Chapter 11

Ye gods who reign in Heaven,

protect my love!

-Anthony and Cleopatra, Act II

Music suggestions: 'Leaving London' and 'To Die For Love', by Patrick Doyle; 'The Lake' by Ken Hill; 'Creation' by Christopher Young

A little blue-eyed cat, her tail like a brush dipped in paint, sat keeping vigil beside him.

He was sprawled on his back, his face for once uncovered.

Where is his mask? Madame Giry thought in horror. Why would he leave it behind?

Christine let out a strangled moan and darted forward. Collapsing onto her knees beside his still form, she put a frantic hand against his heart.

"Is he...?" Madame Giry began, but she couldn't finish.

There was a dreadful moment of silence.

"Christine?" Madame Giry said sharply. It was more a plea than anything else.

"I don't know," Christine said at last. "I can't... Madame, I can't feel anything! I can't... I can't... Oh, God..."

Madame Giry froze.

Then, suddenly, Christine's voice: "Wait. No... Yes, I can feel something! His heart is beating."

Madame closed her eyes with relief. After a moment, she came forward and held the lantern over Erik's head. "Look, my dear," she said; "Your eyes are better than mine."

Christine knew what to do. They both had tended to wounded soldiers during the siege. Every woman and child who could stand on their own two feet had acted as a nurse.

Working with swift, careful hands, she deftly held one of Erik's eyes open, then the other. "His pupils are reacting to light."

She let his lids fall closed, horrified by the mechanical way they snapped back into place.

"Erik, wake!" she cried, seizing one of his hands in both of hers with sudden desperation. "Can't you hear me? Why won't you wake?"

Erik's eyelids fluttered and he looked around, but it was apparent he was quite insensible of their presence, or indeed of anything around them. The empty look in his eyes was frightening.

"What is wrong with him, Madame? He isn't just drunk. We must find him a doctor at once," Christine said, her voice trembling.

"No."

"What?" Christine cried.

"I believe he has methanol poisoning from the adulterants in the absinthe. The ethanol in the alcohol will have neutralized the methanol, fortunately; now all he needs is some bicarbonate of soda, and he keeps a supply of it for emergencies-"

"-You believe? Madame, you are neither a doctor nor a chemist!"

"The war-"

"-Yes, during the war, we were the best anybody could get, but we do not have the risk-"

"-We cannot!"

"What if you are wrong? It is too much of a risk!" Christine cried. "I am going for a doctor!"

"He would be dead by the time you returned!" Madame Giry cried. "He is already worse than he was earlier."

"Then why did you not go to one before?" Christine shouted.

"Christine, there isn't time to argue-"

"-You knew there was something terribly wrong, and you didn't-"

"-The doctor would probably send for the police afterwards! And God knows what would happen to Erik in a prison. He would rather die."

"Mère-"

"-He told me more than once he would kill himself if he were ever locked away again!" Madame Giry cried.

Christine was silent for a moment, wavering between staying and going. "Very well," she said at last. She felt weak all over.

Mère nodded. "I think between the two of us we can move him. We must get him someplace warm."

"But where is there?"

"We should get him to the fireplace-"

"-A fireplace? Where on earth...?"

"-He has one at his, er, home. Somehow he managed to design a ventilation system for the smoke. It's not far ahead now."

Christine nodded slowly. At this point, nothing Mère could have said would have surprised her. "Very well, then."

Mère stooped and slid under one of Erik's shoulders. Following her example, Christine wordlessly did the same.

He groaned faintly, but without any awareness of what was going on.

She was astonished by how difficult it was to lift him. His limp form was impossibly unwieldy, his weight careening back and forth between them as they half-dragged him through the tunnel. Unable to stand upright, they staggered along, stopping to rest with maddening frequency. Madame Giry nearly fell more than once.

The cat followed beside them with silent footfalls.

Just when Christine was sure she couldn't manage another step, the air started to feel warmer. They rounded a corner and she found herself looking out at the most unexpected sight she could have imagined.

Instead of another expanse of interminable blackness, the tunnel had opened out into a vast, high-ceilinged grotto, crammed full of candles, rather like a shrine. Half the space was taken up by a vast, glassy lake. The other half, a wide stone outcropping with steps leading down to the shore, was furnished with everything a human being could desire to live a comfortable life. There were bookshelves and a piano, a fireplace- just as Madame Giry had said- and a dining-table, though with only two chairs - both now knocked over. Elaborate draperies, barely recognizable as old curtains the opera house had discarded years ago, swathed the walls, softening the look of the rough stone. At the center of it all, taking pride of place like a throne in a throne room, was a small, expertly crafted pipe organ. And of course, there was music everywhere.

There was something deeply poetic about the place.

"Wait," Madame Giry said.

There was such urgency and fear in her voice that Christine froze instantly.

After a moment, she saw what had caused her concern.

Upon closer inspection, something was wrong. The strange beauty of the place was marred by destruction. Shattered glass, torn papers, candlelabras knocked to the ground.

Mère's blue eyes uneasily scanned the gloom.

"Was someone else here?" Christine whispered.

Suddenly Mère's eyes fell on something white lying in a corner. A closer glance revealed it to be a sheet of paper, the one thing that had escaped the wreckage. It appeared to be a drawing of Christine making her debut. The words Heavenly gentleness, my joy, my inspiration, the queen of goodness, my hope, my salvation, were inscribed across it.

As soon as Madame Giry saw this, she understood - Erik had done all this.

Christine never saw the drawing. Madame Giry had stepped on it and hurriedly slid it into the shadows out of sight, so fast that she never noticed.

There was a pause.

"Come," Mère said crisply at last, and Christine obeyed without question.

They plunged forward, broken glass crunching beneath their feet.

Soon, they had borne Erik across the room and laid him safely by the fireplace.

"I shall make a fire," Christine said.

"No," Mère said. The less time Christine spent kneeling forlornly by Erik's sickbed, she thought, the better. This was precisely the sort of scenario that would inflame her softhearted nature. "I need you to find some clean water and a glass. And fetch the bicarbonate of soda. I believe you will find it in that rather ominous-looking cupboard in the corner."

Christine complied and found a cabinet of dark carved wood.

Upon opening it, she found a stock of tinctures and powders that would have filled a reasonable-sized apothecary shop. That made sense, she supposed - Erik had had to look after himself all these years. Still, she wondered how she'd managed to get ahold of some of them without a prescription. He must have had to steal them. The thought saddened her, but she no longer regarded it in the same condemnatory light as before. She couldn't.

"These labels are all in Latin," she said after scanning them for a moment. "I cannot tell what they say." With a sigh, she added, "He was always telling me I ought to learn Latin."

"It's a white powder," Mèe said, looking over her shoulder. "No, no, not that one, my dear - that's cocaine. The other one. It says 'saleratus.' Yes - thank you - that is the one."

Christine hurriedly brought it over, along with the pitcher and glass.

Mère, meanwhile, had managed to get a small fire going.

In a few moments, she had mixed up the concoction, and Christine held Erik's shoulders up while she spooned it into his mouth.

To their enormous relief, he managed to swallow most of it, too oblivious even to object to the bitter taste.

"What happens now?" Christine asked as she gently lowered him to the floor again and draped a blanket over him.

"He is in God's hands now." Mère racked her brains for some other assignment to distract the girl, but could think of nothing. Tidying the mess would at least get her farther away from him, but there was too much of a risk of her finding a drawing, or a sheet of music, or something else that might set her off her again.

There was a long, painful silence.

"All this time I thought he couldn't possibly have a good reason for extorting money, for all the threats, for blackmailing," Christine said at length. "But he did."

"Yes, I suppose it is justifiable under the circumstances," Madame Giry admitted. "Twenty thousand francs a month is rather excessive, of course..."

"Yes, but perhaps he meant to save it up so he could go live an honest life somewhere and not have to bother anyone," Christine said.

This Mère reluctantly had to concede.

"I should have known..." More tears spilled from Christine's eyes, shining in the firelight like moonstones. "I will never forgive myself for not believing him... for the things I said. I told him he was deceitful..."

"Why should you have believed him? He is deceitful!"

"And who among us is not?" Christine said impatiently. Anger flickered briefly in her eyes, but it soon died away again, replaced by sadness. "I told him he was nothing but a criminal. And now he may- he may die, and the last thing I said to him was..." She couldn't finish. Oh, Erik, don't leave me. Not now when I finally understand. Give me a chance to apologize. And perhaps a chance to tell you...

"Christine," Mère said suddenly, "Is there... anything I ought to know?"

There was a long silence.

"Yes," Christine said at last. "I think perhaps you've guessed. I..." She choked back more tears.

Madame Giry tried to hide her alarm. She had suspected this, of course, but she had not expected her to simply come out and say it!

She had heard stories of people hearing things while unconscious. She regarded Erik anxiously, praying that was a myth.

"Mère?" Christine said.

Mère Giry managed to rouse herself. "I am sorry," she said at last.

"Oh, do not be sorry for that," Christine said. "I am sorry for many things... sorry I never told him... But I can never be sorry for loving him." She was quiet for a moment.

"Meg knew it before I did, of course," she said with a sad laugh.

"Did she?"

"Yes. Naturally. I have been very stupid. I don't know myself at all, it seems."

"How long has she known?"

"Oh, I don't know. I daresay a very long time. I must not be as skilled at hiding my feelings as I thought. I think the Vicomte suspects something, too. He always hated the very idea of him. Poor Erik." She paused. "I have loved him for some time."

"You did not say anything to him, though, I [gather]?"

"No," Christine said, blinking back tears. "I thought I could never tell him. I always thought love with a man like that would be impossible... so many secrets, so many deceptions. And now I know why he concealed everything, but... but..." Her words were cut off in a sob. "Oh, I wish I had known sooner!"

Madame Giry could not think of a reply. Now was not the time to argue about this, of course. But...

"Mère?" Christine said.

"It is nearly time for rehearsal," Madame Giry said at length. "You ought to be getting back."

Christine looked up in surprise. "You are needed at rehearsal as well. You may go. I shall remain here with him." It was curious, she thought. She felt, in some strange inexplicable way, that she belonged here, in this mystical new world, this kingdom underground. Its darkness filled her with a peculiar kind of joy she had never known before.

"No," Madame Giry said.

"Why not? Someone must."

"But he does not know that you know about any of this. About his face, about him living here. If he found you here, he would know that I had told you everything."

"Yes, but..."

"The shock could be very bad for him in this condition."

"But... he might not awaken!" Christine said, choking out the words. "I do not want to leave if..." She trailed off.

Madame Giry didn't know how to reply.

"I don't know what to do," Christine said again. She gazed down at Erik for a long time.

There was a painful silence.

Suddenly Christine leaned forward. "Why... Mère, I think he has more color!"

"Are you certain?"

"Yes... and... his breathing is deeper." Christine frowned. "Oh, but it is probably only my imagination... I would not wish to give you false hope..."

"No," Madame Giry said, peering at his face; "I think you are right. He does look better." Hope rose in her heart. "There, you see, you have already helped him. More than you know."

"Oh, I hope it is true." At last, after resting a hand against Erik's cheek for a long moment, Christine rose. "I shall go. I do not know how I shall bear the wait, but you say it is what he would want..."

"Christine, if you don't go to rehearsal, you shall lose your place," Mere said at last. this was the final card in her hand. "They certainly won't [let you have a lead] and you shall be lucky if they let you remain at the opera at all. you certainly can't tell them that you were [busy helping the phantom]. i, on the other hand, have been [working here] for twenty years; they won't [fire me] for missing one rehearsal."

"You will tell me how he does, Mère?"

"Of course, my dear."

"Thank you." At last, with great reluctance, Christine turned to go.

She left behind Erik's strange, beautiful lair and followed the red thread back up to the land of the living. But her mind lingered behind long afterwards.

END OF CHAPTER 11