Chapter 24
I feel myself reborn,
Revived by the breath of love,
Forgetting the past...
-La Traviata, Act II, Scene I
Christine stopped, suddenly possessed by a curious feeling that whatever awaited them was going to change her whole existence.
But then Meg had tugged at her arm and pulled her forward with a cheerful "Come along, ducky!", and the impression subsided, leaving her feeling amused at her own reservations.
It was music, after all. Music was her guardian angel. It loved and protected her. What reason could there be to fear one's guardian angel?
Inside, Meg stopped in front of an elaborately printed poster. " 'The first concert of the Societé Nationale de Musique'," she read. " 'For the promotion of French composers'. And their motto is Ars Gallica, whatever that means - something morbid, no doubt."
Inside, the two found themselves in a vast, imposing room, decorated in shades of pigeon blue with lavish gold mouldings. A crowd was beginning to gather. Two hundred or so velvet-padded chairs were set up facing a stage, about half of them already filled.
With a sudden feeling of foreboding, Christine looked up and saw an immense chandelier suspended from the arched ceiling. Her mind was besieged with a horrible image of Erik slicing through the chains that held it aloft and sending it crashing it down on the heads of the unsuspecting public, laughing maniacally. She reprimanded herself for even thinking such a thing. Why on earth would she imagine that he would do anything of the kind? she chided herself. He wasn't mad. Eccentric, yes, but not mad.
To distract herself from her thoughts, she scanned the crowd. There were a few people she had met once or twice at the Opéra - composers, patrons, and the like - but for some reason she felt it would be better not to be recognized. She wanted to observe this anonymously.
She and Meg chose seats near the back.
At the front, a distinguished-looking dark-haired man climbed to the stage, to polite applause.
"Bon soirée, Mesdames, Messieurs," he said, raising his hands for silence. "Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. My name is Romaine Bussine. As you are perhaps aware, my esteemed colleague Monsieur Charles-Camille Saint-Saëns and I founded the Societé in the interest of furthering the cause of French music. The enterprise we are most excited for was a contest to discover new talent," he went on. "Tonight, we announce the winners of this contest. The grand prize was a scholarship to study composition privately with some of the finest instructors at the Académie de Beaux-Arts for six months, and a small grant to further the composer's professional endeavors."
Christine could not help but think of Erik. This was just the sort of contest his music would be suited to. But when she'd asked him once if he'd tried to have his work published, he'd lashed out at her in a fury.
Why should I share my precious music with a world that has given me nothing? he'd raged. That has scorned me, mocked me, tortured me? Should it give comfort to those who have oppressed me? I wish to share it with only you, and that is all. You ought to be satisfied with that, I think! It is singularly presumptuous of you to tell me what I ought to do with my own music! No, the world will never see it. When I die, I will take into my coffin with me and it will rot, alone and forgotten, like I will!
Christine winced at the memory. She hadn't mentioned the idea to him since. It could only upset him. Besides, now that she had learned of his past, now that she knew what he had endured over the years, she didn't expect him to want to submit his soul, neatly pressed between the leaves of a folder, for their perusal. She only regretted that she had said anything in the first place.
The tones of a violin blossomed out from the stage, breaking gently into her thoughts. Evidently Bussine had announced one of the runners-up; two young men were now playing a pleasant duet. They were followed by several others, awarded prizes of gradually increasing value.
Meg began to yawn. Christine elbowed her gently.
At last they neared the end.
"The grand prize goes to a work by an artist unknown to us before, a man of astonishing talent and singular clarity of vision," Bussine said with a look of obvious excitement. "We are delighted to award this much-deserved honor to... Monsieur Joseph Prosper of Rouen."
Prosper... Christine's mind whirled. His name day...
Could it be? Had he really entered, after all he had said? But then... was he here? Her gaze flitted around the room with a new intensity, terror at the idea of his being exposed mingling with exhilaration at the thought of seeing him.
"-Whose health unhappily prevents his being present today," she heard Bussine explain.
Ah. Well, that was safer. Supposing it was him.
She sat back, equally disappointed and relieved.
"Since Monsieur Prosper is unable to be present," Bussine went on with a hint of sarcasm in his voice, "Monsieur Saint-Saëns has agreed to play his winning composition, Sonata for a Mademoiselle, in his absence."
A reverent hush fell. Even Meg looked impressed.
At a gesture from Bussine, one of the greatest pianists in France stood up and took his seat at the piano.
In just a few notes, all Christine's doubts were resolved. It was assuredly Erik's work. She would know it anywhere.
The melody flowed like liquid silver. No-one else could write a melody like that. It sang of wonders beyond anything they could ask for or imagine.
As if the sheer burning beauty of it were not enough, there were modulations Erik knew she liked, snatches of harmony that alluded to some of her other favorite pieces. All too soon it was tumbling toward its conclusion. She hoped it would not resolve, hoped it would veer away from the tonic and delight them all a little longer, but eventually, of course, it had to end, and it did.
All too soon the last soft chords died tenderly away, leaving them all a little sadder and a great deal wiser.
"It's him," she whispered with stars in her eyes, as she blinked herself back to the present, her heart aching with joy and pride and triumph. Erik...
Applause thundered through the room, shaking her out of her thoughts. Saint-Saëns stood up and bowed humbly. "Mesdames et Messieurs, it has been a privilege to introduce this work to you," he said. "Seldom has a piece been such a joy to play. I do not use this word lightly, but I declare that today you have all witnessed the discovery of a genius."
Tears spilled from Christine's eyes.
She didn't see the bewildered glance Meg cast in her direction.
Bussine stood up besides Saint-Saëns. "This mysterious 'Mademoiselle' is a fortunate young lady indeed."
Christine let her laughter join with the audience's, though her mirth came from quite a different cause than theirs. If only you knew! she wanted to shout. I am the luckiest woman in the world.
"Regrettably," Bussine went on, "Monsieur Prosper is unable to accept the scholarship to study at the Académie des Beaux-Arts for reasons pertaining to his health, so that opportunity will be awarded instead to young Monsieur Dupont. We offer him our congratulations."
Christine smiled. Even if he had been free to go, she was sure, he wouldn't. He would never stand for anyone else telling him how to write his music.
"The grand-prize check for three thousand francs has been mailed to Monsieur Prosper," Bussine went on. "Copies of his sonata and the other winning compositions will be available for purchase beginning this week from our society's publisher."
Christine stifled a gasp.
Three thousand francs! It was more than enough to live on, as long as they were careful, which they would be. And that wasn't including whatever she would earn. Not to mention, publishing his music was sure to bring in more. And there would be commissions... she could promote his music at her concerts...
She began to see a future for them, however dimly. This had not all been merely some foolish fantasy. It was possible that they really might be able to make a life together. She had not been mad to put her faith in him, in his gifts, in the magic of his music. This had to be a step closer to a normal life for them. A less uncertain, perilous existence.
The audience arose and broke up into mingling, amiably chattering clumps. Christine waited and drifted for the next hour or so.
Meg, not bothered in the slightest by the delay, passed the time by drinking every glass of champagne she could get her hands on, with no discernible effect on her sobriety, and dexterously balancing flirting with five or six good-looking young musicians at the same time. Eventually, however, the crowd drained away, bound for Paris' famous nightlife.
Christine knew now that Erik had not come. Or at least, he had not shown himself. He had been sensible.
She hated herself for being disappointed. She should want him to be safe. And yet, he should have been here celebrating his victory, being toasted by Paris' elite. Most of all, he should have been by the side of the woman he was going to marry. Instead he was banished underground, cold and alone with no company but the rats and his poor little cat. Her heart twisted up with the unfairness of it.
No. She forced herself to stop thinking such thoughts. At least his genius was being recognized, she reminded herself. She hoped the world would justify the risk he had taken, entrusting them with a glimpse of his extraordinary soul. And there was much to be thankful for, because so far, remarkably, they had.
As soon as the winner of the contest was announced, Christine had been determined to return to the Opéra afterwards and look for Erik. She had been wondering how she would get away without rousing Meg's suspicions. As they left the concert hall, however, she discovered that she needn't have worried.
Luck was in her favor.
The Baron had invited Meg to a party that evening and she had to hurry home to change. Even better, thoughts over what to wear so filled her thoughts that she forgot to make her usual inquires about what Christine was planning to do with herself for the evening. They parted amicably at the omnibus stop, freeing Christine to return to the Opéra unobserved.
Inside, she tore through the empty corridors toward her practice room, barely able to stop herself from breaking into a run. She had no proof that Erik would be anywhere in the vicinity, but she hoped he might be lingering somewhere nearby. She was burning to see him. Upon reaching her practice-room, she hurriedly shut the door, and after seeing that it was empty - though why anyone would be in this cramped little room she could not imagine - locked the new lock Erik had insisted she have installed. Sitting on the piano-bench, she reached a hand toward the little lamp on her desk, but then changed her mind and pulled it away again. She liked sitting in the dark like this. It was comforting, somehow. It felt safe, like a mantle drawn around her for protection. She was beginning to understand why Erik shied away from light.
"Mon cœur, are you there?" she whispered. "Can you hear me?"
There was no reply.
"Perhaps you do not think it safe to reply," she went on. "In case you are here, I must tell you: I have had such an evening! I went to the concert as you suggested." She paused for a moment. "The winner was a fellow named Monsieur Prosper, whoever that may be." She tried to keep a straight face. "But I think you knew that already." At last she could not keep back her smile any longer. "Indeed, it was inevitable - none of the other entries could compare to you. Such music! It was a triumph! This has been one of the happiest evenings of my life. How proud I am!"
It was almost like when he had been the angel - her whispering to him in the dark. She found the memory did not distress her as much as it once had. Erik and the angel were not as different as she had thought. Both had loved and protected her, although in different ways. She waited, but he stayed distant.
"Well, I shall leave a note in the usual place," she finished at last, suppressing a wave of disappointment. Drawing a scrap of paper toward her, she lit the lamp just enough to see by and wrote him a few lines.
My darling! What can I say? Are there any words for such a time? It is beyond everything! Paris is at your feet! Saint-Saëns called you a genius. (I knew that already, but I thought you would like to hear that such a great artist agrees.) How proud I am! I wanted to leap up and scream for joy - to proclaim to the whole city that you are the man I am lucky enough to be engaged to (but have no fear, I managed to contain myself - somehow). Only music would do to express my exultation but I shall have to wait to sing my happiness to you another time. In the meantime, imagine a thousand trumpets blaring. Imagine a thousand angels singing the Hallelujah Chorus. I am yours, forever and a day. Come to me soon, I beg you.
When the ink was dry, she slipped the note into her sleeve and crept out into the corridor, beginning the long trek back through the vast building. Slowly, she wound her way through the Opéra Populaire's labyrinthine corridors toward the grand vestibule just inside the main entrance. A narrow stone corridor that looked strikingly plain compared to the rest of the building, the vestibule was not nearly as grand as its name implied. Its only apparent function was as a barrier to keep cold air out of the main galleries. The employees preferred to use the artists' entrance, and so, during the hours when the opera house was closed to tourists, the room's sole inhabits were a row of dead composers.
Immortalized in stone by some of France's greatest sculptors, George Friedrich Handel, Christophe Willibald Gluck, Jean-Baptise Lulli, and Jean-Philippe Rameau sat motionless on their pedestals, their thoughts known only to themselves. Lulli had lately become Christine's favorite. She didn't know much about him as a composer or as a man - though if the sculptor's depiction of him was to be believed, he'd had a frightening scowl. But in spite of his stony expression, it seemed his spirit had taken pity on her and Erik, for his left hand was open just enough to make a perfect hiding-place for secret notes.
It had been Erik's idea originally. Christine had been anxious about it to begin with, fearful that someone would find them. But he had assured her that the tourists who passed through it on their way into the Opéra were so enthralled with the sight of the sumptuous gallery just beyond that they scarcely even noticed the statues. In addition, he insisted that people were seldom observant enough to spot anything they weren't expecting to see. It was how he had managed to stay hidden in the opera house for so long. So far this theory of his had proven to be true. Lulli, it seemed, was a faithful guardian of their secrets.
After glancing around to see that no-one was watching, Christine tucked the note between his fingers and backed away. She wondered if he was curious about what it said. If so, he was polite enough not to say.
"Thank you," she whispered to him. "I would invite you to our wedding if you could come." And she waved at him as she walked away.
Music suggestions: 'Les Oiseaux dans la Charnille' by Jacques Offenbach; 'Mein Herr Marquis' by Johann Strauss (any singer. I personally love Nathalie Dessay for the former and Barbara Bonney for the latter.)
It had cost Erik not to go to Christine at once when she came into the opera house that night. Her face when she had come in was shining with happiness and excitement. She looked more beautiful than ever, and he wanted to run out of the shadows, catch her up in his arms, swing her into the air and spin her around, like any other giddy fool would do with the woman he loved. But it would be safer not to go to at present. He had reason to hope that soon they would not have to be afraid anymore.
He did not yet know where or how he would deposit the check with his winnings from the composition contest. That was irrelevant for the time being. He had it, and it wasn't going anywhere; he'd been sure to hide it well. They would find a way to claim the money in due course. In the meantime, therefore, he had an errand to do.
After Christine had left and he'd taken her note from the statue, tucking it safely into the pocket by his heart to read later, he let himself into the managers' office. There was no risk whatsoever that they would still be there. Unless there was a possibility of being given champagne, they never stayed past four o'clock in the afternoon. Madame Charpentier, the woman who cleaned their office, therefore took advantage of their absence and always put everything in order before five o'clock. She had moved on long ago. He was quite alone.
He didn't linger. He quickly deposited a generous stack of banknotes on the table as he'd come to do. But before leaving, he allowed himself the indulgence of crafting one final note. This was, after all, the last time he would do this, and he wanted to do it properly. At last, after blotting the paper dry - he would miss that red ink, he realized with a pang - he bid a fond farewell to the Opera Ghost, and then made for home to get a sound night's sleep.
He set his clock to wake him early the next day. Nothing short of a fire would get the managers in before ten forty-five in the morning, but he wanted to be sure to get in position well before then. By the time they finally strolled in at around eleven-thirty, he was waiting comfortably in the ventilation duct above their office. It was here that he had long ago fashioned a gap in the moulding - all but invisible from the floor - that afforded an excellent view of everything that went on the room. He knew it was risky to be there, but after making such a sacrifice, he had to see what they would do.
Andre entered first. Erik swiftly shut the novel he had been reading - The Royal Diadem by Carl Jonas Love Almqvist; Christine had recommended it to him - and leaned forward. The little man strode in with an irritable expression, flinging his hat and gloves into a chair before turning to his desk. When he saw the money, he stopped dead, in the middle of shrugging his coat off his shoulders. His eyes seemed to double in size.
Firmin came in an instant later. Predictably, he was talking loud enough to fill the whole corridor with the sound of his voice, and did not seem to care whether he received any sort of response.
"That social-climbing little w— and her brat aren't getting a sou from me. That's not the Firmin way. I shall tell you what I did. I told her she can-"
"-Firmin," Andre squeaked. Firmin looked up, annoyed by the interruption of his demonstration of machismo.
"What?" Andre extended a trembling index finger toward the desk. In a whisper, he added, "Look!"
Firmin turned round with a look of the utmost lack of interest. When he saw the bills, however, he jerked his head backward in astonishment. "Who put that there?"
"Damned if I know, old fellow."
"Why..." Firmin cried, cursing incoherently and snatching up the bank-notes. "Five thousand! Ten thousand! This... this... Sixty thousand francs? It's all here! My God! Ah, and there's another one of those wretched, godforsaken notes!"
He ripped it out of its envelope as though he were disemboweling his mortal enemy. Erik winced as the fine parchment crumpled and tore.
Enough is enough, don't you think, Messieurs? Firmin read. The joke's wearing thin. What do you say? All's well that ends well. Yours faithfully, O. G. P. T. O. Firmin duly flipped it over, one of his eyelids twitching, clutching hysterically at his moustache with his free hand. " ' P. S. This a wrench for me, so if you would oblige me by finding a decent first bassoon, I really should be exceedingly grateful.' "
He paused for a moment. Erik waited eagerly to see what he would do.
"Who would have the gall to send this?" Firmin went on at last. "It's really not amusing! He's abusing our positi-" Suddenly he whirled around to face Andre again. "I ought to have known! Do you think this is funny?" he roared.
He grabbed Andre by the collar and shook him back and forth. The bills went sailing out of his hands. Andre tripped backward and fell against the desk in spectacular fashion. Books, papers, a potted plant, and an inkwell, which Erik was delighted to see had been full to the brim, flew in all different directions. Ink splattered over the walls, leaving stains that would have sent Hermann Rohrshach into convulsions of professional excitement. "All this time!"
"I had nothing to do with this!" Andre squeaked, trying to get free. He snatched up a decanter of brandy which had miraculously escaped the carnage and flung it in Firmin's face.
Erik rubbed his hands together with glee and had to restrain himself from jumping up and down like a child. It was turning out better than he had dared to hope for. The only thing needed to complete the absurdity would have been a cat screeching in the background. This alone had been worth every sou. If only Christine were here to see it. That was the only thing lacking to make this a perfect morning. He couldn't wait to tell her. How she would laugh.
"Look what you've done!" Firmin spluttered, surveying the mess while flinging droplets of brandy off the tips of his fingers.
No, Erik thought, Look what I have done. That is my money, you damnable fool. Money I rightfully stole. You had better use it well, seeing that I have deigned to return it to you.
"What I've done!" Andre's moustaches bristled with rage. "You- you-"
"Gentlemen?" came a dignified voice from the doorway. "Is something amiss?"
They whipped their heads around like two schoolboys caught scribbling obscene words on the blackboard.
"Madame Giry," Andre said in a nervous voice. "Well, not exactly, but..."
Firmin elbowed him sharply in the ribs, swiftly kicking the bank-notes under the desk. "-Nothing is the matter at all," he said with a reassuring smile that was truly frightening. "We are simply, ah, cleaning out our desks."
"I... see." Madame Giry blinked.
"Thank you, Madame, for your, er..." Firmin, not well-versed in politeness, looked to Andre for support.
"Kind inquiry," Andre supplied helplessly.
"Yes," Firmin said. "Just so."
"I am reassured in the utmost." Madame Giry's expression, as always, revealed nothing. Her eyes took in the sight of a stray bill lying on the floor, but she looked away again so swiftly that Erik was sure the managers hadn't noticed. Suddenly she peered more closely at Firmin's face. "Have you... been out in the rain, Monsieur?"
"In the rain?" Firmin swiftly wiped a drop of brandy off his moustache. "Why would you think that?"
Madame Giry shrugged. "Well, it is going to rain rather severely this evening. I hope you have brought a good umbrella." She looked up toward the panel behind which Erik was concealed, and he had the uncomfortable feeling that she knew exactly where he was. It was not the first time he'd had that impression. This time, however, for the first time, she was smiling.
"Was there anything else?" Firmin asked impatiently.
"No, thank you. Good afternoon, Monsieur," Madame Giry said. And she sailed away down the corridor.
Firmin hurriedly shut the door behind her and locked it.
"Why didn't you let me tell her?" Andre hissed.
Firmin, however, was smiling. "I have just had an idea, old friend."
"Old friend, indeed," Andre said in a sour voice. "Yes, yes, apologies for all that. I knew it wasn't really you who stole the money. I was merely joking."
Firmin clapped him on the shoulder. "May I congratulate you on winning the lottery, my dear fellow. Thirty thousand francs for each of us."
"What?" Andre's face furrowed with confusion. "But it's not... we don't have it. It was stolen from the company."
Firmin shrugged. "The old owners had to arrange everything so they could make a profit despite the missing funds. We'll still be in the black this year without including this. No-one need ever know."
"No-one at all? But what about the police? I still think..."
"No need," Firmin said. "What can they do? The money's back. All is right in the world. We will simply tell them that all this was simply a... how shall we put this? An unfortunate misunderstanding."
Erik had to stifle a gasp.
"But the incidents..." Andre protested.
"I am perfectly willing to accept the explanation that it was all some prankster," Firmin said, leaning back against the desk. "After all, if the fellow were truly dangerous, he would not have returned the money."
"I suppose," Andre said, "But..."
"Listen," Firmin said. "We can't have news about the 'ghost's' blackmailing getting out to the public. It's all very well to have a rumor about a spook floating around. Good for business. Every fine old building should have its own ghost."
"Are you sure-?"
"-It's free publicity, and the take is vast. To Hell with Gluck and Handel. We'll pack them in the aisles. But we don't want audiences thinking anyone's actually done anything threatening, or it will cease to be merely a joke, and people will start to be afraid to come. Do you understand me?"
"Quite," Andre said.
"And we couldn't have that," Firmin said in an oily voice. "We are a bastion of artistic excellence. We must always be there for the people."
"I suppose so."
"The citizens of our glorious nation should never be afraid to come and support our cultural patrimony."
Now he was speaking Andre's language.
"Just so," the little man said, looking reassured, blissfully unaware of his partner's manipulations.
"Now," Firmin said, "Are we in agreement that those incidents with the stage equipment were merely unfortunate accidents?"
At last, Andre ventured a smile. "Yes. I suppose you are right."
Erik froze with astonishment, scarcely able to believe what had just transpired. He was safe. Christine had been right. He could stay here with her as long as he pleased. And then when she was free they could go live wherever they wished. Together. As it should be. He wanted to run to her at once.
First, however, he had to find Madame Giry. He needed to ask something of her.
When he'd emerged he found her, to his amusement, standing right outside the managers' office. Her ear was near the door and she was bent down pretending to pick up a coin-purse she had dropped on the floor - a trick he had taught her for eavesdropping. When she saw him, she hurriedly motioned him into a secluded corner.
"Erik," she said. "I am glad you are here. There is something I must ask you."
"Yes, Madame?"
"Did you... give the managers' money back?"
"Yes," he said, "Just last night, as it happens. Madame, I wish you could have seen-"
"-Erik." He stopped as she put a worried hand on his arm. "That is very noble, but how will you look after yourself?"
"Well, as a matter of fact..." He couldn't resist breaking into a wide smile as he explained about the contest. "I have been assured that this will lead to commissions," he finished. "In fact, I have already received several requests. It is remarkable... I shall be able to provide for Christine as she deserves. I truly think that I could be-"
He stopped as he saw Madame Giry's expression. Tears had gathered in her eyes. Even he could not mistake the joy and pride on her face for anything else. He had not realized til now how much he wanted her to be proud of him. She had been happy for him before, but never proud. He had never been able to accomplish anything that would make her so, until now. And now at last he had achieved something, something to justify the faith she'd continually placed in him all these years. He couldn't have been happier if he had won the Légion d'Honneur. Was this what it would have been like to have his mother be proud of him for once? No, he decided. This was better. Madame Giry deserved this and more, after all she had done for him.
When Madame Giry trusted herself to speak, she said, "I know this cannot have been easy for you."
"Well..." He trailed off. "What inspired this course of action?" she asked. His smile grew wider, and he spread his arms as though to say the answer were obvious. "The only thing that could."
"Ah. I see." She paused. "This will be better for Christine, of course," she added at length.
"That was at the forefront of my thoughts," he assured her. "I shall see she is looked after always. I still mean to see her one of the great divas of the world, of course - there is no doubt in my mind she can achieve it - but it would be utterly wrong of me to expect her to support me. And now I shall be able to provide for her in the fashion she deserves."
"That is... admirable," she said in a weak voice. "I want to she that she never has to work for fools like Andre and Firmin again," he went on. "To take her somewhere far away from here, somewhere beautiful. To her own country, perhaps, if she would like that."
Madame Giry hid her distress at the thought of the two of them alone in a faraway land, cut off from all their friends, Christine having to depend entirely on him.
"I want to give her everything in the world," Erik continued, his eyes shining with excitement.
"I am sure you do," she said sadly.
"I shall not disappoint you, Madame," he said. "I know you want the best for her, and so you should. That is what I want as well."
"Naturellement," she said.
"I would be sorry to take her away from you, of course," he went on. "But if we do go away... I shall take the very best care of her. I will see that she does not want for anything. I shall repay the faith you have both put in me. You have my word."
She inhaled deeply. "I never thought you would disappoint my expectations, Erik."
Something about her tone made Erik uneasy, but he couldn't identify what precisely it was, and so, in his happiness, he uncharacteristically decided to ignore it as unimportant.
A silence fell.
"It was not my intention for the managers to keep the money, however," he added after a few moments of awkwardness. "You heard that, I think?"
"Yes," she said. "You were there as well, then?"
He nodded. "I was watching from the-"
She held up a hand. "-Don't tell me. I do not wish to know."
"Yes, of course. Forgive me. Well, at any rate... I was surprised."
"I was not," she scoffed.
He shrugged. "I had not thought even Firmin would stoop to that, although I suppose it should not surprise me." He had noticed a faint streak of that alarming distortion in judgment, faith in humanity, seeping into his mental calculations ever since Christine told him she loved him. At this rate, a few more months of her affection would turn him into a sentimental fool.
"It all makes sense. I ought to have known," Madame Giry said in a frigid voice. "Those fools. The corps de ballet make so little they can scarcely afford to eat, and the managers want to keep all that for themselves just so they can eat caviar and wear Henry Creed suits and..." She trailed off, too angry to finish.
Erik shrugged.
"What are you shrugging for?" she demanded.
"Forgive me, but the solution appears to me to be rather simple: Tell everyone in the company that the money is back."
"Oh, yes, and lose my position. Perfect." He raised a finger. "Once you tell everyone, it will be too late for the managers to do anything about it. Do you see the elegance of it?"
"Yes, but they would still fire me," she said. "They would find some pretext to get rid of me. You and I both know I wasn't supposed to see that money just now."
"Ah, but you see, that is not how you learnt of this."
Her expression changed. A hint of cunning seeped into her eyes. "Oh? Isn't it?"
"If they were to ask how you knew, you could simply reply that received a note about it from the Opera Ghost." Erik grinned. "They cannot blame you for that."
She raised her eyebrows. "Ah. I rather like this arrangement. I only wish I had thought of it earlier."
"Yes." He smiled and steepled his fingers together. "I thought you might." Normally, he waited for Madame Giry to dismiss him. But this morning, more even than usual, his insatiable need for Christine was urging him on. It was like a starving creature nipping at his heels, driving him towards her. "And now," he said, "If you will forgive me, there is a certain Mademoiselle I must speak to." He made an elaborate, almost silly bow, spun around so that his cloak swirled out behind him, and hurried off.
END OF CHAPTER 24. Thank you so much for reading!