Author's Note: Thank you so much for the reviews for the last chapter, and for the continued support of this story. I'm so sorry for the long delay, and I hope you're still reading and enjoy this new chapter!
Chapter 19: Someone Handsome
1.
The gardens were dark now, but Christine could still smell the roses and hear the water splashing into the bowl of the fountain. She was glad of the noise; it gave her a distraction, an escape from the images which Erik's story had painted in her mind.
In her mind's eye she saw him as a boy, trembling in front of a hostile audience, and then sinking to the stage floor as the coins fell like hail around him.
She closed her eyes in an attempt to suppress the tears, and when she opened them again she was almost startled to see Erik still sitting there on the picnic rug. The masked side of his face was turned away from her, and he was leaning over slightly, his long fingers digging into the material of the rug, clutching it tightly.
"I stayed there for five years," he said softly. "Five years, Christine, before I could get away."
Five years in a freak show! The thought chilled Christine. She had no reply to his words. I'm sorry did not seem sufficient.
"How did you get away?" she asked gently.
Erik closed his eyes. "I tried to escape. Many times. But Fleck's cronies were always too quick for me, and I was always dragged back to the fair. I had no way of writing to my mother or Professor Guizot…I was a prisoner. I travelled with the fair until someone saved me."
"Who?"
He swallowed hard, and then, in a low, pained whisper: "The Vicomte de Chagny."
Christine blinked. How could Raoul have rescued Erik? He must have been an infant at the time. And then the truth dawned on her. "Philippe."
Erik nodded. "Yes. Philippe. He was still a viscount then, and he had only recently become a patron of Opera. And he was just as fond of the ballerinas as he is today. This was long before La Sorelli, of course. At that time, he claimed to love Antoinette."
Christine gasped. She tried – and failed – to imagine Madame Giry having anything to do with Philippe de Chagny. The very idea seemed absurd.
"If I'm painting a rather sordid picture, I would like to assure you that there wasn't anything untoward. Philippe admired Antoinette greatly. He brought her flowers after her performances. He declared his love for her, once, during a party at the bistro."
"What happened?"
"She rebuffed him, of course. Told him not to be so silly, that such a thing was impossible. This is Antoinette we're talking about, Christine." Erik smiled slightly, and Christine could not help noticing the fondness in the expression. "But they did remain on good terms for a long time. In those days, Philippe was rather gallant." Erik's face became solemn, his smile vanishing. "Antoinette visited the fair when it came back to Paris, with a couple of other girls from the ballet. She saw me. She even heard me sing. She said later that she felt sorry for me, sorry that I had to waste my talent in such a place, but also sorry for my…predicament." Erik shuddered. "She said she could tell I wasn't there by choice."
Christine was silent, wondering what Antoinette had seen: Erik threatened? Erik injured? It was too horrible to think about.
"She went away and told Philippe about me, begged him to help me." Erik's voice was very soft, almost a whisper. "Philippe hired some men – servants of his, I think – to break into the fair in the middle of the night and get me out. It all happened very quickly. They drove me away in a carriage and took me to one of Philippe's townhouses in Paris, where he let me stay until I had recovered." Erik shook his head. "I never saw Fleck again. Sometimes I think my rescue was a little too easy, a little too neat. For a while I wondered if Philippe's men had actually killed Fleck, but then a few years later I saw a poster advertising Fleck's Fabulous Freaks, with all new attractions. I was afraid he would come after me, but he never did."
"What do you think happened?"
Erik had turned completely away from her, so that all she could see was a hunched figure in the darkness. "I think Philippe paid him off."
"So Philippe gave him money…"
"To stay away. Yes." The dark shape shuddered. "Whatever happened, I feel that I owe Philippe a debt I can never repay. And he never tires of reminding me of the fact. He got me out of that terrible place. Afterwards, he helped me find new employment at a cabaret, where I could sing and play the piano without revealing my face. It was better than the fair, but they never really listened to my music. I was constantly heckled. They kept asking me to take my mask off…but it was better. And then Philippe arranged an audition for me at his home, in front of the Opera House managers. That's how I came to be at the Opera. It's all because of Philippe. I wouldn't even be the artistic director if he hadn't persuaded the Ministry of Fine Arts that I was capable of the task." Erik paused. "That's why, until recently, I found myself bowing so often to his influence. I needed his patronage. Without him, I would still be a sideshow freak."
The last words were sharp and cruel, as if Erik was trying to hurt himself with them. He had been speaking with his back to Christine, and now she saw his shoulders hitch. "You must think…I don't know what you must think of me…"
"Oh, Erik, Erik…" Christine crawled over to him, across the picnic rug, ignoring the plates of uneaten cheese and bread. She draped an arm around his shoulders. He wasn't crying so much as shivering, she realised. Shivering with fear…of what? That she would reject him?
Pulling him into a tighter embrace, she spoke softly into his ear. "Erik. This is what I think of you. I think you're the most intelligent, talented man I have ever met." She removed his straw hat and ran a hand through his soft hair. "Your voice is glorious. And if those people who stared at you and heckled you couldn't recognise that…well, then I must say I pity them."
"That's kind of you," Erik said softly, his voice muffled against her shoulder. "But you're wrong…you deserve more, Christine. You deserve someone...someone..."
"Someone what?"
"Someone handsome," he whispered.
Christine gave a smile which went unseen by Erik.
"I suppose you're right," she sighed. "I do."
He lifted his head and looked at her with a wounded expression. She forced her smile to widen into a grin.
"So it's a good thing you're here, isn't it?"
His mouth fell open, and then closed again, and then fell open again. His golden-brown eyes widened in apparent confusion. For a moment, he simply stared at her.
And then the unmasked corner of his lips lifted, ever so slightly. And then, much to her relief, he started to laugh.
"Oh, Christine! I wish I shared your gift for sentimentality," he chuckled. "Perhaps you've been spending too much time with Meg."
She made a supreme effort to look insulted. "It's the truth." Reaching out, she cupped his unmasked cheek with her hand. Erik's cheek was soft and full, a startling contrast to the hardness of his mask. He stopped laughing instantly when she touched him, and stared at her with frightened eyes. "You think you're ugly," she said, tracing the shape of his cheek with her finger. "I don't share your view. Perhaps, one day, you'll believe me."
"One day…" He spoke the words thoughtfully. "I'm sorry, Christine, but I find it rather difficult to believe that this is happening, that you can sit there, listen to my story…touch my cheek…" He caught her hand and squeezed it tenderly. "You keep coming back to me, don't you? Why?"
"Well, you have a very fine taste in hats..." Christine broke into a smile when she saw the mildly offended look on Erik's face. "Erik, why do you think I keep coming back? I want to be with you." She paused, knowing that this would be the most difficult moment. She was not sure how Erik was going to react. Or, indeed, what she was going to do if he reacted badly. "Do you remember that night, after the gala…when you told me you loved me?"
He looked away. "Yes."
"I was scared then. Not of you," she added hastily, when his head drooped in shame. "Your confession…it was just so unexpected, and I didn't really know how to react. But now…" She enclosed his hand with her own. "Erik. I care about you very deeply…"
"Christine, please, you can't really mean that…"
"And why would I say it if it wasn't true?" She looked at him intently, looked into his eyes and saw fear and apprehension and adoration…and something else.
For the first time, she saw hope.
Before she had time to change her mind, Christine leaned forward and kissed Erik on the lips.
The kiss was not exactly deep; she could feel Erik trembling in her arms, and she was afraid he was going to break free from her embrace and flee into the night. But he stayed, and after a moment she felt him relax slightly and return the kiss. All the time she was aware of the barrier of Erik's mask falling over one half of his lips, a cold presence against her cheek. But his lips themselves were warm and soft. She wished she could tear the mask away so she could deepen the kiss, but of course she did not dare.
He broke the kiss with a low moan and got unsteadily to his feet. She stood too, and for a moment he simply gazed at her, shaking his head slowly from side to side.
"Oh," he said, reaching up to touch his lips lightly with a finger. She realised he looked…lost, as if a moment ago he was sure of the world and his place in it, and now reality had been turned on its head. His eyes were shimmering, liquid gold.
"You're not going to cry, are you?" Her voice was gentle. He continued to shake his head, backing away a step. "Erik?"
"Forgive me…I don't know what…I don't know why I…" He raised his arms and dropped them in frustration. "Forgive me," he said again.
"There's nothing to forgive," she said. "I wanted to kiss you."
"But Christine…what happens now?"
This was a valid question, and one which Christine did not feel fully equipped to answer.
She loved Erik, she was certain of that now, and the fact was both wonderful and frightening.
He was starting to look nervous, as if her lack of a reply was the same as a "nothing." She touched his arm reassuringly.
"We can do this again, if you like. We can come back to the park, or go somewhere else."
"You want to continue spending time with me?" His voice was small, but hopeful.
"Of course." She smiled at him. "Next time, perhaps we can go to the bistro together. I would love to sing with you again."
He shuddered. "I do not sing in public. That time at the bistro was an anomaly which I deeply regret." She opened her mouth to protest, but he spoke first. "I do not mean singing with you, Christine. Singing with you was a great honour. We can sing together any time you wish, but I want to share my voice with you and you alone." He sighed deeply. "After all I've told you today, I hope you understand why."
She nodded. "Of course, Erik. I just want you to know that there are others who would value your talents. Your voice is beautiful, and one day I hope you feel able to share it with the world again."
He looked as if he didn't quite believe her. Then he sighed and began to gather up the picnic things.
"Are you all right?" Christine was slightly alarmed by his apparent need for a distraction.
Erik smiled briefly. "Of course. But it's getting late. May I walk you home?"
"Yes. Thank you."
Looping her arm through his, Christine walked alongside Erik, through the gardens and onto the lamp-lit streets. During their walk to the park, Erik had glanced around in a hunted fashion, as if fearing he was being watched. But now, in the darkness, with less people on the streets, he seemed more relaxed.
Christine glanced up at his masked face and smiled. The white porcelain glowed softly in the moonlight.
2.
Don Juan Triumphant.
It seemed that every resident of the Opera House, every singer and stagehand and musician, spoke of nothing else. The name of Erik's opera was alternately imbued with awe and frustration.
Lately, it was frustration which seemed to be most prevalent.
Christine looked around the rehearsal room at two dozen tired, bewildered faces. The principals, together with most of the chorus, had gathered here at 9am that morning, for a sing-through of the entire score. It was now 3.30pm in the afternoon, and Christine knew that no opera, however ambitious in scope, should last for six and a half hours.
Actually, and much to the relief of everyone present, Don Juan did not actually have a playing time of over six hours. Rather, the length of the rehearsal was down to Erik's sheer perfectionism. They had been rehearsing Don Juan for three weeks, but there were still some 'musical issues', as Erik put it, and this would be one of the last opportunities he would have to correct the problems before the dress rehearsal in two day's time.
"No. No. No!" Erik brought his hands down violently upon the keys of the unfortunate rehearsal piano, which had taken quite a pummelling over the last few weeks. The company jumped and sat to attention; Christine realised that many of them had been on the verge of falling asleep.
Erik whirled around on the stool and fixed his gaze upon the unfortunate figure of Don Juan himself, who was looking anything but triumphant.
Signor Piangi shook his head in confusion. "Signor Carriere, I don't understand…"
"Here is the phrase," Erik said in a strained voice, turning around again to demonstrate on the piano. "Those who tangle with Don Juan. If you please?"
Piangi stared at Erik for a moment, then made an attempt to copy him. "Those who tangle with Don Juan…"
Christine saw Erik close his eyes and rub his forehead with a hand. He looked exhausted. In fact, he had looked tired for days. She wondered if he was having sleepless nights. At the moment, the uncovered half of his face was a study in patience, the sort of patience which was hanging by a thread that could snap at any moment.
"Nearly," Erik said softly. "But no. Listen. Those who tan – tan – tan."
Piangi looked at Erik as though he had gone mad. Then he glanced around the room, as if seeking help. Finally, he gave up, and repeated the phrase.
"Those who tan tan tan…"
"Oh, for heaven's sake!" Erik struck the piano keys once more. "Really, Signor Piangi, I did not mean that literally. I was doing it for emphasis."
Piangi wiped the perspiration from his forehead. "Forgive me, Signor. It is…so modern. It is…confusing."
"I do wish you would take a little more care with my piano," said Monsieur Reyer. The repetiteur was seated nearby, holding another copy of the score. Erik had banished him from the piano stool in a fit of pique an hour earlier, after the unfortunate man had played a wrong note.
"And I wish you would listen to him," said Carlotta, glaring at Erik but pointing at Piangi. "At least he makes it sound like music."
A couple of the singers stifled giggles. Erik glowered around the room as if searching for the culprits.
"When I desire your opinion, Signora," he said, "I shall ask for it."
Christine looked at the diva and sighed. She knew that Erik had not wanted to cast Carlotta, but he had been overruled; the Ministry of Fine Arts had been true to its word, and Monsieur Lefevre, the business manager, had been ordered to oversee the casting. With a great amount of diplomacy, Lefevre had managed to tempt Piangi back – something which she knew Erik was secretly pleased about – but he had also insisted upon casting Carlotta in a featured role ("to keep the public happy"). He had originally wanted to cast her in the lead role of Aminta, but Erik had (rather loudly) disagreed, and Christine had gotten the part.
She almost wished she hadn't.
Aminta was a great role. A gift of a role, really, and Christine knew that Erik saw it very much as a gift. At the beginning of the rehearsal period he had presented her with a copy of the score, bound in embossed leather and tied with a piece of ribbon.
"I want you to be the first to read it," he said, his eyes sparkling despite the dark shadows beneath them.
If taken at surface value, it was a curious gift. Aminta, seduced by a disguised Don Juan, did not exactly have an easy time. But the true gift was the music, wonderful, complex music which stretched Christine's voice to its full potential. Even though Erik's lessons had prepared her well, she still feared that it was a challenge beyond her capabilities. She was tormented by doubts every time she saw Carlotta, who seemed to take great pleasure in sneering at her whenever she attempted a difficult phrase.
"Now," said Erik. "Let's try again. Miss Daae? May we have your line, please?"
Christine got to her feet. "Silken couch and hay-filled barn…"
Erik's fingers halted on the keyboard. "Again."
"Silken couch and hay-filled barn…"
"Again, Christine. Louder."
"Silken couch and hay-filled barn…"
"Again!"
Christine threw down her score with a sigh. "Really, Erik. I think we're all very tired. May we stop now?"
Erik narrowed his eyes at her: in concern or irritation, she could not quite tell. Then he sighed and stared at his hands where they rested upon the piano keys.
"Yes," he said softly. "Perhaps we should stop." He raised his voice. "Thank you, ladies and gentlemen, you're dismissed. Please be here promptly at the same time tomorrow."
The company began to disperse. Christine went to retrieve her Don Juan score, but Erik leaned over first and handed it to her.
"Would you stay here for a moment, please, Miss Daae?"
Christine watched the last of the company hurry out of the room, as if fearing that Erik would also decide to detain them.
She waited until they were alone before she spoke. "What is it?"
He reached towards her, as if meaning to touch her hair, but at the last moment he seemed to decide against it, letting his hand fall to his side. He looked at her with guarded affection.
"You do look very tired," he said. "I'm sorry to keep you."
"That's all right, Erik," she said, although she desperately wanted to go home and sleep. She opened her score. "Did you want to go through something?"
"No." He sat down upon the piano stool. "I just wanted to see you."
Christine smiled. Ever since their picnic – and kiss – in the Tuileries, Erik had been coming up with a variety of increasingly inventive excuses to spend time with her. Most of these excuses revolved around his opera, his need to hear her sing certain passages "without any interruptions from the company", as he put it. Christine wanted to tell him that he did not need to offer any excuse, that he could talk with her at any time, but the kiss had apparently made him shy.
"Erik, you've been able to see me all morning." She spoke lightly, amusement in her voice.
"Talk to you, then." His hands tensed upon the keys. "But if you'd rather not…"
"No, no." She sat down beside him on the bench. "What is it?"
He gave a soft sigh. "Nerves, I think. These rehearsals are more difficult than I had anticipated. In short, I'm worried this is going to be a disaster beyond imagination."
She laughed. "Erik, we've made so much progress over the last week. Everyone's just a little tired, that's all." She leaned over and planted a light kiss on the top of his head. "It'll be fine."
"Is Carlotta giving you a hard time?"
"Not really. She just makes me feel inadequate. But I suspect she has that effect on everybody. Please, Erik, don't let it worry you."
"You're wonderful, Christine." His golden eyes were warm and soft. He only held her gaze for a moment before turning away. "I wish…"
"What do you wish?"
"I wish, after the opera is over, that perhaps…" He stopped and shook his head. "Nothing. I just hope this is a success. That's enough for anyone to hope for."
Christine felt this was not what Erik had meant to say at all. But she did not wish to rush him or scare him, so she merely nodded.
"I know," she said. "And now I should really go home and rest." She patted his hand. "So should you."
He nodded, although she did not believe he meant to relax: far from it. His eyes were once again fixed on the Don Juan score.
"Good night, Christine. I'll see you tomorrow."
Christine made her way to the entrance foyer, hoping to catch up with Meg. She had not had the opportunity to talk to her friend in a few days, and she was eager to speak to her about Erik…she still hadn't told the dancer about the picnic, and she was composing a slightly edited, gossip-proof account of the events in her mind. Unfortunately, when she reached the foyer, Meg was nowhere to be seen.
"Christine."
She jumped at the sound of her name, but then realised that she knew the voice. Turning around, she found Raoul standing between two marble columns. His brow was furrowed and his eyes appeared red and tired. In fact, he looked extremely worried, which was unusual for a man who had generally seemed so light-hearted whenever she was in his company.
"Raoul? Are you all right?"
Raoul glanced around the foyer as if looking for someone. "I've been waiting for you. I hope you don't mind."
"Not at all." Raoul's nervous manner was starting to scare her. "Raoul? What is it? What's happened?"
"Can we go somewhere private and talk?"
"Of course." Christine nodded towards the grand staircase. "Follow me."
She led him back to her dressing room. Fortunately the other members of the company had been so eager to leave the Opera that there was no one around to see them go in. As soon as they were inside, Raoul closed the door and sank into a chair, his hands over his face.
"Raoul! Please, tell me what's happened."
The Vicomte de Chagny removed his hands from his face and looked at her with red-rimmed eyes.
"It's Philippe. He's gone."
"Gone? Gone where?"
"I don't know." Raoul was shaking. "We had an argument last night. A terrible row. He found out about Don Juan Triumphant, you see. God, I feel terrible…"
"What about Don Juan Triumphant?"
"Christine, I'm Erik's patron. After Erik saw fit to end his association with my brother, I wanted to help. I love my brother dearly, but I'm aware of how much pressure he was putting on Erik…upon the entire company. I wanted to help. And I wanted to ensure that Erik was able to stage the opera without my brother's financial support." Raoul looked away from her. "I wanted him to stage it, because I knew what a wonderful opportunity it would be for you."
"Oh, Raoul…" Christine remembered his despondent expression at the restaurant, when she had spoken to him of her feelings for Erik. She couldn't help feeling a twinge of guilt. "That's very kind of you."
Raoul waved a hand dismissively. "I wanted to do it. I'm twenty-one now, and it was my allowance, to do with as I pleased. So I financed Don Juan. And somehow my brother found out. He confronted me about it, told me I had no business meddling in the affairs of his Opera House. His Opera House, Christine! And then he asked if Erik had demanded the money from me, and I said no, how could he even think such a thing? And then he started raving about how this was all Erik's fault, how he should not be allowed to stage his obscene opera, and how he was going to report him to the Ministry of Fine Arts…though for what transgression, I have no idea." Raoul covered his face with his hands again. "He said he was going to the Ministry immediately, and stormed out of the room. I haven't seen him since. I'm just so worried he's going to attempt to stop the opera, and make a fool out of himself in the process...Christine? Are you all right?"
Christine was trembling. As she listened to Raoul's story, the meaning of his words soon became clear: Philippe had no intention of looking foolish.
He meant to humiliate Erik.
Without offering Raoul an explanation, Christine dashed from her dressing room and hurried down the passageway.