Author's Note: Thank you for your reviews and continued support of this story. I'm sorry for the long delay in posting this new chapter. I hope you're all still enjoying the story, and thank you very much for reading.

The title of the new chapter is a direct quote from Leroux's novel. (It appears in the Apollo's Lyre chapter). You'll also notice numbers between the different sections of the chapter. This is my attempt to make it clearer where one scene ends, and the next begins.

Thanks again for reading.

Chapter 6: "We shall astonish Paris"

1.

Every day, before rehearsals began, Erik took breakfast in his office at the Opera House. This had been his habit ever since he had taken the post of director. At first this had been due to his eagerness to be back inside his beloved Opera House. Now it was largely due to necessity; people expected him to be in his office, so he was.

Breakfast usually consisted of a cup of coffee and a chocolate croissant, which Erik consumed while he read the morning papers. Normally this was a ritual which he enjoyed very much. But today was different. It was Monday morning, two days after the premiere performance of Hannibal.

Madame Giry knew better than anyone what this meant. She hovered nervously by the desk, watching as Erik examined a newspaper with an intensity that was almost frightening. The chocolate croissant, meanwhile, lay untouched and forlorn upon its plate. Madame Giry rather disapproved of Erik's fondness for chocolate croissants, but this morning she found herself wishing that he would forget the newspapers and enjoy his rather unhealthy breakfast.

"Is there something the matter?" she asked.

He turned to look at her, the left side of his face wearing an expression of utter dismay. He thrust the newspaper towards her, his hands shaking all the while.

"Read this," he said, indicating a short paragraph. "It's by him."

Madame Giry began to read.

On Saturday I had the misfortune to be in attendance at the opening night of Chalumeau's Hannibal at the Paris Opera House. I am sorry to report that it was everything I feared: an unimaginative spectacle which did nothing to serve Chalumeau's great music.

The once celebrated talents of Carlotta Giudicelli and Ubaldo Piangi seem out of place here, as if they are performing in their own private world far removed from the Alps. I am sad to say that the mechanical elephant displays more acting ability than these two tired leads put together, and its entrance is very much the high point of the evening.

This sorry production is a testament to how far this once great institution has fallen since the arrival of Erik Carriere, an uneducated eccentric who is badly in need of a stint at the Paris Conservatoire to complete his musical training. Are our great composers forever to be placed at the mercy of a man who knows nothing about music?

O. G.

Madame Giry folded the newspaper and placed it calmly upon the desk. She looked at Erik, who was staring out of the window, his hands clasped tightly behind his back.

"How dare he?" he snarled. "An uneducated eccentric, indeed! How dare he!"

Madame Giry stepped towards him. "Erik, you mustn't take this to heart. Please, don't let it upset you."

Erik turned to look at her. When he next spoke, it was in a calm voice which belied the tears in his eyes.

"Antoinette, please gather the whole company together. Tell them to be ready onstage in fifteen minutes. I would like to rehearse Hannibal."

2.

Christine arrived at the Opera House in a state of nervous excitement. It was two days since the premiere of Hannibal, and that afternoon she would be having her first singing lesson with Monsieur Carriere.

She could still hardly believe that he had offered to teach her. She did not understand why he had chosen to train her, of all people, but at the same time it did not seem to matter. It was strange; in a way she was not quite convinced that he would be up to the task of teaching her. Two disastrous lessons with Count Philippe had shown her that not everyone was capable of being a teacher, regardless of their skill as a musician. And she did not even know whether Erik had any formal musical training.

The truth was that Christine cared less about anything Erik might be able to teach her and more about the chance the lessons would give her to hear that beautiful voice again. Surely he would have to sing to her occasionally, if only to demonstrate how the voice should be used.

For two days, Erik's song had echoed through her mind as she tried to use her imagination to recapture its beauty. It was no good; his voice, like most music, had faded too quickly from her memory. Two days was far too long. But that afternoon she would finally hear him sing again.

But first, there was the morning's chorus practice to attend.

Christine was in high-spirits when she arrived at the rehearsal room. She saw Meg, gave her a cheery smile and a wave, and almost danced across the polished wooden floor until she stood beside her.

Only then did Christine notice Meg's downcast expression. Glancing around the room, she saw that the other members of the company were wearing similar expressions of woe and fatigue. Monsieur Reyer paced restlessly beside the piano, staring at the floor, his face creased into worried lines.

Christine looked at Meg. "What's going on?"

"Haven't you heard?" asked Meg sadly.

"No," said Christine. The look on Meg's face was starting to frighten her. Her mind began to conjure up a series of dreadful possibilities, as it usually did when she felt anxious. Her first thought was of Erik Carriere. Perhaps he had been taken ill. He had been so upset the other night. What if he had resigned from the Opera? She would never see or hear him again.

"Meg, What is it? What's happened?" Her voice shook with fear.

"The reviews are in."

For a moment, Christine could only stare at her friend. Then she began to laugh with relief.

"Meg! You had me worried for a minute. Is that all?"

Meg shook her head. "You haven't seen the newspapers, Christine. The reviews are terrible, the worst we've ever had. O.G. has given us bad reviews before, but this time he's gone too far."

"Who's O.G.?" said Christine, puzzled. "I've never heard of him."

There were nervous murmurs of conversation among the chorus members.

"He's the most powerful critic in Paris," said Meg darkly. "No one knows who he is, but the patrons always seem to listen to him." Meg's eyes began to brim with tears. "Christine, a review this bad from O.G. could be enough to close Hannibal."

Christine stared at Meg, aghast. "But surely one bad review wouldn't be enough to do that?"

"This one could. It says Hannibal is a measure of how far the Paris Opera House has fallen in O.G.'s estimations since it was taken over by a man who knows nothing about music."

Christine gasped. "You mean he actually wrote that about Monsieur Carriere?"

Meg nodded. "And worse besides. He calls Monsieur Carriere 'An uneducated eccentric.' Monsieur Carriere has locked himself in his office. This morning his secretary knocked on the door and Monsieur Carriere snarled at him to go away. Mother's gone to speak with him."

Christine felt like crying, and for wholly selfish reasons; her singing lesson with Erik now seemed like a very distant prospect.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the unmistakable sound of Madame Giry's cane striking the door.

Reyer looked up in irritation, finally distracted from his fevered pacing. "Come in."

The ballet mistress entered the room and looked gravely around at the assembled chorus.

"I'm very sorry to interrupt your practice, ladies and gentlemen. But your presence is needed in the auditorium. We're going to rehearse Hannibal."

Reyer gave an exasperated sigh. "Is the man never satisfied? What else can we possible do to Hannibal? Hire a real elephant, which will squirt water at the audience? Or make the Roman soldiers sing in Latin, perhaps, to give it a more authentic feel? Or perhaps Erik and his wretched O.G. would prefer us to leave Paris and perform the entire opera in the Alps?"

A short silence followed Reyer's outburst, broken only by a single nervous laugh from one of the younger chorus members.

"I really don't know," said Madame Giry.

"And what about my rehearsals?" said Reyer. "Are they so unimportant?"

"I'm very sorry," said Madame Giry. "There's nothing I can do. He won't listen to reason."

The chorus filed out of the rehearsal room, muttering to each other in displeasure.

In the auditorium, Christine immediately caught sight of Erik. He marched purposefully onto the stage like a soldier readying himself for battle. He stood at the front of the stage, eyes gleaming with anger. The people standing nearest him took an instinctive step backwards.

"Ladies and gentlemen, welcome," Erik began, his beautiful voice twisted with sarcasm. "I'm very sorry to summon you from your most important tasks, whatever those are. Some people may have led you to believe that the performance the other night was a triumph, and those people may well be right. However, it was very far from perfect…"

"Here we go," Meg whispered.

"Silence!" Erik said, glaring at her. "As I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted, I have brought you here today because this company has become complacent. Complacent and lazy. First, the orchestra. I could have sworn the other night that the third trombone had suffered an attack of deafness, even though I know the excellent gentleman in question is blessed with perfect hearing. And the dancing, I am sorry to say, was a lamentable mess. I'm sure Madame Giry will agree with me."

He glanced at the ballet mistress, who remained stubbornly silent.

"And as for our two leads, who I notice are fashionably late, as usual…well, it is perhaps best that I don't go into that. Suffice to say that there are times when we should keep our emotions to ourselves on stage, and concentrate on portraying the character. And that goes for all of you. And now we rehearse from the very beginning."

Erik retreated to Box Five, and the company assembled in the wings. Carlotta and Piangi arrived during the overture. Erik did not speak to them. He did not need to: his glare was chilling enough.

The rehearsal was hard work, and the company was ordered to stop many times so Erik could correct small details. Carlotta and Piangi were forced to stop the most, usually because Erik considered Carlotta's acting to be too weak, or else exaggerated. At one point, he accused her of "strutting around the stage like a demented peacock." Christine felt rather sorry for the prima donna, who seemed near to tears a number of times during the morning. However, by early afternoon, Carlotta's tears had dried and she lost her temper.

Christine was waiting in the wings with her fellow chorus members. She watched Carlotta hold up one of the opera's more gruesome properties: a severed head.

"These trophies from our saviours from the enslaving force of Rome!" sang Carlotta.

This was the cue for the dancers to enter. But before Meg could lead her row onto the stage, Erik's voice rang out.

"Stop there, please."

The orchestra stopped playing. Christine peered around a flat to see what was happening.

"You're not holding that last note for long enough, Signora," said Erik. "You need to hold it for four beats."

"You're wrong," said Carlotta. "It's two beats."

"It's four."

"Then they must be playing it wrong," said Carlotta, thrusting an accusing finger towards the orchestra pit.

"No, Signora, you're singing it wrong," said Erik.

"Well, then, come up here and sing it yourself," said Carlotta. "Show me the right way to sing it."

There was a moment of silence. The atmosphere in the theatre suddenly became very tense.

"You know I can't do that," Erik said quietly.

"That's because you're not a singer," said Carlotta. "I am a singer, so don't tell me what is right and what is wrong!"

Christine listened to the diva in mounting anger. How could she possibly say that Erik was not a singer? But then she remembered that Carlotta had not been at the bistro, which meant that she had not heard Erik sing. Her anger was replaced by a strange, irrational pity. The diva had missed out on something special, something which, as a great performer herself, she doubtless would have appreciated.

Before Christine even realised what she was doing, she found herself taking tentative steps towards Carlotta.

"Excuse me, Signora Giudicelli?"

Surprised, Carlotta turned to look at Christine. "Yes, my dear? What is it?"

"I just wanted to say that Monsieur Carriere is a singer. He sings beautifully."

Carlotta gave a thin and not entirely pleasant smile. "What are you talking about, dear?"

"He sang at the bistro the other evening," said Christine. "We all heard him." She looked to her friends for support, but her fellow performers merely stared at her with a sort of grim fascination. Christine began to wish she had not said anything. She cast a nervous glance up at Box Five, and saw that Erik's face was rigid with disapproval.

"Thank you, Miss Daae, for that illuminating interruption," said Erik, his voice sharp and cold. "And now I think we should resume our rehearsal."

But Carlotta was not satisfied. "Perhaps the girl is right," she said. "Perhaps you are, in fact, the best singer amongst us. Perhaps you should simply take all of the parts for yourself, and then everyone else can go home and rest."

"Signora," said Erik. "Please calm yourself."

"No!" snapped Carlotta, striding towards Erik's box. "I will not be calm! You work everyone too hard and you listen too much to the critics. What does this O.G. know, may I ask? A man such as yourself, to be scared of a critic! It's pathetic, I tell you, pathetic!"

"Signora!" Erik's cry rang out around the auditorium.

"Why are you here, anyway?" asked Carlotta. Her words were angry, but her voice was choked with frustrated tears. "We don't need you. You should be in your office, where managers belong!"

Again there was silence. Then Erik stood up. "Forgive me, Signora," he said. "You're right, as usual. I'll go to my office now, because I have better things to do than massage the egos of temperamental opera divas."

Erik's voice was like ice. Carlotta let out a loud noise, something between a snort of contempt and a groan of despair. But she seemed chastened.

"Take it from the chorus's entrance, please, Reyer," said Erik.

The rehearsal continued. At one point, Christine glanced up at Box Five and saw that Erik had gone.

When the rehearsal was finally at an end, Christine returned to the chorus' dressing room, where Meg and Cecile were already deep in an animated discussion about Erik and his leading lady. They both stopped talking when they saw Christine.

"What on Earth were you thinking?" said Cecile, looking at her in disbelief.

"What do you mean?"

"The way you spoke to Carlotta. I don't know how you had the gall. You do realise that she could have crushed you on the spot?"

"Crushed me?"

"She could have demanded your dismissal, just like that, and Erik would have listened to her, too."

Christine looked down at her feet. "I don't know why I said it. I wish I hadn't. I'm sorry."

"Did you see Carlotta's face?" said Cecile, who was now struggling to contain her laughter. "She looked as though she wanted to strangle him."

"I actually felt rather sorry for her today," said Meg. "I thought she looked tired."

"She's not at her best at the moment," agreed Cecile. "I doubt she'll last another season."

"Don't be so cruel," said Meg.

"She's been the principal for five seasons. It's about time somebody else had a go."

"Carlotta's the greatest soprano we've ever had," said Meg. "Erik would never fire her. He wouldn't dare."

"Why not?" asked Christine. Despite herself, she was becoming interested in Opera House gossip. The relationship between Carlotta and Erik was particularly interesting, characterised by a peculiar mixture of admiration, affection, and a kind of professional rivalry.

"Oh, Christine, surely you must have heard?" said Meg "Carlotta and Piangi are in love. Erik knows that if he fired Carlotta, Piangi would leave too, and he can't risk losing them both."

"Carlotta and Piangi?" gasped Christine. "I had no idea."

Cecile laughed. "Oh, Christine, you're so naïve. They've been in love for years. Everyone knows that."

"Well, I didn't know," said Christine.

"I suppose you haven't been here very long," said Cecile dismissively. "But if you watch them onstage, it's blatantly obvious that they're mad about each other. They were particularly bad in Hannibal the other night."

Christine sighed.

"What's the matter?" asked Meg.

"Nothing," said Christine. "It's just…this place. I'm not sure that I'll ever completely understand it."

Cecile grinned. "You'll get used to it eventually. And don't worry about Carlotta. By tomorrow she'll have found something else to get worked up about. Let's go to the bistro, shall we? And forget all about it?"

Christine hesitated for a moment. She knew that Erik would in all likelihood be in no mood to give her a singing lesson, but she could not risk breaking their appointment. She glanced at the clock on the dressing room wall: it was nearly 3pm.

"Sorry, I can't today," she said.

Cecile headed towards the door. "Please yourself. Are you coming, Meg?"

"In a minute," said Meg.

Cecile shrugged and left the dressing room, closing the door behind her.

Meg immediately turned to Christine, her eyes shining eagerly. "Well? Who is it?"

"What do you mean?"

Meg smiled playfully. "You're going to meet someone, aren't you? Oh, Christine, it's Raoul, isn't it? You're meeting Raoul! I knew it!"

Christine sighed. Her friend was suddenly so excited that she was sorry to disappoint her.

"No, it's not Raoul."

"Really?" The smile was replaced by a look of intense curiosity. "Who, then?"

Christine hesitated for a moment. "I…have a new singing teacher."

"Who?"

"I'm afraid I can't say. I promised not to tell."

Meg pouted. "But I'm your best friend."

Christine sighed. She had been bursting to tell someone, and Meg was the person at the Opera House whom she trusted the most. What harm could it do? And it wasn't as though Erik had sworn her to secrecy. He had merely asked her to be discreet about it.

"All right. But you must promise not to tell anyone else."

Meg nodded solemnly. "I promise."

"It's Erik Carriere."

Meg stared at her in disbelief. "But Erik isn't a singing teacher."

"Well, the other night, at the bistro, he asked if he could teach me," said Christine. "I don't quite believe it, either. But it's true."

"But up until the other night, I didn't even know he could sing," said Meg. "Why did he suddenly decide to sing with you? It seems very strange, doesn't it, given that we've never heard him sing before? And now he's teaching you. It just doesn't seem like him. He's such a private person, Christine."

"I really don't know," said Christine. She retrieved a pile of musical scores from her dressing table. "I'm sorry, Meg, but I really must be going. I'll be late."

She turned towards the door, but before she could leave she felt Meg grasp her arm.

"Christine, be careful, won't you?"

"Why would I need to be careful?"

"He's in a bad temper today. Don't ask him any personal questions, will you? And whatever you do, don't mention his mask."

3.

Christine stared at Erik's door. It was a very ordinary door, apart from the small gold plaque which had M. Erik Carriere, Director carved into it in cursive script. This small detail made the ordinary door seem very official, almost forbidding.

Erik's office was located at the end of a corridor in a part of the Opera House which Christine had never seen before. It was a strange area, halfway between the dingy corridors of the backstage dressing rooms and the grandeur of the public foyers. This was the part of the building where you could see the transition between the front of house and backstage worlds; the point where, during the Opera House's construction, the money and consequently the grand architecture had visibly started to run out.

The journey to Erik's office had been surprisingly long, and several times on the way Christine had been plagued by a strange feeling that she was going round in circles. When she had finally arrived at Erik's door she was startled; she had started to wonder whether his office really existed.

There was no use in lingering here in silence, so Christine raised her hand to the door and knocked.

"Go away!" The voice from inside was obviously Erik's, and he was obviously still angry. She almost turned and left, before realising that in all likelihood Erik did not know who she was.

She placed her mouth close to the keyhole and called to him.

"Monsieur Carriere? It's Miss Daae."

There was the sound of footsteps from within, and then the door clicked open.

Christine almost gasped. Although it was only a matter of a couple of hours since she had last seen him, Erik looked dreadful. The left side of his face was pale and his eyes were red-rimmed, the golden-brown irises unusually dull. He had evidently been weeping for some time.

"Miss Daae!" he exclaimed. "I'm so sorry. I confess I lost track of the time. Please, won't you come in?"

He opened the door wider and gestured for her to follow him inside.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

Erik turned away from her, rubbing his eyes with his hands. "I'm fine, thank you," he said gruffly, pointing to a nearby armchair. 'Won't you sit down?"

Christine sat and waited in silence as Erik tidied the papers on his desk. She looked around the office. It was a large room with a high ceiling and a single window. Despite the fact that it was still daylight outside, Erik had already drawn the heavy velvet curtains. The room was comfortable, with a thick Persian carpet upon the floor and a fire burning in a small grate. It did not look like an office; rather, it seemed like a room in someone's house. There were posters from various operas hung on the walls, and a tray of tea things upon a sideboard. An upright piano, also covered with papers, stood against one wall. Unlike almost every other room in the Opera House, there was no mirror of any kind.

Turning her attention back to Erik, she saw that he was still tidying the desk, apparently making sure each pile of papers was neatly stacked, and placed at perfectly equal intervals upon the oak surface. Christine began to suspect that Erik was doing this to delay speaking to her.

She coughed politely. "Monsieur Carriere?"

He straightened another pile of papers. "Yes?"

"Would you like to begin? I've brought my sheet music with me. What would you like me to sing?"

He gave a heavy sigh. "I'm so sorry, Miss Daae, but I don't think I can possibly teach you to sing."

She stared at him in confusion. "Why not?"

His back was to her, but she saw him raise a shaking hand to his forehead. When he next spoke, his voice trembled. "That wretched newspaper…"

"I know," said Christine. "Meg told me all about the review. You shouldn't listen to this O.G. person, you know."

"I know, but…" He turned to face her, and his eyes were so sad that Christine's breath caught in her throat. "He said I know nothing of music, that I'm uneducated. And he's right. I've never had any formal musical training, Miss Daae."

"I find that rather hard to believe," she said gently.

He hung his head, unable to look at her. "I'll find you a good singing teacher. Someone with the correct training. I'm sure Hector Chalumeau would make an excellent teacher. I'll have a word with him."

Christine rose from her chair and walked towards him. She could not let this happen. He had promised to teach her and now he was going to go back on that promise, as if it had meant nothing. As if their duet at the bistro had meant nothing.

"But I want you to teach me," she said, and she could hear the tears in her own voice. "You promised."

"Why? Why do you want me?" The question was genuine, without anger. "Don't you see? I can't! I'm not trained. I don't have the knowledge and…" He gestured helplessly towards his face, as if his mask had anything to do with the matter.

"You have your voice," she said gently.

He looked up at her. "My voice isn't strong enough," he whispered. "It's never been strong enough to make people see past…this."

At the conservatoire, Christine had occasionally been praised for her acting talent. Perhaps this was the perfect time to put it to the test. She narrowed her eyes. "You know what I think? I think you really don't want to teach me at all."

"But I do!" he said, outraged. "Of course I do. It's just that…"

"Perhaps you think my voice is unworthy of your attention."

"Miss Daae, this has nothing to do with your voice."

Christine sighed and shook her head, trying to suppress a smile. "I knew it. I knew you were just being kind to me when you said I could sing. Do you know, I've always rather liked the idea of becoming a costumier. Would there be a place for me in the costume department, Monsieur Carriere?"

He stared at her in horror. "Christine, I will not allow you to work in the costume department."

She shrugged. "Well, if no one will teach me how to sing, then what choice do I have? If my voice isn't good enough, perhaps I can make myself useful by mending some torn costumes."

Erik drew himself up to his full height. "No, Christine, don't talk like that. You have an extraordinary voice, and I'll prove it to you. Here, your music. Give me your music…"

Christine surrendered her sheet music to Erik's eager hands and watched, smiling, as he dashed across the room towards the piano. He flung himself down upon the padded bench, raised his hands, and began to play.

"This music is dreadful," he said, after a moment. "What is it?"

Christine was obliged to hide another smile. "It's the Poor Fool aria from Count Philippe's Il Muto."

"Good God," said Erik. "Let's teach you something else, something worthy of your voice."

Christine watched as Erik flicked through the pages of sheet music. He rejected most of the music with a snort of contempt, throwing it upon the floor without apparently caring that the scores did not belong to him. Christine listened to his grumbling in amused silence until he finally found something which he approved of, at which he gave a soft, contented sigh.

"Ah, this will be perfect. Now, listen carefully. This is the Jewel Song from Gounod's Faust. I would like you to start by singing this."

So they began. Progress was slow at first; Erik was clearly a perfectionist, and he stopped Christine many times to correct her mistakes. He was a firm teacher, but fair and patient, and she soon found that she was learning more from him than she had ever expected. Best of all, he would occasionally sing, demonstrating faults in her phrasing, and sometimes joining in with her, guiding her voice to where it ought to go.

She watched him as he played and sang, marvelling at the change which came over him when he was absorbed in music. He seemed taller, somehow, and stronger. His beautiful hands danced upon the keys of the piano, and the left side of his face was almost handsome, his expression either one of serene contentment or passion, depending on the mood of the music.

When they were finished and he turned upon the piano stool to look at her, his golden-brown eyes were sparkling and his face was flushed.

"You were very good, Miss Daae," he said, his voice almost a whisper.

"Thank you," she said. "You're an excellent teacher."

Erik just shrugged in reply.

Christine hesitated for a moment. Perhaps one lesson was enough to ask of him, but if she did not ask for another, she would never know if he was willing to give her more.

"Would it be all right if I came to you again for a singing lesson?" she said. "Perhaps next week?"

Erik stared at the piano keys for a silent moment. When he finally looked up at her, there was a strange intense expression in his eyes.

"Next week?" he said. "Certainly not."

The disappointment was acute, a heavy ache inside Christine's chest. "No. I'm sorry. I'm sure you're very busy."

Erik rose hastily to his feet. "Miss Daae, you've misunderstood my meaning. Once a week will not be adequate. You must practice every day. Every day, after rehearsal. I will teach you. And just you wait…one day we shall astonish Paris."

Christine was so stunned that, for a moment, she could only stare at him in awe-struck silence.

"Thank you," she said, once she had found her voice. "Thank you, Monsieur Carriere."

"My name is Erik," he said simply. "And now you really must be going. I've kept you long enough."

"Goodnight, Erik." Christine headed for the door, but then paused, turning to look at him with a playful smile. "Erik?"

"Yes?"

"I didn't mean it when I said I wanted to work in the costume department, you know."

He looked at her uncomprehendingly for a moment. Then he began to laugh. The sound was utterly unexpected, a deep rumble which caused his whole body to shake.

"You tricked me!" he chuckled. "I'm so glad you did."

Christine laughed too. Then her attitude became quite serious. "You'll be here? Tomorrow?"

He nodded. "Yes, Christine. I'll be here."