A/N—in which tragedy happens…
a)}—'-,- Roses to Crystalline44, Kenj3732, Mominator124, Anna, and KitKat for their deeply appreciated reviews of Chp 11!
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 12
Copyright 2003, 2004, 2016 by Riene
Vows
If I could give you peace,
bring comfort to your pain,
hold you in my arms –
I would.
If I could make you smile,
embrace you with my love
and keep you safe –
I would.
If I could touch your soul,
make all your darkness yield
to everlasting light –
I would.
And if you will share my life,
loving me with trusting heart,
in sickness as in health,
I can.
Kerry Brennan, Canadian poet
28 Dec, 2003
The afternoon clouds pressed lower, heavy with rain, dull and grey as her thoughts. A cup of coffee sat untouched before her, cold now, as Christine stared blindly toward the boulevard, her mind too numb to think.
"I see you've had the news." Philippe's harsh voice cut across her own misery.
Even if he had not seen L'Époque beside her, the singer's eyes, reddened from weeping, would have given him all the answer needed.
Christine raised a ravaged face. "What is your business here, Comte de Chagny?"
Good, she would not be hysterical. How he despised emotional women. Heavily, he sat across from her, placing his hat in his lap.
"When our father died," he began abruptly, "he divided the estate among us." Christine stared, not comprehending. "When my brother got engaged, he insisted upon settling a small amount on you. I advised against it, but he wanted you 'provided for' should anything happen to him. Which it apparently has," he added grimly.
Fresh tears welled up in her eyes, but she said nothing and he continued. "The bulk of his share reverts to the estate, of course," he said smoothly, "but I am prepared to sign over that amount to you, provided you sign a document swearing you have no other claim on his estate or our family. Do you agree?"
"Yes," she said dully.
He rose. "Very well. I will have the papers drawn up. Our advocat will be in contact with your soon." He stood looking down on her. "But for you this would never have happened. Au revoir, Mlle Daae."
You are drinking too much, Erik. The Persian's voice whispered in his mind, and irritably he dismissed the warning. Morning or night, what did it matter in the darkness? Contenting himself with only two fingers of brandy, the man beneath the Opera House stared moodily into the fire.
Her patron. The idea, once planted, took root and grew in his mind. It was not uncommon, even somewhat expected in their world of theater and music. Idly, he indulged the fantasy. What would it be like to wrap her in soft brown furs, to drape gold and sapphires blue as her eyes around her slender neck? Would she still shudder at his cold touch? What would it be like, to have her walk on his arm and visit her in the daylight?
The Opera Ghost smiled wryly, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. Christine would not consent. She had never taken so much as a silver hairbrush or pair of gloves from the lair to the world above. How could I explain where it came from? she'd said reasonably, when pressed. During her increasingly rare visits the previous winter, she had sometimes worn the exquisite clinging tea gowns and slippers he had procured for her, but always refused gently to take them. And yet he had not been able to resist buying lovely things for her on his rare forays to the outside world of Paris streets.
With the last swallow burning his throat, Erik, wincing, began to slowly, carefully put his body through the drill movements of the Mazanderan guard. He felt stronger today, no longer coughing up blood, and the walls of the dungeon were oppressive. Perhaps he would go out. But first, some research on the third level was in order.
As much as he loathed the interference in his building, Erik found the installation of the electrical apparatus fascinating, studying it after hours when the workmen had gone. Surely those bare wires were a fire hazard? The destruction of his house had badly damaged the gas lines and he had sealed them off to prevent a possible leak. Dying crushed under the stones of the Opera House might be a fitting end, he thought dryly, but he feared a lingering death. Thoughtfully he loosened the delicate connections, wondering if it were possible to bleed off enough current to light his own home again. Pondering this, he went to search out the workmen's supplies. In lieu of a month's salary, perhaps a little pilfering might be permitted…
The tinkling bell announced his arrival and an answering thump nearby told him his presence had not gone unnoticed. With a throaty miaou the dark grey cat wound herself sensuously around his ankles. Thin lips quirked into a rare smile as Erik lifted her into his arms.
"Hello Duchess," he teased her gently, caressing the cat's soft fur and elegant cheekbones. Her great green eyes squeezed shut and she lay bonelessly purring in his arms. "How are you today, mmm?" Her paws kneaded the black wood coat in contentment.
There was a chuckle and tapping from the room beyond. "She is well, thank you, Monsieur Erik. Greetings." A man of perhaps his own age moved slowly around the stacks and shelves of books, one hand feeling his way to the stool before him. The cruel irony of a sightless bookseller was not lost on the crippled musician.
He allowed the cat to slip onto the counter, where she curled lazily, watching them. "Greetings, M. Delacroix. How did you know it was me?"
He turned cloudy eyes in the direction of Erik's voice. "I know everyone's voice and footsteps, good sir, and it is only for you that Musette will purr. What may I do for you today?"
"Electricity. I seek whatever information you have or can find for me."
Paul Delacroix inclined his head, considering. "Shelf 47, I believe." Though blind, he seemed to know every volume on the shelves. The bookstore had been his pride before the Franco-Prussian war, now it served as a refuge. He collected books and resold them, a son and daughter helping to arrange and organize the inventory or make deliveries.
His visitor moved off nearly soundlessly, his usual silent footsteps accompanied by a soft tapping. The bookseller turned his head, listening. A walking stick, perhaps? For some years this man had been an infrequent but always polite patron, paying promptly, always arriving quite late in the evenings. His taste in books ranged from poetry to medicine to sciences, occasionally novels or history. Once he had purchased reading matter for a woman, a wife perhaps, but the bookseller had never inquired. The man paid well for the volumes, not for questions.
Erik returned with a stack of books, treatises, periodicals, and journals. "These, I think, and if you would, please wrap them well. It looks to rain outside." He stood, waiting patiently, as the bookseller felt the items, counting in his head, and quoted a price, then deftly felt for string and brown paper, stacking and wrapping the books neatly.
Erik laid a twenty-franc note on the table, pushing it toward the bookseller's hand.
"I thank you, sir. Good evening."
"Gone before getting his change, like always," muttered the bookseller, shaking his head. "I hope he takes care and does not harm himself with that electricity."
Always attuned to the nuances of the vast building, Erik was aware of a certain heightened tension and undercurrent of subdued chatter amongst the people inhabiting the Opera upon his return. Outside thunder crackled again as the wind picked up and dashed rain against the windows, adding to the tension. Leaving the package of books underground, he ascended the hidden passages to listen, puzzled at the change. It was not until he heard Christine's name that the curiosity became concern. Risking greatly, he crossed the silent halls to the second level, where light spilled from a partially closed door. Pausing long enough only to listen for voices, Erik slipped inside the room. Meg spun on one foot, her face anxious and draining of color at the sight of their sudden visitor.
"Mamman, you knew?" she gasped incredulously, for her mother was looking up, her face falling into lines of relief.
"Erik. Thank God. We are so worried. You've heard the news, I expect." His black eyes were piercing. When Erik shook his head, she handed him the newspaper silently. The headline seemed to scream out its contents.
He looked up. "This was the Vicomte's ship, was it not?" he asked harshly.
Meg nodded, teary. "Poor Christine. It's all too horrible."
"Erik, have you seen her? Christine? She has not been here all day, nor is she at home," Adele Giry asked worriedly. "We are quite concerned for her."
"No," he said quietly. "I have no idea of her location, but I will search for her."
Adele Giry nodded, her eyes suddenly old. "If you find her, please send word."
He paced the floor, mind racing. She had not been to her dressing room or home.
He could think of only one other place where she might be found, a place she had once been happy.
The Opera Ghost began to run.
And she was there, standing on the rain-slick roof mere feet from the drainage cisterns, looking out on the city below, utterly motionless, oblivious to the pouring rain. Her hair straggled down her back; wet clothing clung limply to her skin.
"Christine," he said softly. "Come away from the wall."
She turned with unseeing eyes and he took two steps closer. He held out a hand and made his voice as rich and compelling as possible, the low hypnotic voice of the Angel of Music. "Christine, my angel…come to me."
He was close enough now almost to reach her. "Christine…" She shook her head, whether in denial or confusion, he did not know, but seized her and pulled her from the edge, safely into his arms, holding her tightly. Her skin was cold as ice and she was shaking.
"Christine," he said gently. "I am so very sorry."
Her eyes were so wide they were almost black in her ashen face, and then she crumpled. "NO!" she shrieked, "NO! It's not true, it can't be true!" She began to cry hysterically, striking his chest in a frenzy with her fists. Stoically, Erik wrapped his heavy cloak around her and endured the blows, holding her until she wept herself into exhaustion.
Finally, she lay still against him, his shirt saturated with her tears and the driving rain. She swayed and Erik closed his arms around her, pulling her tightly to him, confronted for the first time with a grief greater than his own.
"Christine," he murmured against her hair. "Come. We must get you inside and out of these wet clothes. Let me take you to your dressing room." Cautiously, he released her. Christine took two steps forward. He caught her before she fell.
She would never know what it cost him physically to carry her down to the underground house. Though he could have much more easily brought her to the Girys, it simply never crossed his mind as an option. His angel would be safest with him.
He laid her limp form on the sofa of the foyer only long enough to light the candles and to lay a fire in her old room. Staggering now, he carried her in and placed her gently on the bed, then knelt to remove her boots and clothing, silently damning the seemingly hundreds of tiny buttons, hooks, lacings, and other encumbrances of women's fashion. Fleetingly, he wondered what he would say if she suddenly woke to find him undressing her, but pushed that thought aside. Finally, she was in her chemise. Her skin was still wet and cold; she was frighteningly pale. He must get her warmed or she might become very ill. Once he had purchased lovely things for her, in his blind yearning that she might accept them, accept him, and become his wife. Now he was merely grateful for the clean and dry garments.
"Christine, forgive me," he whispered, and quickly removed the damp chemise, avoiding touching her with his cold and shaking hands. She lay bare before him, and for a moment, the black demons of desire rose as his eyes drank her in. God, she was so lovely. Cursing himself, Erik took a deep, shuddering breath and went into the tiny bath chamber to return with a towel. Tenderly he blotted her skin, then pulled the heaviest nightgown he could find over her head. He toweled her streaming hair nearly dry, and then tucked her beneath the bedclothes.
His half-healed arm and ribs aching from the strain, Erik dragged his chair from the library music room and placed it outside her door, in preparation for the night to come. Only then did he remove his own clammy sodden clothing and rake back his hair. Returning, he lowered himself carefully into the chair. A glass of Tokay would be his solace this evening. He left her door ajar so that he might respond should she cry out.
She awoke sometime in the night, her sobs carrying clearly through the stillness of the underground house. Sitting alone in the dark, Erik stared sightlessly at the wall, wishing he dared go comfort her.
She awoke in the Louis-Philippe room, in her own bed. A small coal fire glowed in the corner fireplace, just enough to take the chill from the room. A new fine white wool blanket covered the bed. Christine sat up, dazed, and then memory came crashing back. She caught her breath in a sob. Raoul.
Wearily she pushed her tangled hair away from her eyes. What was she doing in the underground house? Confused, she looked around the room again and saw her day dress, awkwardly draped over a chair, her boots lying nearby, a puddle of her other garments on the floor. Her hands flew to her chest, feeling the softness of the nightgown, primly buttoned to her throat. Erik. There could be no other explanation. He had brought her here, undressed her….but why?
"Christine? Are you awake?" he asked softly.
He must be standing outside her door. She pulled the covers up to her chin, her face flaming.
"Yes."
He wore an unusual dressing grown over a simple white shirt and trousers. The unmasked side of his face was haggard and unshaven, a lock of dark hair falling down across the mask. The man who had once been the Phantom slowly crossed her room, holding his body stiffly, and placed a mug of steaming cocoa on the table beside her. "Drink it," he ordered. "There is a little brandy in it."
Christine took the mug, wrapped her suddenly cold hands around it. "Erik…why am I here? What happened last night?"
His visible eyebrow drew down in a frown as he raked a hand through his rumpled hair. "Do you not remember?"
She sipped the cocoa, feeling the warmth spread through her, past the hard lump in her throat. "Not really. I…saw the paper…..and then Philippe, the Comte de Chagny, came to see me….and he was so awful, so unfeeling…as if he didn't care, it was just all about the family, the money. I remember walking…it seemed like for hours…and then the rain. Erik, how did I come to be here?"
"I found you on the Opera Roof." He studied her face, the blue shadows under her eyes, the lines of grief that made her look suddenly older.
"Did you think I would jump?" she asked angrily.
"No," he said quietly, "but I feared you might slip and fall. The winds were strong, there was lightning, and everything was slick with rain. It was not safe where you were standing."
She drew her knees up to her chin, under the blanket. "I don't even remember going there. I just remember the rain and how cold it was, and not caring at all. And then you were there."
He nodded. "You fainted, and I carried you down here." Her eyes darted to the drying clothing. "Yes, I undressed you. You were in shock, your garments soaked and very cold. You needed to rest, to sleep, and I had no other way to get your warm and dry."
There was silence. "Thank you," she said awkwardly.
He raised dark eyes to her face. "You are welcome," he said gravely. You have done the same for me. Unspoken, the words fell between them.
"I want you to stay in bed today, to rest, ma chère. You may have taken a chill last night, and we cannot have you falling ill," he said mildly, watching her. "Please, Christine, do as I ask."
She handed the mug back to him; already the brandy and some bitter herb she could not identify, laudanum perhaps, were taking effect. Sleep pulled her downwards.
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