A/N—This will be the last update for a couple weeks, as I'll be out of town. There are about four chapters to go and they are mostly written, just needing the usual tightening and editing, so don't worry! In the meantime, please do look over my short stories here. I'd love to receive some comments on them! I've had a couple requests for some phluff, so I hope this qualifies. :) Please read this chapter as a series of five days and nights during which things are relatively peaceful. Thought I'd leave you with some sweetness while I"m gone.

Thanks to Leopard1, Glacifly4POTO, Mahria, PeterPanNeverLands, Mominator124, PatDarcy, grandma paula, Phantom Femme du Pantages, WolfShadow1, and Guest for their kind reviews!

Readers of my short stories might notice the origins of Strange Bliss in this chapter. :)

Please be warned…the rating on this story is about to go up to an M or M+ probably around Chapter 21

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 19

Copyright 2016 by Riene

With the successful run of Zamora completed, the backstage was again a whirlwind of activity, as the Opera Garnier prepared for the next performances. The orchestra would perform two concerts, one classical and one with singers. The corps de ballet was well into rehearsals for Burgmüller's La Péri. There was talk of staging a comic-opera later in the season..

M Dumont and M Reyer had made it known that they were not adverse to input from the principals and that auditions would be soon. M Reyer especially was seeking new material and voices from outside of the Opera's usual stable of performers and the hallways had been full of fresh, pretty faces. Much to her surprise, Christine glimpsed La Carlotta herself emerging from the managers' office late one afternoon, as haughty and contemptuous as ever. She bestowed a vicious look on Christine in passing, but Christine later found out she had been ordered to audition like all the others.

Relishing the peace and freedom of having a few nights without performances again, Christine had invited Erik to dinner and he had consented to remain afterwards for music and conversation. The windows were open to the hazy soft evening air of Paris, and the sounds of the city reached them only from a distance. They'd sung together and he had played various pieces by Beethoven, Chopin, Mozart, Vivaldi, Offenbach, Rossini, and Mendelssohn as evening fell about the tree-lined avenue. He would seek a cab when the concealing darkness grew deep enough for comfort. For now, Erik sat reading by the lamp, the book in his long hands worn and its cover soft, apparently an old friend. Christine glanced over his shoulder at the yellowed pages, but the writing resembled nothing she had seen before, curling like ebony ribbons across the paper. She touched it questioningly. "Erik? What language is this?"

"It is from Persia," he replied, his black velvet voice soft. "It is a book of poetry."

"Oh." For a moment, she wondered what visions he saw before him in the words. "You've never told me much about your time in Persia."

"Nor shall I. I do not wish to remember it or discuss it." The black eyes forbid any further questions.

She gestured at the book. "Would you read it to me?"

He turned the page and began speaking. Christine sank into the chair she already thought of as "hers" by the fireplace and listened, chin on her hand, to the slow, seductive rich voice of the masked man across from her. The words flowed effortlessly, like water across silk. He paused, turning the page.

"What does it mean?"

"It is a love poem," he said softly, "from a man to his woman. Listen."

Because I cannot sleep
I make music at night.
I am troubled by the one
whose face has the color of spring flowers.
I have neither sleep nor patience,
neither a good reputation nor disgrace.
A thousand robes of wisdom are gone.
All my good manners have moved a thousand miles away.
The heart and the mind are left angry with each other.
The stars and the moon are envious of each other.
Because of this alienation the physical universe
is getting tighter and tighter.
The moon says, "How long will I remain
suspended without a sun?"
Without Love's jewel inside of me,
let the bazaar of my existence be destroyed stone by stone.

O Love, You who have been called by a thousand names,
You who know how to pour the wine
into the chalice of the body,
You who give culture to a thousand cultures,
You who are faceless but have a thousand faces,
O Love, You who shape the faces
of Turks, Europeans, and Zanzibaris,
give me a glass from Your bottle,
or a handful of bheng from Your Branch.
Remove the cork once more.
Then we'll see a thousand chiefs prostrate themselves,
and a circle of ecstatic troubadours will play.
Then the addict will be freed of craving.
and will be resurrected,
and stand in awe till Judgment Day.

"Oh," she whispered, her voice small, wondering if he remembered a woman in his past, a delicate golden-skinned houri of dark eyes and painted lips, whose memory he cherished after all these years.

Erik turned another page, continuing to read.

You should come close to me tonight wayfarer

For I will be celebrating you.

Your beauty still causes me madness,

Keeps the neighbors complaining

When I start shouting in the middle of the night

Because I can't bear all this joy.

I will be giving birth to suns.

I will be holding forests upside down

Gently shaking soft animals from trees and burrows

Into my lap.

What you conceive as imagination

Does not exist for me.

Whatever you can do in a dream

Or on your mind-canvas

My hands can pull - alive - from my coat pocket.

But let's not talk about my divine world.

He raised his eyes and met hers, and Christine stopped breathing. His eyes were intense, unguarded in his love, his voice low and aching.

For what I most want to know

Tonight is:

All about

You


Feeling unusually anxious, Christine waited until he was in a mellow mood one afternoon before asking him to compose for her. At her request, Erik had begun to spend more time at the apartment. He often worked in the study, reading or researching, and several times she saw architectural drawings lying on the desk. For the most part, those days were spent in companionable ease, eating simple meals together and practicing as they had done long ago at the underground house. She made a point of gently touching him, a brush of fingers while passing an item, her hand on his shoulder while practicing, a careful embrace goodnight. She sensed a tight restraint during those times, and it was only rarely that he would allow his own hands to rest on her back or hips, or to return her embrace.

"Erik," she began determinedly, "M Reyer is actively looking for new performance pieces, and this would be a perfect opportunity for your music. You are such an incredibly talented composer, but I am the only one who ever gets to hear your genius. I'd love to sing something of yours. What about that spring song you once wrote for me?"

"No." Her dark maestro was immediately dismissive. "That was merely an exercise; your voice was not as strong then."

"Then write something for me," she asked, eyes shining.

He raised his visible eyebrow. "What did you have in mind?"

"I'll leave that up to you. You always know exactly what suits my range," she smiled.

Her teacher steepled his fingers thoughtfully. "I will give the matter due consideration," he murmured and she bent over to kiss the top of his head.

"Especially for such recompense," he added drily and she laughed.


The music Erik prepared for her was unlike any of their previous pieces. After some thought, he had set one of the Persian love poems to music and arranged a simple orchestral accompaniment to showcase her voice. An oboe began the piece, sounding of desert nights, answered by the soothing tones of a French horn and followed with strings. She would sing it once in the original language and once in French. Erik had labored over the piece for many nights, frowning at the translation and had sung it to her with all the seductive velvet of his voice. The passion in his eyes as he sang had left her breathless, with an unfamiliar tightness below her navel.

Christine brought the completed score to M Reyer the next day, meeting him in his cramped and overflowing office. He turned the manuscript in his hands, absorbing the elegant script and notation. It looked impossibly similar the massive opera score he had held months ago. "You said your fiancé is a composer," M Reyer's voice was sharp.

"Yes." Christine's voice was calm, mild, revealing nothing.

He swallowed. "Mlle Daae..."

She shook her head and laid a firm hand on his sleeve. "No questions, M Reyer. What do you think of the score?"

With one more look he placed the music on a nearby table, turning pages slowly, both hands twitching as his eyes scanned the lines, playing along in his mind, hearing the melody as he absorbed the words. Twice he flipped back to the beginning, rereading passages while Christine waited quietly. Finally, he raised his grey head.

"This is a stunning piece of work, Mlle Daae. I assume the second stanza is a translation. Are you sure you are able to perform it?"

She took the score back, smiling. "He wrote it specifically for my voice, M Reyer, and we have already begun to practice it. I will have no problem."

He took her hand in his own. "Mlle Daae, the composer..."

"Is my fiancé...Erik Rouillard. And I promise you, that is all."

He took out a white cotton handkerchief and passed it across his pale and perspiring brow, then nodded, coming to a decision. "It is a beautiful piece of work, Mlle Daae. Please pass my compliments to your fiancé. The Opera Garnier will be pleased to add this piece to the upcoming concert night."

The warmth of her smile reassured him. "And Mlle Daae…I would be quite interested in seeing any other pieces your fiancé has prepared."


Joseph Allard paced the floor for the umpteenth time, glancing out at the street were dusk was rapidly falling. "Just another few minutes," the cheery voice behind him called, and Joseph stifled a sigh of impatience. An hour ago he had arrived at the office to collect his younger brother for a dinner engagement, but Christophe had been given a last-minute task and was even now bent over the account books. He looked up apologetically and shrugged, brushing light brown hair out of his blue eyes, and Joseph sighed.

He became aware that from somewhere nearby music was playing, had been playing for some time. Frowning, he strained to capture the tune, a phrase, repeated, then silence and the same phrase repeated on a violin. Someone, somewhere was practicing.

"Who is the musician?" he asked idly, and Christophe shrugged again. "I have no idea, but he's good. Or she. I hear him most evenings when I'm here late. I think he's up in the apartment on the top floor, if you're interested. Sometimes there's a woman who sings with him."

"I'll be back momentarily," Joseph said, and stepped into the hallway and out the front doors. Christophe nodded absently, already absorbed back into the books.

Outside the music was less distinct, but seemed indeed to be coming from the open windows of the third-floor flat. Long draperies covered the windows, which were too high to be seen through. Joseph moved back inside as the unknown pianist fell silent. Slowly he climbed the stairs of the entry where they moved upwards to landings. Then suddenly, the musician began again, at the beginning this time, of whatever composition he was playing. Joseph stood, listening critically. The music was unknown to him, but it was compelling, drawing him in with beautiful harmonies and counter-melodies, and shimmering crescendos.

Frowning thoughtfully, he returned to the ground floor office to find Christophe locking up. "Did you find your musician?" he asked cheerfully.

"No," Joseph said thoughtfully, "but you are correct he's in that flat. Who lives there?"

"No idea," replied his brother, "but shall I find out?"

"Please," he said, and hailed a cab.


The sun had nearly set across the Paris skyline. It was a lovely rare evening spent at home. Surprisingly, Erik arrived in the early afternoon clutching a long tube and heavy package of books. He immediately sequestered himself in the study room, saying impatiently that he did not wish to be disturbed. When her offer of dinner was curtly rebuffed some hours later, Christine had quietly brought him a cup of coffee and plate of sandwiches.

Now she stood in the doorway, watching him in an unguarded moment. A series of blueprints were unrolled on the desk, held down at the corners by various objects and weights, and he stood over them, frowning. Two books, open to various diagrams and mathematical equations lay nearby. He'd discarded his coat at some point earlier—she could see it carelessly tossed across the back of the divan—and had rolled up his sleeves, so as to keep the white cuffs away from the ink. The sandwiches had been pushed aside, but the coffee cup was empty. Perhaps she should have offered a refill. After a moment, he dropped the pencil on the desk and sat, leaning into his hand, absently rubbing the right side of his face under the mask.

"Erik," she said softly, and his head snapped up. Immediately he began rolling down his sleeves, hiding his scarred arms.

"Do you always wear the mask, even when by yourself, at the underground house?"

"No." His tone was not encouraging, but she continued.

"You can remove it here, if you'd prefer. I have…seen you before, you know."

"And such a pleasant spectre that was, I am sure," he sneered. "No. The mask will remain. Do not ask again."

Christine sighed. "I was only thinking it might be more comfortable while you worked, and perhaps easier for you to eat, without it."

"Does my presence at the table displease you?" he snapped.

She took a deep breath, reminding herself that he was unused to compassion, and suspicious of intent. It had probably been a bad idea to interrupt him.

"I was only thinking of your comfort," she said gently, and his hostile expression softened somewhat.

"I am sorry," he said stiffly. "I know it is difficult for you, having to be with such a hideous thing."

"Erik," she pressed her fingers against her forehead. "Stop, please. I can tell the mask is uncomfortable for you. I am just trying to help."

He sighed, the irritation deflating from him. "I…apologize, Christine. I am not myself today."

She risked coming closer, stepping into the study. "What's wrong?" she asked sympathetically.

He leaned back and gestured at the blueprints. "The plans. The problem is more difficult than I anticipated."

She walked around the desk to perch on the chair arm beside him, frowning. "Are these yours?"

"No…no. I am merely a consultant. It is all done by mail, you see. Sometimes I advise others on certain aspects of construction…to keep my hand in, so to speak." He gave a tired chuckle and rubbed his hand over his face. "There is a problem with the supports and with the drainage pumps, and I was up late, working. It has merely given me a headache."

In truth, he had had little sleep for some nights and his thinking was growing cloudy. There was an uncomfortable throbbing behind his bad eye, which was beginning to burn. She could hear the exhaustion in his tone and leaned slowly toward him, cautiously moving an arm around his shoulders and hugged him gently. For a moment Erik froze, then allowed himself to shut his eyes and accept her embrace.

"Erik, would you like a powder, or perhaps a tisane? Or some tea ? I'd be happy to make you anything to eat, if it will help." She rubbed his tight shoulder gently.

He grimaced. "Thank you, but no. I need to clear my mind…and probably need to sleep."

She released his arm and stood, biting her bottom lip. His face was weary and she took a chance. "Erik, would you let me try something? I might be able to help you relax…if you're not going to work on this any more tonight."

He shot her a wary look, tension immediately rising. "What did you have in mind, Christine?"

She caught his hand and drew him out of the study, over to the settee. "Come and sit with me." She arranged her plum challis skirts and sat on the end of the cushions, opening her arms. "Come here."

Stiffly, reluctantly, Erik perched on the end of the settee, but she shook her head. "No, that won't do. Come here." Stubbornly, she tugged his hand, urging him to lie down, with his head in her lap. "Please, Erik."

Slowly he complied and lay there rigidly, feeling vulnerable and uncomfortable, hands clasped tightly together. Christine sighed. "Will you trust me, Erik?" Gently, her hand began to stroke his hair, and Erik froze, shocked, then gradually relaxed into the unexpected bliss of her touch. Her hands kneaded the tight muscles of his hunched shoulders and he shivered with pleasure once, before shutting his eyes, allowing her soothing caress. After a few minutes, he felt her cautiously loosen the cravat and froze as she unbuttoned the top two buttons of his shirt.

"Christine," he said, sounding slightly strangled, and she laughed softly.

"You'll be more comfortable this way." She resumed stroking his hair and shoulders until the tension left him again and his breathing slowed.

Her fingers slowly worked their way around to his face, smoothing the lines from his forehead and gently tracing his visible eyebrow. He shuddered beneath her touch, but said nothing. The mask was tight, pressing into his sore skin, and he longed to remove it. Fresh air on his abraded flesh would be welcome, but not with Christine there, touching him. He ran a finger under the edge, shifting it slightly.

"Let me loosen it, at least, just a bit. Please?" She saw the muscle in his jaw twitch as he clenched his teeth, but he said nothing, and slowly, ever so slowly, her hands worked around to the strings holding the mask in place. She untied them, but made no effort to touch the mask. The lessening of pressure was welcome, but when he felt her move toward his face again, his hand shot out and grabbed her wrist.

"Don't," he grated, and she nodded.

"I won't. I promise, Erik. It's fine. Just relax."

She was not sure when the rhythmical, gentle motions soothed him into finally sleeping, but at some point she felt the tension slowly ebb from his body and his weight settle into the cushions. He leaned against her, no fearsome Phantom, but merely an exhausted, lonely man. Christine laid her hand against his chest, feeling the slow steady beat of his heart. He shifted slightly, turning toward her, and she smiled, picking up her book.

For an hour or more she read, sometimes stroking his hair or just resting her hand on his chest. Eventually the mantle clock chimed the lateness of the hour and she frowned. He was deeply asleep, pressed against her. If she was careful, it might just be possible not to wake him.

Slowly Christine eased from under her dark angel, sliding a pillow beneath his head. She knelt and removed his shoes…such long, angular feet…and returned with a blanket, tucking it around his shoulders. She patrolled the flat quickly, turning off lights and checking the door. All was secure. Kneeling beside him, Christine brushed her lips across his temple, then very slowly, with infinite caution, removed the mask. She could see little of his face, for it was turned toward the back of the settee. Carefully laying it on the end table, Christine went to prepare for bed.


He awoke the next morning, after a rare night of sleep without dreams. Christine…at what point had he succumbed to her divine touch? How long had he wondered what it would be like, to feel her caress on his skin? His perfect angel. Erik pushed back the blanket, noting the absence of shoes and mask. She had done this too, cared for him as he had cared for her. It was impossible, and yet the tingling in his skin told him to believe it. The intimacy of her actions was not lost on him. She could not despise him if she had touched him so gently and surely had looked upon his hideous face. Christine.

Carrying his shoes, he entered the study and rolled up the plans. Although he longed to stay, there was a deadline he must meet for in order to mail back the blueprints in time. Sleep had cleared his brain, and hope's root burrowed deeper in his heart. Casting a last look toward the room where she lay sleeping, Erik slipped away.


The notes rose in their shimmering crescendo and hovered for a haunting moment, to shift into the rushing change of keys, and again, she was half a step behind and flat. Frustrated, Christine snapped, "I'm sorry…I keep missing that phrase." She walked over to the window, pulling back the heavy draperies and staring across the sun-drenched city, thoroughly irritated with herself.

"You merely need more practice. Farsi is difficult, and we will continue to work on your intonation. It will come with time." He sat back on the bench, gathering the sheet music and aligning the pages neatly.

She grimaced. "Mr Khan will laugh at me."

Erik raised an eyebrow. "He would not." She shrugged.

"I should like to hear this properly, in the theater's acoustics," he said thoughtfully, pushing back from the piano and absently rubbing his sore hands.

Christine came back to lean on the glossy lid. "You should attend rehearsal."

"Oh, I intend to. I do not trust M Reyer to follow my notation properly. But I would like to test it before then."

"We could, if you wanted, but it would have to be tonight. Tonight is an off-night; no one should be up there. The building should be empty, and it's not as if we don't have keys," she smiled impishly at him.

"True," he breathed.

Thirty minutes later Erik handed her up into a cab and then stepped up as well. Christine caught his hand as he entered. She had moved over on the seat and was tugging him down beside her, not to his customary position across. Surprised, he folded himself into the seat, feeling their shoulders and the length of their thighs touch through her skirts. He jerked his leg away, but she did not move, and gradually he leaned back against the padded seat. Slowly, deliberately her right arm reached under his, entwining itself, and she took his hand. His gloved fingers closed over hers possessively, and after a moment he dared breathe again.

The ride to the Opera seemed all too short before he was paying the driver and unlocking the gate at the Rue Scribe door. This late at night, the building was empty, moonlight casting odd shadows along the outer corridors. Erik tucked her hand into the crook of his arm as they made their way to the darkened stage. Suddenly in an ebullient mood, Christine squeezed his cold arm as laughter bubbled up.

Erik looked down into her sparkling eyes and frowned, puzzled.

"My dear?"

Christine gave him a conspiratorial smile. "It just suddenly reminded me of years ago…sneaking through the building with Meg, returning from a late lesson with you, always hiding from Madame. How much has changed." They turned the corner and climbed the short flight of stairs to the great stage.

"Stay here," he murmured in her ear, and vanished, only to return a few minutes later with two small lanterns. Pleased, he positioned them on the edge of the stage where they sat like small golden spotlights.

"Sing, Christine," his voice was velvet and caressing in the dark. "Sing, for me, for only I will hear you tonight." And suddenly she laughed, remembering their early lessons, rising to demi-point and spinning around once. Stepping forward, Christine raised her voice in song.

Sitting two rows back in the theatre, Erik thought his heart would surely stop from the pressure in his chest. His angel sang, her eyes on his, her golden pure soprano quickly rising through a short series of runs, then bursting into the song he had written for her, then Elissa's song. She was Juliet, she was Marguerite, she was Violetta, her arms raised, her eyes coming to rest on his face, smiling as the last echoes faded in the rafters.

Slowly, Erik stood. "Magnificent," he breathed, reverent, and approached the stage. "There will be no one who will be able to able to even stand in your shadow that night."

Throwing her arms out once more, Christine stepped toward him, smiling and flushed with success. "Thank you, my maestro. For everything."

"Christine." He caught her hands in his, raising them to his cold thin lips, the faintest brush of his kiss across her fingers. She squeezed them gently, eyes sparkling, still radiant, and he dropped to his knees.

"My angel…you are my angel, my peace, my only happiness." She looked down into his eyes, reflecting the lamplight. "I asked you before…but I am asking you again. Would you…could you…stay with me? Marry me? Be by my side forever? I would care for you, cherish you…there would be music. I would not ask more of you than that, would not touch you or …" he choked, golden eyes searching her face, his bony grip tightening on her hands.

"Erik..." She tugged on his hands, trying to pull him to his feet, and when he would not rise, she knelt in front of him, staring into the desperate eyes of the lonely man before her. "Yes…I told you yes."

He wrenched one hand from hers, fumbling in the pocked of his waistcoat. "I have had this...for you…please…" He took her left hand in his, and gently, as if she were exquisitely fragile, slid a ring onto her hand. The cold band and stones warmed immediately and she inhaled slowly, stunned.

"Erik, it's beautiful." There were tears in her eyes and in his. "Thank you," she whispered, and slowly, he leaned his forehead against hers.

"Oh Christine…"


He raised his pounding head from the arm of the settee. Obviously it was much later than he'd thought. He'd meant to have just one drink before setting off to explore the lower levels again, for supposedly nothing was scheduled tonight and the building should be empty. But there was sound…had he missed a rehearsal? Slept later than he thought? Staggering, Luigi opened the door and frowned at the darkness. He knew that voice.


All in all, it had been a lovely day. She'd successfully avoided La Carlotta, and M Reyer had not reinterpreted Erik's song too badly. Christine had spent lunch sitting with Meg backstage and listening to the orchestra rehearse for their upcoming show. Meg had been full of gossip about the new ballet—La Sorelli had a daring leap from a high platform during the pas de songe that her partner was complaining about. There had been an vociferous argument as to choreography and costume during a scene where a bee was to invade the ballerina's clothing, thus requiring a near-disrobing scene on stage. This had resulted in Sorelli's flouncing off-stage and declaring her artistic creativity was being thwarted.

"She was furious," Meg giggled. "But Mamman told her that it didn't matter what she'd seen or done in the dance halls, no dancer of hers was ever going to strip on the stage of the Palais Garnier, and then it got intense!"

They'd parted with hugs and Christine had left for a dress fitting. On return she became aware of a commotion outside in the corridor, of voices raised, and a scuffling sound. One voice, then, raised above the others. "I will see her, leave me now!" and then a movement in the sea of onlookers, like a current or eddy. A man in a wheelchair pressed through, bent and maneuvering himself forward in jerking, angry motions. He raised his head, blazing blue eyes searching wildly across the Rotonde, only to lock with hers. He pushed himself shakily from the chair, reaching toward her. His voice, when he finally spoke, was a harsh rasp that somehow still carried across the room.

"Christine…"

It was not possible. The blue eyes blurred, the room spun, and she fainted.