The Perfect Solution

An Alternate Universe – Phantom of the Opera Story

Nyasia A. Maire

© 2007

DISCLAIMER: I do not hold the rights nor did I create any characters found in The Phantom of the Opera or Phantom, nor have I received monetary compensation for writing this story.

in the night

i wander in the night
so lost and alone
i wander in the dark
and am never at home

i never feel happy
i never feel sad
i never feel
and that makes me glad

you walk in the light
so lost and alone
you walk in the day
and are never at home

you never look happy
you never look sad
you never look at all
and that makes you glad

together we sigh
together we cry
tomorrow we live
but today we must die

Nyasia A. Maire, 2007

Chapter Nineteen – Together We Sigh

"Thank you, Raoul. I am not ready. I do not know if I ever will be ready, but if I ever am, I shall definitely take you up on your offer."

"Believe me, Erik, you are more than welcome."

Erik sat in the armchair across from Raoul and the two men stared at the drinks in their hands. Each one lost in their own thoughts.

♥ ♫ ♥ ♫ ♥

"Oh, Christine! It is so incredibly beautiful and Monsieur Destler is so romantic! I just simply cannot believe that you are engaged to be married! We simply must go and flaunt this ring before Jammes and La Sorelli. They will swoon with envy!"

"No, Meg. I do not wish for them to find a way to mar my happiness. They always do. They do not welcome my presence as they do yours. You know that I have never fit in with the rest of the girls. I am most certain they will find a way to tarnish this day if we inform them of my engagement. Besides, I would like to speak with your Maman and if I do not speak with her tonight, I shall have to wait until next Sunday. My inquiries cannot wait another day, much less an entire week."

The willowy blonde turned and looked up into her friend's eyes, the gaiety fading from her face, a slight frown creasing her brow, her voice becoming soft and slightly anxious.

"Are you all right, Christine? I mean, you are happy, are you not?"

"Yes, Meg. I am happy. I just need to ask your Maman some things about, well, about the things that a husband expects from his wife, you know, the act that makes babies …."

Her voice trailed into silence as she turned a deep scarlet. Her friend blushed as well and looked away.

"Oh … that …. Christine, just remember something when a man and woman love each other, it is full of feelings that are quite pleasant. No, the feelings are wonderful."

Meg's eyes clouded over for a moment, lost in a sweet memory before she continued.

"However, Maman told me about wifely duties soon after Raoul began courting me. I am uncertain whether she intended to make a woman's wedding night sound frightening, but she did. I simply cannot imagine that God would make loving your husband a painful act. Perhaps, a small pain the first time, but not something to dread every time your husband joins with you. I am most certain that if coupling were truly horrible, there would be far less babies in the world. Also, I know that some of the older girls in the chorus and ballet corps have lovers. I overheard La Sorelli talking about Raoul's brother, Phillipe. She seemed quite pleased with the act, so take Maman's advice with a grain of salt, or perhaps in this case, a spoonful of honey."

The two friends stood and stared at one another for a moment in an uncomfortable silence. Meg looked away first, biting her lip.

"I wonder if Raoul is thinking of me. I miss him."

She whispered sadly.

"Meg, you saw him last night! You never see Raoul on Sundays. Has your Maman said anything to you at all about what happened last night?"

"No and that is worse than if she screamed at me. Her silence is worse than any punishment she could mete out to me, other than forbidding me to see Raoul again, of course. I hope he stops by rehearsals tomorrow."

"Would you like me to speak with your Maman about Raoul?"

"Oh heavens, no! Please do not do that Christine. The mere thought of you doing that simply mortifies me. No, I will suffer the silence one more evening. Now, do not let me keep you."

Christine gave Meg an awkward hug.

"That is the second hug I have received from her in one day. I cannot even remember if she ever hugged me before today. She must be in love. She would never have agreed to marry Monsieur Destler if she did not love him. I am so happy for her. Finally!"

♥ ♫ ♥ ♫ ♥

"So, that is how babies are made."

Christine shivered, but she could not decide if it was out of dread or excitement. She tried to join Meg's words together with her Maman's, but found it difficult to reconcile the two differing points of view.

"I suppose I will find out the truth after Erik and I marry. I cannot imagine that he would ever do anything to hurt me, so I will just have to trust in that."

It was still early in the evening and Christine was not at all tired. She decided to go for a walk around the opera house, but first she would pay the chapel a visit. She quickly changed into a black, long-sleeve silk blouse, her black hose, black breeches and soft-soled, black leather boots. She opened her closet and withdrew her black, hooded cloak. Flinging it around her shoulders, she fastened the cloak at her throat with her mother's Egyptian scarab broach and lifted the hood to cover her mass of chocolate-brown curls. Going to the small night table next to her bed, she opened the drawer and withdrew three candles and several wooden matches, placing them in the pocket of her cloak. She examined her reflection and smiled as the onyx broach reflected a sparkle of candle light. She nodded, satisfied with the sight she saw in the mirror.

"Ah, yes. I look much the proper Opera Ghost now. Madame was correct. Learning to make one's own clothes is a very useful skill. I am certain she never intended that I make myself breeches, but I think they suit me."

She turned from the mirror, quietly slipped down the hall and out the door. The girl blended into the shadows, avoiding the occasional patch of flickering gas lamp light. She entered the chapel and taking a match from her pocket, lit one of the votive candles. She knelt and said a brief prayer for her father's soul. Her eyes then moved to the stained glass angel. The angel appeared just as it always had. Gone was the twisted half-visage of the night before.

"Did I imagine it? No. I cannot doubt. No. I will not doubt. After all, I met him. I met Erik, so it did happen."

"Thank you, angel."

Her gaze shifted upwards.

"Thank you, papa." She whispered.

She stood and brushed the dust from her breeches and hose. Out of the corner of her eye, a twinkle of light caught her attention. She turned and found only the stained glass angel staring at her.

"Are you trying to tell me something?" She smirked.

As if in response to her quiet query, there was a click and the stained glass window began to swing slowly into the darkness of the passage behind it.

"What? Do you wish to lead me somewhere? Very well, my angel. I can refuse you nothing. Lead the way!"

♥ ♫ ♥ ♫ ♥

Erik lifted his eyes from their silent contemplation of his drink, startled.

"Raoul, did you hear something?"

The younger man blinked.

I beg your pardon. What did you say?"

"Did you hear a click?"

Raoul shook his head.

"Sorry, no I did not. I was lost in thought."

The older man hunched forward in his chair, deciding to ignore the sense of foreboding the sound had engendered in his mind. He decided to concentrate on his troubled friend instead.

"I did not wish to intrude upon your privacy, but it is quite evident that something happened last night. Would you like to talk about it?"

Raoul nodded.

"Yes, however, I am quite embarrassed and hope you will not think less of me once I tell you."

"Come now, Raoul, I cannot imagine you doing anything truly despicable. Please, now you simply must tell me everything."

♥ ♫ ♥ ♫ ♥

Erik took a large gulp of his somewhat watered down drink and swallowed hard. He rolled the glass between his hands and mumbled.

"Raoul, do not go so hard on yourself. I wanted to do much the same and more when I was with Christine today. If either of us had more experience in such matters, I am certain our situation would have progressed to the point of no return, perhaps even stepping over that boundary. I believe our desires are normal. It is simply a matter of choice and the strength of will to use one's self-control to do what we know is right.

"Let me tell you a story. When I was a boy, my mother enrolled me in an art class. I was a child of eleven. The other students were between the ages of 17 and 20 years. The teacher was a very happily married man of forty. Every person in that classroom was male, but I was the only boy. The class progressed from shapes to landscapes to still life and then to the human form. One day, the teacher placed all of our easels in a large circle around the classroom, facing towards a cloth draped dais in the center of the room. We all took up our positions in front of our easels. I was working with pastels at the time, so I was ready to begin before most of the other students. Looking around the classroom as I waited, I noticed a door at the back of the classroom open. The teacher led a young woman clothed in a white robe to the dais. He assisted her in climbing onto the dais, where she sat and seemed to be waiting for something. The classroom had been buzzing with the sound of quiet conversations between different groups of the young men, but as one by one, they noticed the newcomer, the silence spread throughout the room. When the teacher determined everyone was ready to proceed, he nodded at the woman. She rose, stood on the dais, removed her robe and sat back down on the dais. The teacher instructed her on how to pose herself and then asked her to remain as still as possible. His only instructions to us, his students, were to draw what we saw. He said we could use any style we wished realism, pointillism, impressionism, any '-ism' we wished. As long as the resulting work represented the sight before our eyes. I looked at the woman for a long time before I began sketching her. She seemed to me to be a study in darkness. Everything about her was black: her eyes, eyebrows, and her short, wild, shaggy hair, all black. Even her lips and nipples were dark. Instead of pink or red, this woman's lips and nipples looked almost a dark purple. She made me think of Ovid's tale of Medusa.

"Medusa was originally a beautiful nymph. She had many suitors and caused much jealousy with her fickle and flirtatious nature. She was very proud of her beautiful hair and used it to taunt her suitors. Unfortunately, she attracted the attention of Poseidon and he followed her one day to Athena's temple, where he raped her. The goddess, outraged at her temple's defilement, blamed the nymph. In her anger, Athena transformed Medusa's beautiful hair into poisonous serpents and changed her lovely face into something so terrible to behold that any man merely looking upon it turned into stone.

"I attempted to capture the transformation of nymph into monster on my canvas that day. I was so intent upon my task that I did not take note of the tense atmosphere of the classroom until the teacher stopped behind me to watch me work. I stepped aside so he could examine my canvas and it was then that I noticed the air of the room felt alive with a dangerous electricity. As my gaze moved about the room, I saw that all of my fellow student's eyes had narrowed and turned dark. Their normally enthusiastic demeanors turned sullen and strained.

"I turned to the teacher and he read the confusion in my eyes. He placed a hand on my shoulder and smiled. Then, he said, "The active part of man consists of powerful instincts, some of which are gentle and continuous; others violent and short; some baser, some nobler, and all necessary." ¹ He went on to say, the true test of a man's nature is whether he controls his baser instincts or he allows them to control him. He let his eyes wander around the room and indicated that my fellow students had yet to pass the test. They were still learning self-control.

"And, that, my friend, is the point of this rather rambling tale. We are still learning. We may stumble as long as we stand and try once more. There is no failure where there is no surrender. There is simply the next challenge."

Raoul's eyes were thoughtful.

"Well, let us hope that Madame affords me the opportunity to meet the next challenge."

"Did she forbid you from seeing Meg?"

"No."

"Well then, when would you normally see Meg again?"

"Tomorrow after her morning rehearsal. I usually take her to luncheon."

"I suggest you arrive at your customary time and allow things to progress from there. Let Madame see that you are present and intend to continue your wooing of her daughter. It is all up to Madame then. She is no fool. I believe she knows you are sincere in your intentions and not just attempting to seduce her daughter. You did declare your wish to wed her daughter. Did you not?"

"Yes, I did. I even showed her the ring I carry while I wait for an opportune moment to propose."

Erik shook his head.

"Really, Raoul. I feel out of my depth in this conversation. I do not wish to mislead you, but common sense seems to suggest that as long as you really love her and she loves you, all should be well."

Raoul smiled weakly.

"I pray you are right, Erik. I truly do."

"My friend, so do I."

♥ ♫ ♥ ♫ ♥

The girl removed a candle and match from the pocket of her cloak. Striking the match across the rough surface of the stone wall, she lit the candle, blew out the match and placed the burnt wooden stick back in her pocket. Carefully, she pushed against the stained glass until she could pass through the opening. She slipped through, closed the secret door behind her, closed her eyes and waited for a sign from her angel.

Christine felt a slight movement in the air around her. The flame of her candle briefly flickered and then burned steady once more. After a few moments, the girl thought she heard the sound of music somewhere in the distance. Opening her eyes, she decided to follow the path where the gust of air originated. She held her candle high as she began her search for the source of the heavenly music, her feet carrying her ever deeper into the cellars of the opera house.

¹ "The active part of man consists of powerful instincts, some of which are gentle and continuous; others violent and short; some baser, some nobler, and all necessary." Francis W. Newman (1805–1897)