Author's Note—It has been a while since my last update—sorry! The vast majority of this has been written for weeks, but tying it together into something coherent…well, between traveling and an uncooperative muse, this story is progressing slowly. In this chapter, the managers despair, Erik finally makes an appearance, but he is a bitterly unhappy man, not willing to easily let go of the past. Raoul shows up as well, and has a conversation with Christine. All is not blissfully happy for our favorite characters, I am afraid….
The Usual Disclaimer—these characters are not mine, belonging as they do to the heirs of M. Leroux, to Sir A. L. Webber and the RUG, and to Susan Kay. I thank them for the privilege of their use. All errors concerning the Paris Opera, music, religion, military history, and the French language are mine, and for that, I apologize.
Please read and review.
A Second Chance
Chapter 4
Copyright 2003, 2004 by Riene
Once Your Had Gold
Once you had gold,
Once you had silver,
Then came the rains
out of the blue.
Ever and always.
Always and ever.
Time gave both darkness and dreams to you.
Now you can see
Spring becomes autumn,
leaves become gold
falling from view.
Ever and always.
Always and ever.
No one can promise a dream come true,
Time gave both darkness and dreams to you.
What is the dark
shadows around you,
why not take heart
in the new day?
Ever and always.
Always and ever.
No one can promise a dream for you,
Time gave both darkness and dreams to you.
Lyrics by Enya and Roma Ryan
from the CD The Memory Of Trees
The better part of a bottle of wine gone between them, M. André and Firmin sat grimly reviewing the account books before them in the office of the managers..
"We are ruined, André, ruined.." M. Firmin muttered, staring morosely into the depths of his glass.
M. André sighed and stood, stretching muscles cramped by hours of reports, estimates of repairs, of angry letters from patrons demanding their seasonal subscriptions be refunded. "So you keep saying," he said bitterly. "What we need are suggestions, Richard, not accusations and finger-pointing."
M. Firmin shrugged. "What would you have me say, Gilles?" He thrust aside the newspaper with its screaming headlines and gestured at the results of the latest post beneath. "We have no soprano, no tenor. M. Reyer demands a rise before he will return…his nerves are shattered, he says. His nerves?" The manager raised his glass and drained its contents, then reached for the bottle again. "The House itself needs more in repairs than we have capital to meet. We are ruined, Richard."
M. André swirled the dregs of his own wine absently, staring out at the swirling snow. "We can find another singer. Or two, or even three. And do not forget, we still have Miss Daaé, at least until she marries. What if we don't repair the chandelier?" He turned and raised a letter from the untidy mess of his desk. "There are many repairs needed to the building—but this is the perfect time to install electricity. We could hang instead an electric light." He slapped the sheet with growing enthusiasm." Think of it, Richard…electrical light! We'd be the first in France! The chandelier could be lighter weight, less costly. People would flock to see it!"
"Gilles, you are raving. With what money? And to light what performances?" M. Firmin said irritably.
"Bah, man, think. We've still the corps de ballet, the acrobats, the musicians, the support staff, the stage crews—where else are they going to find employment? Comedy…perhaps a comedy." He spoke with growing enthusiasm. "A grand reopening!"
The moment rehearsal was through, Christine began her daily journey through the catacombs and tunnels beneath the cellars. Absorbed in her thoughts of Erik's return to consciousness, and of the announced new and revised schedule of productions, the first positive news since the turbulent events at the Opera, she failed to consider the implications of the missing small lantern until at the entry of the underground house, and had simply brought along the nearest candelabra. She set it aside and put her small hands against the crevasse in the cold damp rock and pushed against the stone slab, idly marveling again as the silent immense limestone piece opened on its concealed, oiled mechanism.
A shadow fell across the opening, and Nadir blocked the door, an indecipherable look on his face. "I am sorry, Mlle., but you cannot enter here; he does not wish to see you." He stood immobile, abruptly foreign and unfamiliar again, obdurate and implacable as a statue.
Stung, stunned, Christine looked up at him. "Why? What have I done?"
The Persian shook his head. "That is not for me to say." His expression softened. "Please, Mlle. Daaé, do not question. Just go…for once respect his wishes."
She raised her chin, refusing to show this hard-faced foreign man the true depth of her confusion, of her hurt, yet there was no recourse but to accede to his demands. "Will you tell him I came, then, to see him? And you tell him that I…I hope he is doing better?" Unable to think of anything else to say in the face of this rejection, Christine turned and walked slowly away, slowly returning to the world above, her thoughts to painful to examine.
Lying in darkness, weighed down by pain, Erik roused himself slightly, hearing voices echo down the long corridor, then slumped back onto the bed, horrified at his near helplessness, at this terrible weakness. He remembered whirling blackness, pain crashing at him from all sides, his own cries drowned out in the rage and destruction, then nothing for a very long time. He frowned, concentrating. Clouded, dim memory crept back, of damp rough stone and sodden ground, seeping away the warmth of his body, the cold scent of chill water. As his strength had slowly ebbed had come the awareness that he was dying.
There were other fever-blurred memories from the hours or perhaps days of voices and hands, and the knowledge that once he lay held and secure in someone's arms. How many times had he dreamed of that, in his long and lonely life, how it would feel to simply be held and touched by another human being? How many times had he dared dream of Christine looking at him with concern, with love? And now…he had ordered her away twice. He could not ask her to return, now that he so desperately needed her, her warmth, her gentleness. "Oh, Christine," he whispered, aching loss and longing voiced in that single word.
Footsteps sounded in the corridor, and Nadir stepped into the room. "You are awake, I see."
"Yes." Erik forced open his eyes and then turned from the painful light of the single candle. Embers in the hearth glowed red under their furring of ash, casting a red glow into the soft golden light of the room. Eventually, he turned back, meeting the weary dark gaze of his oldest acquaintance. "Christine?"
The Persian sighed. "Yes, and I did send her away as you asked. She was…hurt, I think."
Erik frowned and turned aside from the thoughts of what could have been. The past was the past. He drew in another painful breath. "How long have I been like this?"
"Nearly a week, doost man." Nadir turned the straight wooden chair around and sat, straddling it, leaning on his crossed arms and watching with tired eyes. "You have a broken arm, several broken fingers, cracked and broken ribs, head injuries, multiple lacerations, and I am certain there are internal injuries as well. You've been feverish, you've lost considerable weight. In short, you are damned lucky not to have died."
"Would that I had; I would be less a nuisance to you now," he said bitterly. "Your old debt is repaid tenfold."
With an effort, Nadir reined in his temper, tightening his grip on the carved mahogany. "I did not do it for the sake of Mazanderan, Erik."
"Such nobility of spirit, such compassion," he sneered. "You have assured yourself place in Paradise, Nadir."
The Persian took a deep breath; arguing with this man was ever futile, and Erik had never tolerated ill health well, it always turned his temper foul. "Do you feel like eating anything?"
"No. I desire nothing but to be left alone," came the derisive response from the bed, and Nadir felt his temper slip.
"You cannot lie down here in this darkness like an animal, Erik!" he snapped, suddenly furious.
"I can and I will, Nadir" Erik retorted. "I am an animal. Unfit for human companionship. God knows I was told that often enough as a child. Now go and leave me alone. I just want to die." Exhausted at the stream of vitriolic words, his head fell back limply on the pillows, and he turned his face to the wall, trying vainly to still the coughing that sent rivers of agony along his cracked ribs and left him coughing blood.
Nadir waited patiently until the spasm was over, gripping the edge of the chair until he could speak without his temper flaring again. "No, by Allah, you are no animal. A devil, maybe. But you are no animal," he said bitterly. "How many times I watched you in Manzederan…" He stopped, struggling to control the red rage that swam before his vision.
"Would that I had simply let the Shah take my life then," came the hissing raw voice from the bed, volumes of loathing evident in the tone. "I cared little for my life then, Daroga; I care less for it now. It would have simplified matters enormously."
Days passed, days in which he took a few halting steps to the chair, then crept slowly about the underground house. His arm hurt with a dull throb, but the cold of the cellars caused his hands to ache unbearably, and he remained ensconced inside the lair. Nadir Khan came and went at irregular frequency, sometimes bringing news of the outside world, but more often a bit of fruit, a newspaper, a novel—anything to distract the bitter man who lived beneath the cellars. Erik was in turns sullen and withdrawn, or lashing out with a barbed hostility far different from his usual cynicism. Eventually the day came when the Persian no longer arrived at the underground house, and Erik reflected resentfully that he was now truly alone, as he had not been alone in many years.
Raoul strode into the vestibule and tossed his officer's hat onto the marble-topped table, then angrily continued in search of his brother. He found Philippe seated at their father's large walnut desk, discussing matters of business with Sebastian Arnaud, the agent who managed the Estate's holdings in trade. The employee glanced from the younger son's tight face to the elder brother's closed expression and rose, making his excuses. Philippe dismissed the man with a formal nod, and turned coolly to his brother.
"I presume you wanted to see me about something?" he inquired, rising to pour himself a drink.
Raoul flung his formal gloves onto the desk and dropped into the armchair across from it, unbuttoning the top two buttons of his naval uniform coat and loosening his collar. He attempted to speak civilly, despite his simmering rage. "I have been three days now overseeing the outfit of the Guyenne, and find now I am to be assigned to her as well? Philippe, I am on leave, after months of duty! Why this sudden change in my orders?"
Philippe resumed his position behind the desk, sipping the aged scotch calmly, and at his brother's continued silence, Raoul's eyes narrowed; he swore softly. "This is your doing, my brother, isn't it? Why are you sending me away?"
Ice-blue eyes raked him over. "Evangie and I have discussed it, and Lydia agrees. We think it best if you distance yourself, and consequently, the family name, from the disgraceful events at the Opera." His face hardened. "You can dandle any number of chorus girls, or divas for all I care, but you will not become involved with any of them, much less bring the family name into the forefront of public notice. And you will most certainly not presume to marry one of them."
A flush of ugly color stained the young sun-browned man's cheekbones. "And what of your own relationship with La Sorelli? You have no right to tell me whom I may or may not marry, Philippe."
If possible, Philippe's eyes grew colder, and he leaned back in his chair, lacing his fingers. "My…arrangements…with La Sorelli are none of your concern, my brother. And it is true," he admitted candidly, "that I cannot tell you whom to marry—but I can have you reassigned." He made an attempt to soften his voice. "Raoul, this engagement is a mistake. Yes, you were friends as children, but your lives are very different now!"
"I shall resign my commission!" Raoul said heatedly, white lines around his nose and mouth.
"And do what, then, with your life?" Philippe inquired reasonably. "You are not trained for any other profession, and you know Father meant you to have a career in the navy."
"Oh, damn the navy!" he cried passionately. "It is Christine that matters to me!"
Philippe sighed. "You will forget each other in time, and my brother—it is done—you have very little choice."
Raoul stood up, one fist clenched bloodlessly and spun on his heel toward the door.
"Where are you going?" Philippe asked mildly.
"To the devil!" Raoul snapped, and behind him, Philippe watched him go with something akin to grief.
The rapid click of his boot heels followed Raoul as he strode angrily down the street, fueled by white-hot anger. The Guyenne was due to be sent southward to Tunis next week. The Bey of Tunis had accepted his country's status—albeit reluctantly—as that of a French protectorate, and several ships were being deployed toward Africa's northern coast, to see it remained so. One week…
He knew without asking Christine would not agree to a hastily arranged marriage before that time, yet he had no choice but to try. She had been reluctant to agree to the public announcement of their engagement, but that reason, at least, was no longer an issue. The Opera Ghost was dead. The workmen and the various crew members had lifted many a glass in the pub nearest the Opera, to the demise of the Phantom who lived beneath the Palais Garnier, and whom had tormented their lives for so long.
Christine was not at the Opera, and Raoul found her at last in the little home she kept since the death of Mama Valerius. Her evident happiness at seeing him faded rapidly at the sight of his black countenance, and her face fell.
"Come in, Raoul, what is wrong?" She stepped back from the door as he brushed past her, not noticing the dark circles beneath her eyes, and she followed him on in to the parlor.
She perched on the edge of the worn settee, smoothing her rose-colored skirts absently, raising worried dark blue eyes. Raoul drew a chair near and sat, then leaned forward and caught her hands. "Christine, the Guyenne sails in six days' time. She has been in refit, and as you know, I've been helping to oversee the resupply. I am assigned to her, my love. We are headed to Tunis."
She gasped and tears filled her eyes. "Oh, Raoul, you'll be gone for years!"
He nodded grimly. "Three years, most likely. Christine, I must ask before we depart, for I'll not have much time these next few days—will you marry me before we sail? It would set my mind at ease, knowing I had provided for you." He gave her hands a gentle squeeze and stood, pacing the slightly old-fashioned, shabby room. The Viscount grasped his formal gloves tightly, determined to say nothing, giving the young woman he loved a chance to decide on her own.
Christine watched him as he walked, her mind whirling. A wedding, in only a few days' time. It could be done, yes, a simple ceremony before a priest. But Raoul was Catholic, and she, Lutheran, as were most Scandinavians. They had never really discussed these details; there had simply been no time, caught up as they had been in the tempestuous events of the autumn, and of her schedule. Religious differences might be an obstacle, and then…
She looked up at him. "Raoul, where would I live, what would I do? Three years is such a long time!"
He turned from where he stood by the window, looking sightlessly across the street and smiled. "I suppose you could continue at the Opera; you would need something to fill your days, and as for where you would live, why you would live with my family—it is a tradition. All new de Chagny brides come home. You could live here in the city; we keep a house in one of the arrondissements, or you could live at Beauvais, where our country estate is. It would be up to you. I only want to make you happy, darling."
Raoul's blue eyes were earnest, tender, and Christine felt herself blush. "Oh my love," she murmured. "What am I to do? I cannot have a dress made so quickly, there are so many arrangements to be made—this flat, my trousseau, we must talk to the priest—Raoul—I am Lutheran—do you not remember? I don't see how we could be married in so short a time."
The young Viscount raked a hand through his hair, rumpling the wheat-gold waves, and groaned. "I didn't think of that. Oh, of course that is an obstacle." He frowned, and said honestly, "I didn't think it would come to pass, Christine. This assignment is all due to Philippe's machinations; he does not wish us to wed. And I thought, perhaps somehow…" Raoul sighed. "I am only thinking of you. Three years is so long—I didn't want you to be alone; I worry about you so. I know you don't want to stay with my family. They can be…" his voice trailed off, thinking of his overbearing sister Evangeline, and of Philippe. "…well, difficult," he concluded awkwardly.
Christine smiled suddenly, tears sparkling in her eyes. "Oh, my love," she whispered, "this is goodbye then, is it not?"
He drew her up against him, her hands small and cold within his, and stood looking down into her upturned pale face. "I've little choice, Christine. They can court-martial me if I do not go on this voyage. I could resign my commission, but as Philippe says, what else am I to do?" He circled her with his arms holding the young singer tightly as she wept. "I'll not ask you to keep our engagement, nor even ask you to wait for me. Perhaps, if you are still here when I return…" he said hoarsely, his voice trailing off.
She pulled back, searching his blue eyes. "I have waited half my life for you, Raoul, what are another few years?"
But the Viscount shook his head. "I may be gone for a very long time, mon coeur. The political situation in Tunis is far from stable, and more than one man has returned home to lie in French soil in a box. Don't wait for me, Christine. If you find someone to love you, who will be good to you, while I am gone…don't hesitate. I will understand."
He stooped and kissed her gently, not wanting to prolong his stay and cause her more grief. They had survived one parting, perhaps another was not impossible.
With shaking hands the young singer slowly removed the gold and ruby ring he had presented to her last autumn, but Raoul closed his larger hand over hers.
"Keep it, ma petite," he whispered, pulling her close for one last embrace. "Keep it and think of me when ever you see it." Raising her hand to his lips, he brushed her knuckles in a gentle kiss of parting, and then straightened.
"I will wait for you, Raoul, however long it takes. Adieu, my love," Christine whispered back, "go with God." She stood in the doorway of the small shabby house, watching him go with too-bright eyes, then quietly closed the door.
Notes—The language used here is Farsi, the language of Persia, now Iran. I've done my best with it, but please correct me if needed. doost man–my friend
Electrical lighting was installed in the Opera House in 1881…I've altered the date a bit here for the purposes of the story.
The Guyenne was a real ship, a Provence Class Broadside Ironclad of the French Navy, commissioned in 1865 and lost in 1882. To my knowledge, she did not have an officer by the name of Raoul de Chagny.
Thank you for reading, and please review.
