A/N—In which we have a busy weekend….

a)}—'-,- Roses to Mominator and qwertzuiop4 for their deeply appreciated reviews of Chp 10!

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 please review.

A Second Chance

Chapter 11

Copyright 2003, 2004, 2016 by Riene

To replenish the supply of coal for his fires was a lengthy and exhausting task, but a necessary one, for the rooms below were chill and damp even in the height of summer. Erik had long since fashioned a wooden yoke of sorts to spread the weight of the coalscuttles, such as the kind the peasants used to bring in buckets of milk or other stuffs. Nonetheless, the yoke was painfully heavy across his shoulders and healing ribs. He saved these errands for the days when the Opera was empty, silent, and he could be assured of a trip to the coal room near the boilers uninterrupted.

This early morning was no exception. The great boilers, whose steam heated the many rooms of the Opera House, were silent, the firemen absent, their fires banked until the start of the next week. Erik filled the buckets again, then fastidiously wiped the smudges from his fingers. Shouldering the yoke, he winced at the twinge from the broken arm and eased it straighter. The fastest way back to the lair was through the staircases and corridors, but with the heavy scuttles he would be far too visible.

Behind and below the great machinery of the theatre ran a corridor wide enough to accommodate the yoke, though Erik took great care the scuttles did not strike the walls. This was one of the more dangerous routes, for some of the laborers who worked in the lower levels would occasionally use this passage for a shorter route. The chances were slim today, though, that he might encounter anyone.

He was on a return trip when that prediction proved mistaken. Ahead of him was a muffled figure, walking slowly, carrying a small lantern. Erik pressed into the shadows, watching, as the man raised the lantern every few feet, tapping, pressing on the walls. Christine's words came back to him; this must be Luigi. He was searching the old tunnel…looking for other passageways.


Some distance from the Opera House, in a flat on the Rue Notre Dame des Victoires, Christine carried her cup of tea into the parlor and pulled up a small footstool, leaning back in the worn chair. The front room was shabby, the wallpaper graying, the carpets faded. Soon it would no longer matter, she thought sadly. It was to these rooms Professor Valerius had brought her after the death of her father to live under the careful supervision of his wife, a care that had deepened into genuine affection from the elderly lady. The last few months had been too silent, too lonely without her gentle presence. Christine pulled the shawl around her shoulders and sipped the tea absently. The cousin would be here in a few weeks to remove the remaining furniture and soon the building itself would no longer exist. She sat the empty cup on the end table and listlessly wandered through the rooms. Though she knew she needed a respite from the busy days at the Opera, this heavy empty silence felt oppressive.

She should probably begin to pack away her few possessions. The portraits of her parents and the Valeriuses could be wrapped and stowed in her trunk. The cousin had generously offered her anything she wished, but there was little here, save her own bedroom suite. With no rooms of her own, where to store the few pieces and boxes would be a concern. Frowning thoughtfully the young singer rose, determined to renew the search for new accommodations. There must without doubt be someplace for working women in Paris to live.

The little flat took only minutes to tidy. Resolutely Christine turned her thoughts into more pragmatic lines. There was a certain amount of shopping to do, then perhaps she would visit Meg. The day was growing sunny; a walk in the Bois with her friend might be possible. Surely between the two of them they could come up with a plan.


Luigi had paid a long overdue visit to La Carlotta earlier in the week. She had been surprised and not quite pleased to be reminded of their "old friendship," he had noted maliciously. Carlotta was "resting" and mourning the loss of her lover Piangi, rumor had it. He had taken time to purchase two gifts, an expensive bottle of wine and another of gin. The investment proved worth the effort; the liquor and a promise to champion her return with the managers had loosened her tongue. Carlotta was only too happy to pass on spiteful comments about Christine, which he carefully memorized for later, and information about the Opera Ghost.

The maidservant had ushered him into her boudoir, a suffocating room of pink and tassels, with two fat spoiled dogs that sniffed indiscreetly and growled whenever he moved. He declined tea and coffee, but accepted a glass of the gin, pretending to drink as she sank further down the chaise.

He had come away from the visit with several interesting bits of gossip. Christine was rumored to have been the lover of the Opera Ghost, causing the young Vicomte to have broken their engagement. The building was said to be riddled with secret passageways, and the Ghost was said to have hidden a fortune in its walls, money that had been extorted from the managers. The Ghost was dead, a madman, it had turned out, insane and hideously deformed, his body found floating in the Seine last winter. The reign of tricks and terror was over.

Carlotta had been well into her cups when he left; he doubted she would remember much of their conversation, which suited his purposes well. In the days after he had provided himself with a crowbar and lantern. A brief sojourn to the third level had proven indeed that the route the mob had taken to the lake and portcullis gate was impassable now, long sealed with brick and mortar, and he had quietly begun other explorations after hours.

Christine's dressing room was always locked, but his brief glimpses into it had revealed nothing obvious beyond its odd location at the end of the corridor. He had approached Box 5 warily, eyeing the wooden door and its single round glass window with almost superstitious care, but it too had proven disappointing. The anteroom held nothing but flocked red wallpaper, a hat shelf and coat hooks, and a spare chair against one wall. The box itself was ordinary, with two red velvet armchairs and two other red chairs behind them. The carved marble colonnade could possibly be wide enough to hold a very small man, but try as he might, he could not find anything that indicated an opening. It sounded dull to the touch, nothing more than what it was.

Baffled and irritated, he slipped to the cellars and began exploring. The theater itself was vast, the building immense. Searching all of the odd corridors, rotundas, halls, rehearsal rooms, mechanical rooms, workshops, prop storage, costume areas, studios…it would take weeks, possibly months, but Luigi had an arrogant confidence in his abilities. He would find another route below, search for the riches, develop his own hiding place, and then see what other ideas and plans might arrive.


Their game concluded, Nadir carried his mint tea closer to the library music room fire as Erik folded the chessboard into its case. "I thank you for the gift, doost man," he said formally, and Nadir waved a hand negligibly.

"It does better here, as you will not visit me on the Rue de Rivoli for a game, and besides, Darius lets me win."

"I did not let you win," Erik said sourly, and Khan smiled, raising his cup.

"I have the advantage of you."

Irritably, Erik flung himself down in his seat and swallowed the last of the brandy. "I am not drunk. I am well aware of my limits, and unfortunately am nowhere near them."

"You should not imbibe, Erik," the Persian chastised.

"Allah has no intention of allowing me into Paradise, so why should I deny myself the comfort now?" he said shortly.

Nadir sighed and crunched a sugar lump in his teeth.

"Speaking of vices…"

Nadir inclined his head with a smile. "Touché."

"How fares Darius?"

"Mourning the lack of a swift horse and a willing maiden." Erik allowed himself a wolfish smile as Khan leaned back and grimaced at the ceiling. "We are getting old, my friend. There is a time I would have ridden with him."

Erik raised an eyebrow. "Nothing stops you now."

"He says the hunting here is not good. I have offered many times to send him home, but he says he prefers to stay, as you and I would surely starve."

Erik swirled the dregs in the glass absently. "He is undoubtedly correct."

The Persian rose to refill his tea, and frowning, stooped and lifted an object from the sideboard. He held out the glove, accusingly. "You are seeing her again, Erik?!" his voice rang with disbelief.

Erik looked away. "She has been here only twice, and it is my own business what I do with my life!" he snapped.

"You are a fool, Erik! What will it cost you this time?" the Persian threw the glove down upon the seat. "What do you expect will come of this?"

"You forget yourself, Daroga," Erik snarled, the dull glow of the coals lighting his eyes to a crimson blaze, and the Persian made an involuntary sign against evil, taking a step backwards before he forced himself to stop, and modified his tone.

"Erik, this is beneath you. Pursue her or take her—there is no other way for a man to act."

"Am I a man, Nadir, or a monster?" he said bitterly. "I have existed in this half-hell so long I do not even know."

Nadir Khan grasped his upper arm, his eyes troubled. "Erik, you must let her go. There are other women."

"Not for me. She is my world."


One thousand miles away, a young naval officer leaned against the railings, gazing across the wine-dark sea. Far to the south one could almost make out lights of the coastline. The Mediterranean breeze was cool at night and he was grateful for the warmth of the wool pea coat. The night had a music of its own, he mused, listening to the thrum of the ship's engines below deck, the susurration of the waves along the hull, and the singing of the wires in the rigging. From inside the bridge the ship's brass bells chimed the hour and he counted them without thinking. Seven bells, deep in the night shift. He turned and began another slow circle of the deck. It was his habit to patrol the ship several times during his watch, and his knew the men had silently noted the young officer who could climb rigging and wasn't afraid to lend a hand with ropes or chains.

The breeze blew salt spray against his face on the port side. Somewhere in that direction was France, home and Christine. Reverently he touched the dainty lace-edged handkerchief folded into the breast pocket of his under linen. Many of the men displayed tokens from wives, girlfriends, lovers, but Raoul preferred to hold the small piece of cambric silently close over his heart.

Her voice, her image rose again before him, standing beside the captain's daughter on the docks that last morning, waving to him, her great blue eyes filled with tears. They had parted with no promises, but he knew that when he returned he would ask this girl to be his wife, family be damned. Philippe was the elder brother; he would inherit the vast sprawling Chagny estates and business dealings. There were other properties in the family, but if Philippe would spare none of them, then so be it. Raoul was a career naval officer with a salary and future, should he choose to remain in the service. Christine had a salary as well; surely between the two of them they would be able to find a house near the dockyards, near the other naval families. Perhaps she would even continue to sing in some local church. There might be children one day, a golden glowing future. Smiling to himself, Raoul again began to circle the deck. The wind was picking up, perhaps he would stop by the galley. Surely there would be coffee somewhere.


Could I ask for a favor? I'd love to see some reviews for this story. The hit counts are in the thousands but very few people leave reviews. I'm not sure if you're liking it or just think it's "okay"...and I'd love to have some feedback. :)

A/N
doost man-"my friend"