Christine dans Deux

An Alternate Multiverse - A Phantom of the Opera Story

Nyasia A. Maire

© 2006

DISCLAIMER: See Chapter One
Chapter Twenty-Six – Comte Jean-Paul

The sun was just rising when I saw the familiar road leading to my family's ancestral home. While the building is called a chateau, it really is a castle. It is quite beautiful with white stone walls and dark slate roofs and chimneys. It is situated on a small hilltop surrounded by farmland. From the base of the hill to the plateau is covered in dense forest on three sides and on the fourth side is a cliff of white limestone. The approach is a broad limestone lined greenway, which leads to a stone passage ending at the entry's drawbridge.

Our carriage stopped and the driver hopped down and rang the bell for the gate keeper. I heard muffled voices as the driver convinced the gate keeper it would in his best interest to lower the bridge and allow entry to his passengers. At last I could hear the sound of the gears turning and the bridge lowering. The carriage lurched forward and we drove across the bridge and into the main yard. I had forgotten how large the yard is. The driver drove to the bottom of the stairs leading to the entry and halted the carriage.

I gently shake Christine's arm.

"We are here at last. Wake up, sleepyhead. Time to meet the man who sired me."

She wakes slowly and I notice she is very pale. I feel a brief flicker of concern, which is banished by her radiant smile.

"Hmm … here at last. Do you think you could arrange a bath?"

"First things first. We must determine whether or not he will welcome us. I have not sent word of our arrival. I felt that would be best. I thought perhaps if he sees me he will be more amenable to our being here."

"I trust your judgment in this matter. Lead the way."

As if on cue, the driver opens the door of the carriage and holds out his hand to Christine to help her from the carriage. She raises the hood over her head and wraps the cloak loosely about her to conceal her condition, takes his hand and steps from the carriage. The driver steps back and allows me to exit unaided.

I instruct him that we will either be returning shortly or I will send word if we will be staying. I give the man another 50 francs and beg his patience. He doffs his hat and holding it before him gives me a quick bow.

"Sir, please do not hurry on my account. It is my pleasure to await your word. I will wait until you return or send word whatever your pleasure. I am your humble and grateful servant."

I smile at him. "Thank you. You are a most excellent driver and your service to me will not go unrewarded."

The surprise in his eyes is obvious as he garners from my words the promise of further Francs.

Christine and I walk slowly up the broad stairway to the entry. I pull the bell cord and we await an answer. Surprisingly, it is not a servant that answers the door. It is Jean Paul and I am shocked by how much he has aged, but my shock is nothing compared to his when he raises his eyes and sees who the man standing at his door is.

"You!" He cries. To my ears, his voice sounds as if it is seething with rage and indignation. He opens his mouth and seems about to continue an angry tirade when I see his eyes widen as he takes in the changed man whom stands before him. I look more closely at the man before me as well and think that perhaps I may have misjudged his reaction to me. Maybe, the anger I heard was of my own creation. Maybe, I heard only what I expected to hear. And with fresh eyes, I realize this man who stands before me has undergone changes of his own. Both of us have changed much since our last angry encounter.

"You!" He repeats, but this time I hear the true quality of his voice. There is no anger there only a happy, shocked wonder.

"It is you, is it not, Erik?"

"Yes, indeed, father. It is I."

"But how? How is this possible? This is a miracle! Come in! Come in!" He suddenly notices Christine and pauses to give her a bow. "Madame, you as well. Please, come in."

We walk through the double doors and into the entry hall, which rivals the grandeur of the opera house's entry. The foyer is cavernous yet grand with two staircases winding up to a landing that then crisscross one another and continue up to the second floor. To the right is a parlor and to the left a library. Jean-Paul leads us to the left and we enter the library. He quickly closes the doors behind us and his quickness belies the agedness of his appearance.

"Erik! You have returned. I had despaired that you ever would. Especially when our last meeting went so badly. Thank God! He has answered an old man's prayers and given me a second chance. Thank you for coming back, Erik."

Hearing my name fall from his lips is something I had never expected and I stand rooted to the spot. On our previous meeting he had refused to speak it and had used several unflattering epithets.

He continues. "It is so good to see you." He walks to me and holds out his hand. I am ambivalent about the scene unfolding about me, but for both Christine's sakes I take hold of his hand. He firmly grasps my hand and pulls me to him. I am surprised at the power of this seemingly old man as he wraps his other arm around my back and pulls me into an awkward hug.

"Yes, after all these years, God has granted me a miracle and given me a second chance with my son!"

And he went on and on in this manner. And still I stood rooted to the floor. My mind races and parrots words I had never thought to hear, Erik and son. Realizing I have been silent and that perhaps some sort of reply is necessary.

"Sir, I had heard you were ill and wished to inquire as to your health."

"Now, now … my health? Well, what can one expect one you reach my age? I'm above ground and every day above ground is a good day. But come, you have much changed. You look well. And I see you are healed. I am very happy for you."

Since he seems to want to hear my story, I tell him a loosely concocted tale consisting of expert surgeons and that seems to satisfy him. When at last his overwhelmed emotions begin to subside, he turns his attention toward Christine.

"And, Erik, will you introduce me to your Lady?" He smiles gallantly at her and for the briefest of moments I suddenly see myself in his face.

"I will gladly introduce you. And while it is true she is indeed a lady, she is not mine. Father, may I present Vicomtessa Christine de Chagny."

Christine executes an elegant and old-fashioned curtsey.

He stares at the bowed head for a moment and as Christine rises, he claps his hands together.

"I remember you. You were Christine Daae. You sang at the Opera Populaire. And may I add, you sang quite beautifully, too. I was there for your first performance of Hannibal. Quite stunning. You robbed the world of a wondrous beauty when you ceased singing, my dear. Hmm … de Chagny." He glances at me with a raised eyebrow.

Christine smiles at him but says nothing.

"So, Erik, why have you come? I am not really as old or foolish as to believe you would be able to forgive me for an entire lifetime of rejection. I pray for your forgiveness, but I do not dare to hope for it. Why have you come? You say you heard I was in ill health. So, have you come to here the perfect son to gloat over my childlessness and ill health? I would lay no blame on you if you have. I deserve nothing from you. I refused to acknowledge you. I forced your mother to send you away. I deserve to suffer for my sins. And all too soon I shall." He pauses and studies my face for a moment. "Yet, you do not seem to be the same angry young man as when last we met. I believe more than your face is changed. Perhaps it is your soul that is healed. Your mother told me not to blame you for your looks. She said that it was a reflection of your torn soul. I did not understand her she was a gypsy after all. And I would not listen. I was young and soon to be married. I loved your mother. Did you know that? No. How could you? My marriage was loveless. Arranged by our parents, I was honor bound to see it through regardless of where my heart lay. I did my duty by my wife, but your mother was in fact my mate. Your mother …"

His breath catches on his last word and he sighs, running his hand over his face. He takes a deep breath and standing erect continues

"I have heard the rumors regarding de Chagny. I know why you are here. Your presence here has nothing to do with me, but everything to do with that fine Lady. You, sir, are a better man than I am. You, who could not have known the turn of my feelings, came here to beg sanctuary for this woman. You came believing I would berate and belittle you. And yet you came. You came for her. Erik, whom I have no right to call son, I beg your forgiveness."

I feel shocked to the very core of my being. How is it that this man who once despised me now begs me to forgive him? His words lay proof to the time he has spent pondering his treatment of me, so his words are not a reaction to the new face I now present to him. I am shocked and left without words. He reads it on my face and laughs. His laughter is not directed at me, but is bitter and directed at himself.

"Why did I not take up pen and ink? I have many times and each time I do the words seem insipid and untrue. Once, I actually finished the letter, placed it in an envelope and addressed it. But I lost my nerve when it came time to post it. I feel I do not deserve your forgiveness. Perhaps it is because I cannot ever forgive myself."

"Sir," he continues, "I have been alone since 20 June this year. No. No. My servants still reside here, but my heart left this world on that day. My Gen, your lady mother, passed on that day. I have had much time to consider my life and have found it sadly lacking. I have many regrets. But as the poet wrote:

The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on: nor all your Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,
Nor all your Tears wash out a Word of it.

– Omar Khayyam

"I believe those words to be true. And yet, I must say something to you, Erik. Even though it may cause you to laugh. I am most deeply and truly sorry."

He pauses for a reaction, but hearing none continues.

"Yes, your mother passed last June. She passed very quickly. She was always very petite and last winter she began to cough. By spring, the cough turned bloody. Our local doctor came and said it was the consumption. I did not want to hear that, so I had another doctor come, and another, and another. Until at last, your mother told me no more. My wife died last winter during the first week of December. Did you know that? Not many knew, as she was Welsh. One morning she did not wake. The doctor said her heart had failed her. I believe I failed her. I could not love her and she did not love me. I tried to make her happy, but a life without love? No, sir. Her heart failed and she died. And then, I find your mother is dying. I felt so much remorse over my treatment of you that I could not bare any more. I married your mother on 1 May. And I spent every moment from that day on trying to make her as happy as I could. And when she closed her eyes and exhaled for the last, I believe I went mad for a time. For try as I might, I was never able to see your mother truly smile before she died. She ceased smiling the day she finally gave in to my demands to send you away. She stood up to me for eight months. She was very brave. I was so very stupid. I threatened your life if she did not send you away. I was stupid and cruel. Heartless. I never would have harmed you, but I knew she would not risk harm coming to you. She finally gave in and sent you away. She soon fell into a deep melancholy and did not speak or move for many months. I hired a nurse to care for her. I actually attempted to find you and have you returned to her, but the gypsies had disappeared. I was unable to find them or you. She was inconsolable for years, but gradually she rejoined the world of the living. And after an even longer length of years, a gently uplifting of the corners of lips was the closest she could come to a smile. She never laughed again. She had the most wonderful, beautiful laugh! I can still hear it inside my soul, but I was never able to coax it from her living lips after you left. Do not blame her. She loved you unreservedly. I would like to believe the reason your soul healed is it remembers her love. She wrote a letter to you just before her death and asked me to post it. I did post it, but it was returned unclaimed. I will find it and you may have it if you wish. I only wish I could have found you before she died."

He walks to the window and gazes blankly outside. He seems at last to have run out of things to say. And the things he has said. It is almost too much for me to take in at one time. I am overwhelmed and my thoughts cartwheel through a tumble of his words. I feel a sudden peace flood my mind and it comes from my healed soul.

"To err is human, to forgive divine." I hear my beloved's voice whisper. "It is very simple. Walk over to him, take him in your arms, hug him and forgive him everything."

I hesitate and then nod. She's right. It is simple. The past is the past. He said it himself. It cannot be undone, but we can begin again now. As of this moment and go forward with forgiveness and love.

"Father?"

He does not react for a moment. Then he understands the word and turns to me with sad questioning eyes.

I walk to him and gently enfold him within my arms. He rests his head against my shoulder.

"I forgive you, father."

He cries and his body is wracked with the violent spasms of his torment. I try to comfort him with gentle pats on the back. The dam has broken and the torrent must run its course. I allow him this release.

When at last his sobs cease. I release him and hand him my handkerchief. He wipes his eyes and blows his nose.

"Thank you, Erik."

I nod and add. "Thank you, father. You have given me my mother."