's immeasurable delight, when she came to their next lesson, she started in on the subject at once, and could scarcely get through telling him about it without bursting into laughter.

"Don't suppose I didn't notice the insults," she said, trying to restrain her giggles.

"I never doubted for a moment that you would."

"You knew precisely what you were doing. You should be ashamed of yourself!"

"I know," he said.

"It was undignified."

"You are quite right." He bowed.

"Really, it was very, very wrong of you."

"Very wrong indeed."

"But... it was terribly funny!" At last she could not contain herself anymore, and burst into laughter. "His face when he read it to me... I wish you could have seen it... he insisted on reading the whole thing out loud to me himself... and he did it in a voice, too - you should have heard the voice..."

He was ecstatic to have amused her so much - and scarcely less delighted that she, too, [evidently was annoyed with the Vicomte]. "Won't you try to recreate it?"

She lowered her voice an octave below its natural register. "Most exalted Monsieur le Vicomte de Chagn- No, no, I can't do it... I can't..." Soon she was sputtering with laughter again. "I'm sorry, I can't. Oh, great Heavens, it was all I could do not to start laughing about it in front of him! He asked me what was the matter - I had to feign a coughing fit - How could you put me in that position?" But she was smiling.

"How was I to know that the fo- that he would read it out to you?"

"Oh, you knew!"

"Very well." He shrugged expansively. "Mea culpa."

He was enormously encouraged. It didn't take long for him to draw out of her that the Vicomte annoyed her too. He had suspected it for a long time - she was too intelligent not to notice how full of himself he was - and finally having it confirmed want to dance around the room. It took all his self-restraint not to spend the whole lesson insulting him. He got in a few choice epithets, and at first she laughed, but eventually he could tell the subject had lost its interest for her - either because she felt guilty for mocking her friend, or because Erik had gotten carried away by his dislike and wasn't being as witty as he thought. (Erik was not in the habit of questioning his own wit, but when one failed to make Christine Daae laugh, then clearly one had gone wrong somehow.)

Pull yourself together, he reprimanded himself furiously. Just because his wealth and beauty and charm do not impress her, does not mean she would fall for a man who has none of the above!

He forced himself to maintain an air of cool detachment throughout the rest of the lesson - so much so that by the end Christine was looking at him in confusion, wondering where their usual rapport had gone, and trying to gauge whether it could have something to do with the Vicomte.

Erik went home more determined than ever to forge some kind of further connection between them. At last inspiration came to him.

His heart was in his throat throughout the next lesson. He wondered if she could hear the nervousness in his voice. Surely it must be obvious.

For he had finally devised a way to hint at his affection for her - the closest, perhaps, that he could ever come to telling her he loved her. He wasn't sure what frightened him more - that she wouldn't understand it, or that she would.

The end of the lesson arrived. He drew in a shaky breath. If he did not take this chance now, he would never find the courage. "If I may," he said as Christine turned to go, "I took the liberty of bringing a gift for you, Christine." And he held out a package.

She took it with a smile of surprise.

He thought of cautioning her that it was fragile, but it was unnecessary - as she thanked him sweetly, her small, careful hands held it as gently as though it were a bird.

"May I open it?" she asked, and he nodded - though the idea made him uneasy, he found it difficult to deny any request of hers.

She gently peeled back leaves of silvery tissue to reveal what was inside. It was a small, delicate painting of her singing onstage. He'd spent weeks on it.

She wore her dress from the gala where she'd made her debut- he couldn't stand the ridiculous wig and panniers they made her wear in Il Muto - and the expression he loved best on her, her face alive with the joy of music.

Christine's eyes widened as she looked up at him. "Thank you. Did you paint this?"

He swallowed. Why was it so hard to admit? "I did," he said, feeling as though he were in confession. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other.

Christine didn't reply at first. Her gaze went back to the painting. He couldn't read her expression.

"Have I done wrong? Have I offended you?" he asked anxiously.

"No. Not at all. Quite the contrary- I am honored." She looked up. "Forgive me - I never thought anyone would create a painting of me."

Was he imagining it, or were there tears in her eyes? "I am certain I will not be the last," he said. "You have seen the portraits of the great singers in the gallery?"

"Yes." Suddenly, to his surprise, a mischievous grin spread over her face. "The staff aren't supposed to go in there, but Meg and I used to love to sneak in and look at the portraits. It nearly drove poor Madame Giry to distraction." She paused. "I always dreamed of being up on those walls."

"You shall be, Christine," he assured her, "and sooner than you think, I daresay. And then no-one will dare try to stop you from going in."

This made her smile. As always, he added that to his list of his most cherished accomplishments. Finished the first act of my opera. Mastered Paganini's Caprices. Made Christine smile!

"You are much too kind," she said.

"Not at all," he said. "Kindness is not one of the virtues I am known for."

She grinned. "Well, I shall treasure this," she said. "This is the only picture of me I have ever liked. Meg thinks it great fun for us to go and have our photograph taken in ridiculous old clothes."

Erik smiled.

"She always looks lovely, naturellement. But I always look so gloomy and ghostly in photographs," Christine lamented.

"Impossible," he said.

Their eyes met.

She turned away, smiling shyly. "So then... you are an artist as well as a musician?" she ventured after a moment, clearing her throat.

"Well. I suppose. Yes."

She shook her head in amazement. "That is remarkable. Your use of the light here is splendid - not that I know much about such things."

"Thank you. But your taste is good - I am glad to have your approval." He smiled.

"Thank you." She suddenly looked as though she'd had an idea. "May I ask... Would it be demanding too much if I asked if you would teach me to draw as well as sing?"

He tried to hide how delighted he was, afraid that if she saw the true intensity of his happiness it would frighten her. Instead, he allowed himself only a slight smile. "I suppose we can make time."

A month had gone by since the premiere of Il Muto, and the papers not only in Paris, but in Vienna, London, and even as far as New York, had raved about Christine Daae's performance for the duration.

Président Trochu had applauded her, and the Comte de Paris, pretender to the French throne, had come backstage to meet her. The most exalted inhabitants of the Faubourg Saint-Germain, hearing the reports, deigned to grace the opera house with her presence on the nights she performed. But Christine was not finished triumphing yet. She had one more trick up her sleeve.

After months of carefully expanding her range by increments, she'd had a breakthrough and reached beyond her wildest dreams - half an octave above the highest note called for in the standard opera repertoire. It was almost a miracle. Only a handful of sopranos had ever been known to do it.

The first time it happened, Erik had leapt up from the piano bench, and had to restrain himself from shouting in triumph. Christine had laughed for joy and then nearly burst into tears.

"If you did it once, you can do it again," Erik said, as she finished mopping up her happy tears with the handkerchief he'd offered.

Christine nearly embraced him, then recollected herself and doubled back just in time. She hoped he hadn't noticed. "Yes... I hope so..." she said. "Great Heavens... A Do-7*... I never thought..." She slumped gracefully back against the piano, too overwrought with happiness to think in a straight line.

"Try it a few more times today, then do your étirements and rest for the evening." He smiled.

She nodded, immediately straightening, ready at once to continue striving - one of the many things he adored about her. "Very well."

"Now that it is yours, it will be firmly in your command soon," he said. "Once it is, you ought to put it into Il Muto."

"Indeed?"

"Why, yes." He smiled at the thought of the triumph that lay ahead of her.

"Oh... I should like to, very much... But where would it resolve properly?"

"The Countess' final aria."

"Why, yes. Just so." She smiled one of his favorites among her many smiles - the admiring one that always made him feel like the most intelligent man in the world.

For a moment, he forgot where he was and whatever it was they were doing. He nearly forgot his own name. "But take care you do not do it until you are certain you feel ready," he managed at last, sounding pompous and prim in his effort to gather himself. "Oh, and save it for the proper moment."

She smiled conspiratorially, and at once she had banished the awkwardness; they were two masterminds plotting their triumph. "You have my word."

On the last night of Il Muto, during the climax of the Countess' tragic final aria in Act III, she determined the proper moment had come. With a smile that belied the difficulty, she sent the clear, unearthly sound flicking out into the auditorium, swift and sudden as a throwing star. Afterwards, there was a moment of stunned silence. The audience, crew, and even for a moment the cast looked at her as though she had just flown around the stage. La Carlotta, eavesdropping from the wings, was suddenly taken ill with the hysterics and had to be rushed home. And then a whisper began to run through the crowd. Had it been real? Had Daae really done it? Had such a thing really happened?

When Christine finished her cadenza (and the Countess gracefully died), the audience went wild, leaping to their feet and roaring approval. Reviewers, after confirming that it had really happened and they had not been hallucinating, rushed to telegraph their papers. La Carlotta was forgotten. La Daae was the lady of the hour.

The moment Christine had made her final courtesy - after no less than ten curtain calls - the managers all but dragged her offstage, parading her in front of an endless succession of wealthy donors who were suddenly clamoring to meet her. In the confusion, Andre even forgot and 'introduced' her to Raoul again, which made him laugh, though he was too polite to correct their mistake.

"A ti above high ti!" Andre said, when she had at last managed to edge away from the crowd and refresh herself with a much-needed glass of cold punch. "You see, I knew what note it was - I am capable of showing proper appreciation for high art, unlike my Philistine friend here." He elbowed Firmin, who took a gulp of his champagne and muttered something that sounded like 'should never have left the junk business'.

Christine thought it best not to point out that it had in fact been a do. She also tried her best to produce a smile that showed that she appreciated Andre's artistic talents but did not depreciate Firmin's abilities.

"What's next," Andre went on, "Shattering glasses?"

Firmin hurriedly set down his champagne flute, looking worried.

"Shattering the whole chandelier?" Andre suggested, flinging his arms wide. "Singing in harmony with yourself? Or perhaps you'll astonish us with your range in the other direction and sing baritone next time?"

Christine laughed. "I fear that is beyond my abilities."

"No, nothing is beyond you!" Andre crowed. "You are superhuman, Mademoiselle!"

They must have sold all the tickets, Christine thought, or have received a large donation, or else they wouldn't be flattering me like this.

"Don't you think so, my dear Vicomte?" And, catching Raoul by the arm, he pulled him over.

"Yes," Raoul said, a preoccupied look on his face. "Truly superhuman."

The next week was a whirl of activity for Christine. Everyone wanted to meet her. She could scarcely find a moment to practice music, or even sleep. The managers carried her from engagement to engagement. Every second of her time was spoken for. A few days later, however, Raoul managed to spirit her away, and she somehow found herself driving through the well-manicured avenues of the Bois de Bologne in one of the de Chagnys' many handsome and well-appointed carriages.

Meg had once again brought herself along on this outing as a "chaperone". Ostensibly she was there to make sure Raoul behaved honorably, but again, she was really there to make sure Christine did not spoil her opportunity to win the affections of a Vicomte. To round out their numbers, she'd brought along her latest flamme du jour, a handsome but rather witless specimen who was a marquis of some sort and answered to Ferdinand.

"Christine Daae! Mademoiselle, you sang very high indeed at the end of 'Il Muto'," he'd said to Christine as they settled in the carriage. "It was the highest note I'd ever heard."

"I did not know you were at that performance, Monsieur," Raoul said with polite interest.

"Oh, I wasn't," Ferdinand said. He smiled, not seeming to realize that there was anything inconsistent about this reply.

Raoul blinked in bewilderment.

Good-natured as he was, he made a few more valiant attempts to engage the young marquis in friendly discussion, though all of them ended in similar confusion. Eventually even he gave up. After that, the drive continued in silence, though Ferdinand continued to beam amiably at all of them and at everyone and everything they passed, blissfully oblivious to his failure as a conversationalist.

You can't say the fellow isn't agreeable, Christine thought with a secret smile.

The carriage eventually alighted at an elegant prospect overlooking one of the park's many well-landscaped artificial lakes. Meg and Ferdinand immediately disappeared into the hedges (Raoul valiantly pretended not to notice that they were missing). The de Chagnys' driver plopped his hat over his eyes and fell into a sound sleep. And thus the two old friends found themselves alone.

After they had been strolling around the lake for a few minutes, Raoul suddenly came to a stop and cleared his throat nervously. "Christine," he said, taking her hands.

She blinked, too surprised to pull away. His hands felt strange on hers - not unpleasant, exactly, but out of place somehow. She found she was glad she was wearing gloves. "Yes?"

"I hate to spoil such a beautiful day with an unhappy subject, but there is something I feel I must bring to your attention."

"Oh?" Christine said with mild concern. He can't be going to mention Erik again. Surely not.

"Pray do not be alarmed," Raoul said. "But your friend Mademoiselle Giry and I think your instructor may be ... conducting some kind of experiment. With you as a subject."

Christine pulled her hands away. "I beg your pardon?" she said, not sure she had heard correctly.

"Think of it. He is giving you lessons for free," Raoul said. "What motivation could he have for that?"

"I-"

"-Glory, one would assume, but no, he has asked you to keep this a secret. Surely, therefore, there must be some other reason. Perhaps a sinister one."

Not wanting to meet his eye, Christine busied herself adjusting her hat and stared out across the lake. "What sort of experiment do you suppose him to be conducting on me?" she said. "I imagine I would be aware of it."

"Actually, that is precisely what you would not be," Raoul said. "You see, we think, your friend and I, that he may have mesmerized you in some way."

"Mesmerized me?" Christine echoed, no longer able to pretend her attention was devoted to the scenery.

"Or hypnotized you," Raoul said.

"What, like the magicians that make people take their clothes off onstage?" Christine said incredulously. "I think you hit your head on the ceiling during the ride here. On that note - you ought to invest in some new springs for your carriage. I don't know when I've been so jostled about."

The thought, which this inevitably put into Raoul's head, of that Masson fellow hypnotizing Christine into taking off her clothes, did nothing to soothe his nerves. "It is not merely some imaginary stage trick," he said irritably. "There is a solid clinical basis for the practice of hypnosis, backed by a great deal of scientific literature. Some of the world's leading clinicians, Dr. Hippolyte Bernheim for example-"

"-You have been researching this!" Christine cried. "How gracious of you to finally let me in on your investigation! Do please tell me what you have discovered about what goes on in my head! I await your conclusions, Monsieur le Docteur."

Raoul swallowed. "I have heard of people being enabled by hypnosis to commit feats of unnatural strength, things that would be impossible otherwise," he summarized at last, having the decency to look sheepish. "That is all I was going to say. You must admit it is at least theoretically possible that this is what has happened to you. The notes you reached during your most recent performance... they were almost incredible."

Christine looked away.

"You must be careful," Raoul said gently.

"I must admit to being somewhat offended!" Christine said at last. "I didn't assume Meg must have been hypnotized when she turned sixty-four fouettés during the ballet in Act III, and that is, if anything, more demanding than I what did - I don't know why the papers weren't talking about that instead. And what about your bravery in the Navy?- no one ever suggested that was not due entirely to your own merit. Why should my accomplishments, then, be treated with suspicion?"

"I thank you for your compliments. But neither of us had fallen into the path of an anonymous personage with unclear motivations," Raoul pointed out indisputably. "Besides, Mademoiselle Giry undoubtedly exerted a great deal of effort to learn to execute her- er- frappés-"

"Fouettés, Monsieur le Vicomte," called Meg, coming up to them. She had apparently pried herself loose from Frederic, who was now wandering in carefree circles a few yards away, smiling at a daisy in his hands, with no apparent idea of where he was going.

"Fouettés, precisely," Raoul continued. "I understand it took years of devoted practice to master such a difficult maneuver. And my modest accomplishments in the Navy, such as they were, came as a result of a great deal of labor."

"Do you imagine that I do not practice?" Christine shouted.

Meg gently took her arm.

"Of course not," Raoul said, looking wounded. "Great heavens, you cannot imagine that I would be so mean as to think you do not. But your abilities appeared almost overnight. When I heard you at the gala, I could tell at once your singing had changed to an almost miraculous extent - I did not even recognize you at first. Mademoiselle Giry agrees."

Could I not sing before? Christine thought, stung.

"Besides, there is a look in your eyes when you speak of him- and sometimes when you sing - that I do not like at all," Raoul said.

"A look in my eyes?" Christine cried. Her voice dripped with scorn, but in fact her mind was whirling.

"As though you were... in another world." Raoul stopped, struggling to put into words what he was thinking. "You look radiant - as though you were hearing choirs of angels!"

"I don't understand."

"Well, what I mean is - it... it isn't natural," he finished at last. "There is something almost infernal about it."

"Perhaps there's a simpler explanation for that," said Meg, who had looked chastened by Christine's objections. "Perhaps she's in love with him."

Christine froze.

Raoul's eyes swung toward her.

She hurriedly tried to collect her thoughts, hoping her expression would not betray her unsettled mind. "A man of whom, as Monsieur le Vicomte is so fond of reminding me, I know nothing?" she scoffed in what she hoped was a convincing tone of disbelief. "A man who will tell me nothing of himself? Now I know she has hit her head on the ceiling one time too many."

Meg burst into laughter. But though Christine hid it well, Meg's words had unsettled her deeply. Raoul could see the preoccupied look in her eyes, and he did not like it.

"Christine, I repeat my offer to hire another instructor for you," he said. "I would prefer very strongly you never see this Monsieur Masson again."

"What?"

"It is not safe."

"No!" Christine cried, so loudly they all stared at her.

"To do other than accept would be foolish," Raoul said. "It would look very bad."

"How dare you?" she cried, feeling angry tears gathering in her eyes. "How dare you suggest that this is vile and wicked! - What do you know of any of it?"

"What in Heaven's name do you mean? What reason do you have to be so distressed?" Raoul said, annoyed. "Surely as long as the instructor is capable, it makes no difference."

Christine recalled where she was and tried to restrain herself. "On the contrary. You cannot possibly understand how difficult it is to find an instructor of quality," she said, trying to keep her voice even. "Even were I blessed with a fortune of my own, I should be hard-pressed to find one who was a good match."

"A good match?" Raoul said.

"An instructor who is not well-suited to their pupil can do incalculable damage. That is the only 'hold' he- or anyone else- has over me," Christine said. She turned away angrily.

"Christine?" Raoul said, putting a hand on her arm. She jumped, causing him to snatch it away.

"If you will forgive me," she said when she trusted herself to speak, "I should like to go home now."

When the de Chagny carriage had taken Ferdinand back to wherever he came from and deposited Christine and Meg outside the Girys' appartement, the two friends were left alone.

Christine started on Meg at once.

"Do you really think I cannot sing on my own?" she cried. "You have a lot of nerve!"

"Of course not," Meg said. "Forgive me. That part was all the Vicomte's idea."

"-Then what did you say to him?"

"I said I'm worried by the way you talk about Erik. You are enthralled by him. I've never seen you like this before."

"Enthralled?" Christine cried.

"I don't trust him; I don't think he's respectable, and-"

"-I am not enthralled by him!" Christine cried. "Why did you say I am in love with him? Surely you don't think that. And in front of the Vicomte, too- for Heaven's sake-"

"-Well, I hope you are not," Meg said. "But I thought the Vicomte would benefit from a little encouragement. You're welcome-"

"-He doesn't need any encouragement to hate Erik!-"

"-Evidently not, but it might help for him to be a little jealous for you. He's much too assured that he's going to win you, and I thought it might help move him along a little faster, maybe even get a proposal out of him, if he thinks he has some competition for your-"

"-The two of them already hate each other enough to strangle one another!" Christine laughed.

Meg stared at her. "Erik hates the Vicomte?" she said.

"He loathes him!"

"And they have never met?"

"Certainly not!" Christine said. "I can never allow them to be in the same room - I shudder to think what would happen!"

Meg sighed. "I thought so."

"Thought what?"

"Erik is in love with you, too," Meg said.

"What?" Christine heart began to pound. "Erik! In love with me! No."

"I'd stake my life on it. Or at least, my best hat, which is something. You know I would sacrifice my firstborn for that masterpiece of millinery."

"No!" Flustered, Christine tried to compose herself. "You haven't heard Erik shout at me. 'Stupid woman - what possessed you to bungle that cadenza that way? - Are you a singer or merely a doll with a voice that you treat like a pretty toy?' - Tell me, do you ever plan to learn how to use this gift of yours, or are you content to - "

Meg was unmoved. "-Men have responded to falling in love in stranger ways. Especially when it frightens them."

"Why should he be frightened of me?" Christine protested.

"You're beautiful and charming. That's enough to frighten many men."

"Oh, that is nonsense," Christine said. "Even if I am so very pretty - which is taking a rather optimistic view, in my opinion - a man like that has no reason to be frightened of beautiful women. You haven't heard his voice - you haven't seen how he plays. And he is tall, and-"

Meg fixed her with a knowing look. "-Take care, ducky. Whatever your fancy is for Erik, you'd have to be a simpleton to risk spoiling things with the Vicomte over it."

"This grows more and more illogical!" Christine cried. "I don't have 'a fancy for Erik'. How could I, knowing how he deceived me?"

"Don't you?" Meg raised an eyebrow. "Then why are you letting him come between you and Monsieur le Vicomte like this? It isn't very shrewd of you."

"It has nothing to do with my feelings regarding Erik. I simply cannot allow the Vicomte to dictate my actions. It is a matter of principle."

Meg raised an eyebrow. "You're proud, ducky," she said. "You have to be careful."

You have no shortage of pride yourself, I might point out," Christine said.

"Yes," Meg said without offense, "But I am better at hiding it. Men don't like it when you're stubborn."

Erik has never objected to it, Christine thought. But she stopped herself from saying it aloud. Erik was not a man, after all, for all intents and purposes. He hardly even seemed real. It was as though he did not belong to this world; he had no name, no country. He was a shadow, a phantom. He would never marry me, she thought. And then, Well, that is a good thing, isn't it? He isn't the sort of man I ought to marry.

"You know Monsieur le Vicomte dislikes the fellow, so why do you insist on always leaping to his defense?" Meg went on. "Don't tell me you're trying to make the Vicomte jealous. That's my department. If you are, you're not going about it very intelligently."

"I am not trying to make the Vicomte jealous! In any case, that work has already been done for me."

"Then what is the meaning of all this?" Meg cried. "It won't do you any favors with him."

"I don't care whether it does!" Christine cried.

"-Christine, opportunities like this don't come around very often for people like us! Why do you think I'm putting up with that poor little noodle-brained marquis?"

"He is handsome," Christine pointed out with a shrug, not willing to concede her point.

Meg rolled her eyes. "He won't be for long. He'll run into a tree or something one of these days and that will be the end of that nice face of his. No, I'm not carrying on with him because he's handsome - it's because I'm afraid people in our position have to take whatever opportunity we can get."

"What about the Baron de Castelot-Barbezac?" Christine said. This was another one of the patrons at the opera, who, as far as Christine could tell, seemed to be coming to performances a good deal more often since he'd met Meg. Christine liked him much better than any of her other admirers. He was polite and refined, courteous and gentlemanlike.

Meg's face took on a soft smile that was quite unlike her. "He'll never notice me."

"I wouldn't say that," Christine said, returning her smile. "What about those flowers the other night?"

"That doesn't mean anything. I'm sure he buys flowers for lots of girls." Meg looked away, and for a moment Christine couldn't see her expression. "Don't change the subject!" she cried suddenly, looking back at her, and her face had resumed its usual stubborn expression. "We are supposed to be discussing you and the Vicomte. Christine, don't you understand my concern?"

"Very well." Christine thought. "I cannot blame you for encouraging this," she said at last. "But... what if an... alliance with the Vicomte were not the ideal situation it seems to be?"

Meg's eyes widened. "You would be set for life. He's a good man; you know you'd be safe with him. That isn't easy to find. And he would let you sing! What is there to object to? I don't understand you."

"But he does not believe I can really sing," Christine said.

"What are you talking about? He's heard you."

"Yes, but he thinks it is all some kind of magic spell. He doubts the music!, Meg- you don't understand! He-"

"-Prove him wrong, then," Meg said. "You can bring him round. Switch to another instructor and he will see that he is wrong about you - that you are a true artist, not just some magician's puppet."

This was an uncharacteristically profound speech from Meg. Christine was startled into an unintended confession.

"That may be just why I do not wish to give up my lessons with Erik," she admitted in a rush. "Meg... what if you're right?"

"Right?" Meg said.

"What if my gift is not mine at all?"

"I think it is. Like I said, I'm not sure this hypnosis business is as all-powerful as the Vicomte seems to think," Meg said practically. "But there's only one way to know for certain, and I've just told you what it is."

"Of course," Christine said quietly. But silently she added, Not the only way...

Music suggestion: 'Les Partitions' by Bruno Coulais, from the 'Les Choristes' soundtrack

Christine awaited her next lesson in an agony of anticipation. She had to ask Erik something, and the thought of doing so was driving her to distraction. She tried to warm up while she waited for him to arrive, but her voice rebelled. It wandered and wavered, her anxiety letting it loose from its usual moorings.

Finally, with a discreet knock, Erik let himself into the little room.

She jumped, her face turning even redder than it had already been as she realized he had heard her.

"Are you well, Christine?" he asked with a look of concern. "You do not sound like yourself."

"Good afternoon. Ah, thank you for inquiring. I'm not ill." She shifted from one foot to the other.

He gave her a curious look. "That is not always the same thing."

She looked away. "Let us talk of music."

"Ah- very well," he said, surprised by her abruptness. "You have completed the vocalises I assigned the other day?"

"Yes. They went well enough yesterday, but today... you heard the unfortunate result, I believe."

"Well," he said. This was tactful of him. He did not deny it - they both knew she had butchered them, and he wasn't going to lie. But he also did not say anything unkind. He only shouted and berated her when she was doing well, when she was on the verge of doing something remarkable and he was frustrated that she could not quite reach it. When she was really doing poorly, when she felt downcast, he was never harsh. "I am not sure you are using your breath properly today."

"Not hardly," she said sheepishly.

"Is something the matter?" he asked. "This is quite unlike you."

"No, nothing is the matter, nothing at all, everything is quite alright, I am perfectly well."

"Ah. I see." Still looking concerned, he seated himself at the piano. "I should like to hear you sing a few scales. Stand so I can see you in profile."

Christine complied with this, but after the monotony of do, re, and mi major, she couldn't stand it anymore. She stopped mid-scale and rounded on him.

He stopped playing, startled, leaving the scale unresolved and hanging. It left a tension in the air.

"There's something I must ask," she began. Her voice shook, but her brown eyes held him.

"Yes, Christine? What is it?"

"Will you finish that?" She gestured to the piano. "It is making me uneasy."

"You are making me uneasy," he said wryly.

She sighed. "Well, then... what I wanted to ask is, is there something... unnatural about my singing?"

"Well, your voice is remarkable," he said with a look of confusion. "Is that what you mean?"

"Thank you... no, that isn't quite what I meant... I meant... is there something unnatural about these lessons?" She swallowed.

He thought. "Well, the cultivation of the voice in and of itself is not, perhaps, what we would term strictly natural." Unconsciously, he began to pick out a delicate little melody with one hand. "There is no parallel for it in nature. It is like painting or sculpture - something human beings do that separates us from the lower animals. Done for beauty's sake alone."

Something in her softened. Every word he said was beautiful. She had never met anyone else like him. It made what she was going to ask him all the more painful. "Yes," she said. "But I was thinking more along the lines of... a kind of a spell."

"A spell, Christine?" He looked at her in bewilderment. "I admit my abilities are considerable, but they do not extend to the dark arts."

"No, not that sort of spell," she said, almost laughing in spite of herself. She wished it were not so easy for him to make her laugh. He was better at it than anyone else. "I know the devil cannot gain a hold on my soul."

"The devil? Your soul!" He stared at her. "Christine, what are you talking of?"

She did not reply.

"Is there something you are afraid of?" he asked with a look of concern that touched her.

"Yes... No... I hardly know," she said in a quavering voice. "Is all this connected in some way to... mesmerization, perhaps, or hypnosis?"

He jumped up, startling her. "You think I would hypnotize you... without telling you... Christine! The thought of controlling someone's mind without their consent... ! Why in God's name would you imagine that I had done such a thing?"

"Why... Because within a few days of you helping me," Christine said, "I went from singing like a machine to... well..." She trailed off, not sure how to continue without sounding immodest.

He sneered. "I am almost flattered! Even I cannot make a talentless drone into a nightingale, you know. I could train poor Meg for the next hundred years - she sings like a cat being beaten with a violin, you know; don't like at me like that, you know it is true - and she would never sound like you."

"Even so, a singer is nothing without training. There are plenty of people with good voices-"

"-But not everyone is capable of starring in Faust at the Opéra Populaire. You must know that, whatever else you may think."

"I... I don't know... perhaps."

"You do," he said. "You did not come up with this nonsense out of your own head. Someone has been whispering poison into your ear. Someone begrudges you your abilities."

"It is not because of jealousy," Christine said. "They have other reasons, more honorable ones."

"Who is it?"

"Well... Meg, if you must know, and another person, who is perfectly respectable, and he-"

"Ah, then it is a man!" he cried.

He is jealous, she realized with a thrill of horror. Oh, heavens, what does that mean? She shoved the uncomfortable thought away. "What has that to do with it? Yes, it is, and I don't see that it is of any importance!"

"Who is it?" he demanded.

"The Vicomte de Chagny, if you must know. He is not jealous of me, unless he harbors a secret ambition to become a coloratura."

"Aha! That scoundrel!" Erik couldn't help exclaiming. If he hadn't been in Christine's sacred presence he would have called him a more colorful name. "I might have known."

She looked up, incensed. "Are you acquainted with the gentleman?"

They both were perfectly aware that he was not, and that she knew it. Still, he couldn't bring himself to admit it outright. "Yes, we have an apéritif at the Jockey-Club every Friday," he said witheringly instead.

"No, you are not acquainted with him - you refused to meet him," Christine said. "Therefore, you are in no position to form an opinion of his character. I am, and he is not the scoundrel you paint him as. He is a very respectable man."

"Then I am certain he would not set himself up as an expert on a subject of which he knows nothing." Erik's voice oozed sarcasm. "How fortunate that he has such a vast knowledge of opera. Where did he acquire this expertise?"

"Monsieur de Chagny may not be an accomplished musician, but he did research hypnosis."

Erik snorted. "I don't doubt it for a moment. But had that fool bothered to conduct more than a cursory examination, he would have learnt that it is impossible to hypnotize a person to do anything they were not physically capable of to begin with - or to hypnotize someone against their will. If you doubt my word in this matter, I would invite you to go to one of our city's many scientific bookstores and research the matter for yourself - instead of relying on our friend Monsieur le Vicomte's word on the subject."

Fear, anger, relief, and another emotion she couldn't define whirled around in Christine's head. Erik hadn't done anything to her. Nothing he was aware of, anyway, it seemed. "What do you have against him?" she said.

"What?" Erik snapped.

"What has he done to you?"

"I find it exceedingly tiresome when men express opinions on subjects of which they know nothing," he said. "And I resent his making remarks that could sabotage your career at the very moment of your success, after both of us have worked so hard to build it!"

"I see," Christine said quietly. "Well, if I have offended you, I am sorry."

"Thank you," Erik said. "I should not have shouted," he added with an effort, and some of the tension seemed to leave the room. "Forgive me."

Christine nodded.

Taking advantage of the quieter atmosphere that followed, he ventured to add, "I merely... I hoped that you would not want to explain away the extraordinary gift you have been given, Christine. That you would not regard it as something suspicious, to be feared and mistrusted."

"Thank you."

"You see, Christine... You think the Vicomte is not jealous, but he is. The Vicomte is jealous of you. He knows that you are exceptional and he is not, and he cannot bear it."

Christine winced. She suspected he was right. Either Raoul was jealous of her success or - and this thought did not bear exploring - he was jealous of Erik. She did not like either idea at all.

"Why are you so determined to believe the Vicomte?" Erik pressed.

This irritated her. "I am not 'determined to believe him'!" she cried. "I have a sensible head on my shoulders, thank you. I always believe where the evidence leads."

Their gazes locked, his blazing a challenge. That isn't good enough. I deserve better from you, he seemed to say.

Christine quavered. "No, I must be more frank," she said at last. "You see, Monsieur le Vicomte is an open book. He has lived an honest life and therefore has nothing to hide. You have too many secrets. I do not know what to think of you."

"And you are content to cast me as a diabolical hypnotist merely to put your curiosity to rest?"

"No!" she cried. "No! Do not think so little of me, I entreat you! It is not merely that. It is something else, too. I had another reason... something else I do not understand... nothing you have told me is sufficient to explain it."

"Oh?" he pressed.

Christine hesitated. "It is..." These feelings... She stopped. It would be madness to tell Erik about how she felt when she was with him. He would misunderstand. He would think something she could not afford for him to think.

"...Yes?" Erik said. His gaze was locked to hers, and she could not look away. Again, that feeling that her will was not her own.

At some point, she had drawn close to him without realizing it, and she found her eyes were very near his, disconcertingly so. For a moment, she struggled to find her voice. "No, I cannot explain," she said at last. "I am sorry."

"Could you perhaps... attempt to?" he asked, his own voice little more than a whisper. "For the purposes of... illumination?"

The air seemed full of electricity, like it did before a storm.

This was too much. She hurriedly turned away. "I... I must go. You were right - I am not well today."

Erik was too terrified to try again. His shoulders slumped in defeat. "Shall we resume tomorrow, then?" he asked, afraid to hear her answer.

"Do you want me to come?" she asked shyly, somewhat surprised.

"I do," he said, but couldn't stop himself from adding, "If you are not afraid that I will hypnotize you into walking off the roof."

Christine looked back toward him sadly. "No," she said. "I have never thought you would do anything of that kind. Well, then, I shall see you at the same time tomorrow. Yes? Good. Ah - thank you. À demain, then." And she hurried out of the room so quickly that she forgot her music. Her mind was whirling. She had to get away from him. She was so flustered she could scarcely think.

She thought she heard him say he hoped she recovered soon, or something to that effect, but her mind was much too far away to comprehend it.

Not til she was back in the halfway and the door had shut between them was she able to find her breath again.

If it is not some hypnotic trance, then what is it I feel when I am with him? When I hear his voice I am seized by such a feeling... as though I were capable of anything I wanted to do.

It had been at least partially due to Erik's faith in her that she had found it in herself to hit that high Do, she was beginning to realize. He'd believed she could, and that was enough for her - it was a fait accompli. Erik's opinion of her was more precious than anyone else's. The reward she cherished most was not applause, nor reviews, nor even the lavish jewels prominent audience members sometimes awarded her, but his praise.

Why should I care so much?

Her mind suddenly flung her back to the day when he'd first appeared to her in the church on rue Chauchat and revealed his true nature. She'd burned with shame and fury, gone cold with despair - but there had been another feeling smoldering somewhere within her, something she couldn't put her finger on, almost a gladness. As though she had been longing for it to be so, longing for it to turn out that he was a man of flesh and blood.

What if Meg was right, has been right all this time? Could I be... She stopped as though she'd run into a wall.

Great God, could I be...? No, it cannot be! It is absurd! She started to run down the hall. A masked man with nothing but secrets, who probably hasn't even told me his real name? Over Raoul, courteous and gentlemanlike, frank and open, whom I have known since he was a boy? Even Christine Daae is not as foolish and impressionable as that! I know perfectly well love with a man like Erik is impossible.

Outside the Opéra, out in the fresh air, she drew a breath of relief. What an absurd thought! This could have gone very badly. Thank Heavens I caught it in time.

End of Chapter 9

*In English, this would be a C7. In Europe they use do, re, mi, and so on as note names instead of A, B, C, etc.