A/N—I seem to have found a glimmer of my muse and am revisiting this story. Chapter Five received some revisions, so you might wish to re-read it. Or all of it, for that matter, as it's been twelve years since the last update… This begins Part 2 of the story.

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, Paris, music, religion, military history, and the French and Farsi languages are unfortunately mine, and for that, I do apologize.

Please read and review.

A Second Chance

Chapter 6

Copyright 2003, 2004, 2016 by Riene

Angel Eyes

Look into his angel eyes
One look and you're hypnotized
He'll take your heart and you must pay the price.
Look into his angel eyes
You'll think you're in paradise
And one day you'll find out he wears a disguise…
Don't look too deep into those angel eyes.
Oh no no no no

Sometimes when I'm lonely I sit and think about him
And it hurts to remember all the good times
When I thought I could never live without him
And I wonder-does it have to be the same?
Every time when I see him, will it bring back all the pain?
Ah-ha-ha, how can I forget that name?

Look into his angel eyes
One look and you're hypnotized
He'll take your heart and you must pay the price.
Look into his angel eyes
You'll think you're in paradise
And one day you'll find out he wears a disguise…
Don't look too deep into those angel eyes.

Crazy but he saved your life…

ABBA 1979


Fueled by a white fury, he strode through the corridors, clammy with the late season damp. The cold bit into his hands, causing them to throb with ache and he thrust them beneath his armpits in irritation.

Had her dressing room always been this far? Eddies of dust swirled about his feet and he suppressed a cough. Tiny knives sent rivulets of pain across his partially healed ribs, and he stumbled, cursing aloud the rough stones, and then cursed again his lack of control. Finally, the dim pool of light that indicated her dressing room came into view. He stared in outrage—she had partially covered the mirror—his mirror!—with a Turkish shawl.

"No!" his voice rang out, filling the tiny room. "Did I teach you nothing?" Startled, Christine whirled, dropping the folio and he took a quick malicious pleasure in her discomfort as she stooped to hastily gather the scattered ivory pages.

Finally, she stood, facing the mirror where so many times his voice had called to her. "Erik?" she breathed, clutching the crimson sheaf of music to her wildly beating heart.

But silence stretched out, and she risked another uncertain question.

"Erik, can I not see you, will you not come in?"

"You have seen enough of me," he snapped at last, pacing the corridor. "I am not here for a social call."

"But why, then? Oh, Erik, you startled me so," Christine laughed weakly, dropping down on the chaise and trying to regain some composure. "Was it my singing?"

"Singing? Is that what you call it?" He glowered at her from behind the mirror, chafing his hands in the biting cold of the passageway, rubbing the swollen joints and pulling them straight. "No-it is because I cannot bear to see so fine an instrument ruined," he snarled. "You should not have sung without any preparation!"

She flushed and carefully laid the folio face-downward on the chaise. Weeks of silence, and he only came to berate her idle attempt at the music? Christine raised her chin and said levelly, "What do you want, Erik? I cannot believe you have come all the way up here just to tell me how poor you think my singing." She gestured contemptuously at the pages. "I only received this today; I was merely glancing through it."

"It shows," he snapped. "You must give every effort, make every effort as if it is a performance! You are better than this!"

Christine faced the mirror. "Then show me."

Silence stretched out, long minutes in which she wondered if he were still there, an unseen presence glowering at her from behind the mirror. She reached out and removed the Turkish shawl. "Erik?"

"Show me the music."

"Very well." Silently she held each page of the score against the mirror, briefly, knowing he was able to memorize it quickly.

"Now, sing for me, from the A," he said impatiently.

Smothering a smile, Christine obediently faced the mirror.

She dared mock him? Erik's anger, fueled by pain, soared. "You may belong to him, but your voice is MINE," he roared. "I will not lose that! You will sing for ME."

Terrified now, remembering only too well his mercurial temper, Christine staggered back as if from a physical blow and began to weep.

Filled with self-loathing at his loss of control, Erik spun and smashed his fist into the brick wall, feeling the half-healed bones shatter, welcoming the pain that obliterated thoughts like a searing wall of fire. Would he never do anything but hurt her?


Light flickered faintly under the door to the dressing room at the long end of the corridor. Mme Giry stopped, her eyes narrowing. Why was Christine still here? The evening was well advanced, soon cabs would be too scarce to catch, to return her to the small house where she seemed to spend so little time. Softly, Adele walked toward the door, and placing her hand on the doorknob, hesitated. Voices, from within. Christine's, caught in a sob, and a deeper voice. She could not understand the words, but the tone was clear. She stood frozen to the spot. That voice, harsh but unmistakably that of Erik, the phantom, the ghost of the opera. It was impossible that it could be so, and yet…

Slowly, Adele Giry backed away, her thoughts whirling, the implications of Erin's continued presence staggering. He was alive? How had that happened? She crossed the darkened hallways and once downstairs unlocked the small room, an alcove, really, that served as her office and made tea with unsteady hands. It was not until the latch clicked that she was aware she had company.

Erik stood by the door, in the shadows, a thin black kidskin mask now covering his entire face, his dark eyes glittering with malice.

"Eavesdropping, my dear Adele?"

She winced at the rasp in his once-beautiful voice and mopped at the spilled tea.

"Why are you here, Erik. We thought you dead. You could have informed me you'd survived."

"For all intents and purposes, I am dead," he said bitterly.

"They found a body in the Seine, wearing your clothing, in the debris."

"Convenient, wasn't it?" he sneered. "As you can see, I survived."

"But not well, I think," Adele said quietly, watching as Erik limped forward and painfully settled in a chair, cradling one hand.

"Spare me your concern," he spat. "Why were you listening at the door?"

Adele's brown eyes snapped. "I saw the light and went to check on her. It is late, the streets are dark, she should not be alone. I look upon her as a daughter, as you well know."

Erik's eyes glinted behind the mask. "I saw her to a cab myself. You need not concern yourself with her tonight."

Adele Giry leaned back in her chair, cradling the porcelain cup in her hands. "Then what of you, mon vieil ami?"

"It is none of your concern."

"The Opera is my concern. The ballet, Meg, and yes, Christine are my concern. The new production is my concern, and we do not need any interference."

She knew as the words fell she'd gone too far. Erik's black eyes blazed.

"Enough!"

They glared across the desk before Mme Giry's shoulders sagged and she sat back. "I am sorry, Erik. I am only concerned for you," she said quietly. "You must not be seen or heard. There are still those who ask too many questions."


Les petite rats clustered about him, listening intently.

"Oh, of course I know La Carlotta," Luigi said, smirking. "She was, how you say, my patroness back in the old country. I was but a young boy, a very young boy," he emphasized, "and she taught me…many things." He licked his thick, sensual lips suggestively and the girls twittered.

Crack! A heavy cane came down like thunder from Olympus and the girls leapt to their feet. "It is time for rehearsal" Mme Giry's cool voice cut across the hastily suppressed snickers. With rolling eyes the girls followed, little Jammes impudently sticking her tongue out at Madame's retreating back. Luigi caught her hand.

"Oh, you are the daring one, are you not," he laughed wickedly. "You must be punished." His hand came down in a mock slap on little Jammes' firm derriere. "You I will buy a glass of cassis for after the Opening Night."

She pulled from his grasp, giggling, and twitched her skirts at him before scampering away after the other dancers. Luigi watched her go with a leer then sauntered off in the direction of the stage.

High above, a blackness detached itself from the shadows. Little Jammes was no concern of his; the chit was well able to watch after herself. But if he dared lay a hand on Christine…. The Opera Ghost's hands clenched.


Outside the carriage, the rain outside fell with a vengeance, the sullen rains of spring where the rivers rose and the Seine flooded. The water level beneath the Opera House would rise from the seeping of groundwater and the lake would become impassable. It was a dangerous time, she remembered. Floods had more than once damaged his home or trapped him below ground. Passing the Rue Scribe entrance, Christine resolutely turned her head. Rehearsal began today; she would not be distracted.

Inside the doors the familiar sights and sounds of pre-production chaos assailed her senses. People rushed madly about, the smell of plaster dust, freshly sawn wood, and paint permeated the air. Passing the studio entrance, she heard Madame Giry's exasperated voice through the open door of the practice room, scolding the dancers at the rehearsal of the Danse grecque

"…no line whatsoever! Giselle, Martine, what were you doing? Zelie, you are a slug! Artémise, Berthe, you are too slow! Here is where you must be! Again, from the top! Commencer!" Remembering all too well, Christine ducked her head and hurried onward.

Her insistence in keeping the small, awkwardly located dressing room had caused no small amount of consternation. It was beneath her new role as first lady of the Opera, the managers had insisted, but Christine had demurred and in the end, baffled by her refusal to move, they let it be. Only her dresser still complained about the distance.

Christine shut the door behind her with relief and hung up the long poplin coat and new hat with its flat sides and tipped upward brim and glanced in the mirror. The blue day dress complimented her eyes. Moving a gold-tasseled cushion away, she sat and began unbuttoning her wet, fawn-colored boots. The seamstress would be here at some point soon to take measurements for Xaima's costume, what there was of it, and she was always snappish when kept waiting.

Christine gazed around the small space with pleasure. Hers, one of the last rooms slated for reconstruction, had finally been completed last month. The opulent red and pink neo-baroque furnishings and colors were gone, replaced by a classically inspired white, green, and gold toile wallpaper. There was little furniture as of yet, a dressing-table, chaise, changing screen, and chest, but Christine had placed her few things about the room, small portraits or her father, her mother, and Raoul, a few favorite books, her last pair of toe shoes, a silver hairbrush. This morning a decanter of water and vase of fresh flowers had been added, with a note from the managers welcoming everyone back. Emerging from behind the screen, Christine tied the belt of her dressing gown and waited.


The attack began as it always did, a stabbing pain behind his damaged right eye, rapidly obliterating sight. The metallic tang of nausea rose and he staggered toward the basin, retching. The headaches, always intense, had become more frequent since the attack, a throbbing only morphine could dim. Morphine he must forgo, lest he jeopardize his safety to the control of a procurer. Erik felt the numbness grow down his face, with the ringing dizziness, and stumbled. The rushing pain pulled him down.


The ensemble had gathered in a side room. Coolly, Christine acknowledged Luigi Bartoldi, then turned to greet with pleasure the rest of the cast. Gabrielle Krauss, who would play Hermosa, Xaima's insane mother, was a charming woman in her mid-forties with two decades of experience. M. Lassalle would have the role of Ben-Saïd, the leader of an Arabic delegation to the village. There were new people, a Mlle Janvier who would play her friend Iglésia, and a M. Giraudet, a large and impressive basse who would play the king. Léon Melchissédec, an old acquaintance from prior performances, kissed her hand with a smile and flourish, and Christine happily found a seat, feeling that she had returned amongst old friends.

The director swept in, depositing a pile of complete librettos on the table. Christine observed him with interest, for he had been busy elsewhere on her last visit. Wiry, thin, and possessed by restless energy, he was an attractive young man with waving brown hair and blue eyes.

"I'm Charles Dumont," he said, extending a hand and Christine smiled up into his eyes. "I'm glad to meet you, Mlle Daae. Now, if everyone is here, let's get to work."

They read through the first scenes together, the director listening to their voices with his head cocked to one side, moving around the room to observe them from all sides.

"Good, good, now let us go out to the stage and I will see you. There is some question of the placement of that wall, and I wish to see you there before a decision is made."

He shooed the principals out the door quickly, explaining on the way where he wanted them positioned. Hands flying, he stalked about the stage, explaining the initial blocking.

"Ben-Saïd, you will enter stage left with your company, to demand a tribute for your king. Xaima, you are here, Manoel, behind her, supporting her. You don't want Ben-Saïd to claim her or even see her." Luigi stepped forward, wrapping his arms tightly around Christine.

"No no, Sr. Bartoldi, like this, just an arm, your hand here," corrected M. Dumont. Luigi squeezed her arm tightly before letting go, and Christine shot him a surprised look. Standing slightly behind her, she could feel his hot breath on her neck, and then, unmistakably, his lips.

With an outraged exclamation, Christine twisted in his grip and glared. "Stop that." Luigi merely smiled and the director scowled.

"Mlle Daae?"

She shook her head, not wanting to cause a problem, and heard his soft laughter. The next time she was ready for him, and as his hand skimmed over her breast, she brought her left foot down hard on his instep, hearing his hissing intake of breath.

"So that's how you like it?" he murmured, touching her neck before moving off to one side. Christine grimaced. He was not the first man she'd encountered who seemed to think all women were his for the taking. She'd be damned if he was going to get away with it.