A/N—In which they argue through the mirror

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.

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A Second Chance

Chapter 8

Copyright 2003, 2004, 2016 by Riene

Night has gone without my tears
Now I walk alone
You're no longer here
The days turn to years

I could never say goodbye
To the sadness in my eyes
You know you are in my heart
But the miles keep us apart

Time moves slow
In the falling rain
I still dream of you
And whisper your name
Will I see you once again?

I could never say goodbye
To the sadness in my eyes
You know you are in my heart
But the miles keep us apart

I could never say goodbye…

I Could Never Say Goodbye

Enya, Dark Sky Island


The next morning dawned bright, a sunny spring day for the entire cast to assemble. Freshly-completed backdrops hung drying, swaying slightly in the breeze of open doorways, showing scenes of a Mediterranean village, a town center, an open plaza with crumbling walls and the sea beyond. The initial stage set was under construction now, high mock-walls with gateway arches in a style that couldn't quite decide if it were Greek, Persian, or Medieval. Moorish, maybe? Christine wondered as she dodged a rack of costumes and a scurrying wardrobe assistant. From a distance she could hear M Reyer's raised voice berating a tardy musician.

Christine stopped briefly by the office and then her dressing room before exiting through the side doors to hail a cab. The horses were fresh and glossy; the trip to the estate agent took only a few minutes.

She was ushered in to a pleasant sunlit room and seated courteously. The young man behind the desk greeted her with a warm smile.

"Mlle Daae, it is a pleasure meet you. How might we be of service?"

"You as well, Monsieur." Christine handed him the letter of notice and waited while he glanced through it.

"I am sorry for your troubles," he said, frowning. "We have few properties available right now, and rooms for someone such as yourself will be somewhat difficult," he told her honestly. "What are your specific needs, and when must you be out of your present lodgings?"

Christine defined her few requirements and requests while the agent duly took notes on a piece of foolscap. He read them back to her for confirmation, and quoted price ranges. "We will do our best, Mlle Daae, but it may well be a few weeks. There are many people needing new lodgings now."

She rose gracefully to her feet. "Thank you, M Fournier."

"The pleasure is mine, Mlle Daae, and I hope to have the privilege of seeing you on stage again soon. We'll find something for you quickly, I hope." He brushed her fingers with his lips, and with a charming smile, Christine departed.


If one knew where to press with both a foot and hand simultaneously, the left-side panel behind the support column near Box Five would release with a soft click. Behind it was a very narrow brick conduit with metal bars set into the wall. A child could scale it easily, as could a slim and agile man. The panel had tiny holes drilled into it, holes that blended into the decorative pattern and nearly impossible to see, really, through which one might observe. The conduit descended into utter darkness, and only one man knew where it led.

The Opera Ghost slipped noiselessly from the opening, emerging behind the muffling folds of heavy draperies. The cast was slowly assembling below on stage, the new basse waving his arms energetically to warm up, Gabrielle Krauss speaking in her rich voice to the director, Léon Melchissédec and Mlle Janvier chatting on the side. Behind the mask his frown deepened. The understudy was nervously singing a scale, her voice an affront to his sensitive ears. Where was Christine?

Irritably, he maneuvered through various passageways until he could stand behind the mirror. The dressing room lay darkened and silent. Deftly Erik released the catch and stepped hesitantly into the dim chamber. The faintest trace of familiar perfume hung in the air, a discarded glove drooped on the chest, a small package from a millinery shop lay tipped on the chaise, spilling azure ribbons from their wrapping. She had been here recently. Slowly he turned, surveying the room. A letter lay on the dressing table, bearing firm curved writing and foreign stamps. Erik reached for it and held it disdainfully between his long fingers before casting it back down. That boy again.

The Opera Ghost slipped back through the mirror to wait.


The rosy dawn had become a pleasant sunny morning when Christine emerged back on the rue de Condorcet. Another cab took her quickly back to the rue des Mathurins café. There was long enough before rehearsal for a quick bun and café au lait.

Returning to the Opera, she found the backstage in a minor uproar over missing props. Christine paused in the hallway, asking a passing stagehand about the turmoil.

"I do not know, Mlle Daae," he said unhappily. "We locked up everything last night as usual, but this morning the room was open and several things are missing. M Giraudet's cape and hat, a pair of boots, and," he jerked his head in the direction of the shouting, "Sr. Bartoldi's sword and belt. It's almost as if someone was trying to make a costume for themselves out of pieces. Well," he grimaced, "perhaps they will turn up."

"I hope so," she said sympathetically, and they parted.

The young singer shut the door behind her, dropping the key in her handbag and tossing it on the chaise. She frowned. There was some indefinable difference in the room, the faint but familiar smells of smoke and sandalwood. She turned to stare into the mirror.

"Erik? Are you there?" The silence stretched on, and after a minute Christine turned away.

"Why did you not tell me your lover had gone?"

Her letter lay open on the dresser. Christine's lips tightened and she turned back. "So you were here. Why are you reading my private correspondence?" she said coldly. "It is not your business."

"Everything in the Opera is my business," he snapped. "You did not attend rehearsal this morning."

The day, which had started out pleasantly, was rapidly becoming stressful. Christine pressed her fingertips to her temples. "I was unaware I had to account to you for my every moment," she said acerbically. "As it happens, I had an appointment."

"An appointment?"

"Yes." She glared at the mirror. Arguing with someone you couldn't see was somehow doubly infuriating. She could sense his antagonism.

"And who is this Luigi Bartoldi?"

Irritably, Christine pushed back her hair from her face. "He is the new lead tenor, from somewhere in Italy. He's incredibly good-looking; the managers are counting on him to bring back the crowds once we re-open."

Behind the mirror, Erik flinched.

"You will have as little to do with him as possible."

"Believe, me, I don't want to have anything to do with him!" she snapped. "When he touches me all I feel is loathing!"

"He touches you?" She heard the rising anger in his tone.

"Yes," she said with shudder. "From the first scene in Zamora. It's choreographed that way, but he is…impolite."

There was a sound of footsteps in the corridor outside and both fell silent. After a long pause, Christine turned back to the mirror. "Now, please go," she said tiredly. "I have rehearsal this afternoon and must change."

"As you wish," he hissed. She felt, rather than heard, the snap of fabric as he spun on his heel and left.

Exasperated, Christine shook her head and retreated behind the paneled changing screen, rapidly undoing buttons, her thoughts racing ahead. Yesterday's sitzprobe and blocking had gone very well; today was full rehearsal. There was barely time to change into costume and warm up.

Stalking the back corridors, the Opera Ghost plotted the myriad ways in which Sr Bartoldi could find himself permanently removed from the Opera.


"What, what is this commotion?" M. Dumont emerged from his office, with enraged eyebrows.

"Some of the props and costumes are missing, sir," stammered a stagehand.

Charles Dumont rolled his eyes. "Merde. And what is his problem?" he gestured to where Sr. Bartoldi was stamped and shouting.

"He does not have a sword with which to perform," Léon Melchissédec said blandly. Across the room, Christine met Meg's shocked eyes, then the little ballerina's shoulders began shaking as titters swept through the corps.

"Oh? I am sorry to hear that," said M Dumont dryly, but a corner of his mouth twitched in amusement. "He will just have to persevere. We must get on with the rehearsal. Places!"

Cast and crew quickly went to position; M Reyer awaited impatiently with the choir looking for the signal to begin.

At last the curtain rose, the choir raised their voices, and Luigi and Christine sang of their love. Horns announced the arrival of the Arabic delegation, and M Lassalle entered from stage left dramatically demanding the annual tribute levy of one hundred virgins. Christine and Adelina Janvier clasped hands, fearful, then Christine squared her shoulders and sang to the others of the historic battle and the bravery of the men. M Lassalle walked around her appraisingly and declared his own love for such a beautiful and brave woman. Luigi struck a dramatic pose between them, declaring his intent to marry Xaima. M Lassalle smiled and threatened him to not be so confident. Christine and Luigi bravely sang their duet on their future intentions. M. Giraudet strode in, and upon hearing of the situation, declared that twenty of the virgins must be delivered to him that same day. Adelina and Christine were among the chosen and led away, Luigi and the supporting male cast were chased away, singing their national anthem.

All in all, the rehearsal went well with only minor repositioning and lighting adjustments. The principals were released for the remainder of the afternoon and told to prepare for Act II tomorrow. Christine and Luigi were sent to the company artist to begin the initial designs of the promotional paintings. A photographer was there as well and impatiently positioned them, barking orders at the lighting technician, muttering about shadows as he took a series of photos while the resident artist sketched rapidly. Once finished M Valerian had them pose together and apart, and against different stage pieces.

"So, who were you talking to in your dressing room before rehearsal, bellissima?" Luigi murmured in her ear.

Christine jumped and the artist glowered at them. "Hold still, please."

"No one," she hissed. "You are imagining things."

"I think not," he chuckled, "and I will find out, cara mia." She sat rigidly as he caressed her back.

"I think these will do," the artist said cheerfully, at last laying aside his tools. "I'll have the drafts by Monday, so please do come by and view them."

Luigi smiled, revealing too many teeth. "I will most certainly be by to, how you say, keep an eye on things. Addio!" He swept from the room, leaving Christine staring after him, troubled.

Avoiding her dressing room and annoyed with Erik's obdurate mood, she stopped by the office of M. Geyer, the choir director and company voice coach. He was a small, balding, rotund man, and his face registered surprise at his unexpected guest.

"Mlle Daae, how might I be of service?" he asked.

"I'm sorry to bother you, M Geyer," she said, touching her throat. "One of the phrases in Xaima's songs is somewhat low for me and I don't wish to strain my voice. Have you any advice?"

He frowned. "We don't need that. Let me hear you…perhaps I can suggest something." She stepped into the office.


Returning from errands, the Opera Ghost slipped into a passage that ran behind the storerooms. There was always a danger of being seen here, as the employees rushed about from the prop rooms to workshops to the costume department to the stage.

…and then he heard her voice, her lovely pure soprano rising from one of the small practice rooms on the second floor, followed by that of M Geyer. Erik froze in disbelief. Christine sang the stanza again…they were working on her lower range. Shaken, he stood and listened. That she would turn to another teacher… Somehow it felt like the basest of betrayals.


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