Disclaimer: The characters and plotline of the Phantom of the Opera on which this story is based are – to the best of my knowledge – the property of Gaston Leroux and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Nor do I own any of the songs or music used or referred to within this story. No infringement of copyright is intended nor is this story written for profit as I have the greatest respect for their work.
Chapter 43
"How can the Angel of Music be a man?" Gustave asked in disbelief.
When they had collected Christine from the theatre, she had not been as excited as they had anticipated. Meg thought it was a delayed reaction and that she'd be bouncing off the walls in no time. Gustave similarly thought she was tired and the excitement would show soon. Antoinette wondered what had gone on in that dressing room, deducing at least that her daughter had not been abandoned because of the trip – she would have been distraught in that event. Once they'd gotten her in the car along with all their things, they had eventually managed to get her talking about the concert and more importantly, her performance. Her enthusiasm had returned, but it never managed to fully light her face the way they were used to.
Once she was settled in her private room at the hospital the next morning, Gustave managed to convey to Antoinette that he wanted a private word with Christine. Guessing that he might be able to find out what had her so distracted; she managed to drag Meg away.
He hadn't asked. He had simply sat down next to her on the bed and taken her hand. She hadn't looked at him, knowing what he wanted. After a few moments of silence, she began.
"I failed my angel." She looked at him then. His mouth was hanging open slightly in surprise.
"About a week after I first sang in class, I was stranded in the main theatre during a storm. I met the Angel of Music. He was the one who'd left the door open for me. He's been giving me lessons ever since. He even arranged for me to have the dressing room when the theatre wasn't viable anymore. Uncle, the music he creates, his voice . . . the things he says about Papa, I couldn't help but believe."
"Oh, my dear girl." Gustave whispered, tears of joy trickling down his face.
"There's more. I think he might be a man."
"Well of course, you keep calling him that."
"No, Uncle. I don't think he's an angel. I think he might be a man." She explained, looking him steadily in the eye, trying to gauge his reaction.
"How can the Angel of Music be a man?" Gustave asked in disbelief.
"I don't think he is the Angel of Music. He doesn't know about mother."
"What do you mean?"
"He knows about Katie O'Neill, but when he gave me one of her songs to sing he didn't think I would know of her work, and he didn't believe me when I said that I was one of her greatest fans."
"Why would you say a thing like that?"
"To see whether he knew or not."
"Christine, there are few who know that you are the daughter of Katie O'Neill."
"Don't you think an angel would know? Especially one who claims to have been watching over me and to have been sent by Father? I know Heaven wouldn't be Heaven for Papa without her by his side."
"Perhaps it is his way of testing your faith in him?" Gustave ventured, not wishing to believe that his goddaughter was being taken advantage of in such a way. Cruelty would not be sufficient to describe such a deceit were that the case. But there were few who knew of her beliefs in the Angel, and she would not be easily convinced no matter what they had both been hoping.
"Then why does he display human emotions and feelings?"
"What?"
"He gets angry and frustrated when I make mistakes, which I could understand if he was the Angel, but there are times when he seems sad as well. And when I told him about Raoul, I could have sworn he spoke out of jealousy."
"That is quite a powerful thing to accuse anyone of, Christine."
"I know, but the way he spoke and the things he said at the time. And when he says my name, there are emotions there that no angel should possess."
"What emotions?" Gustave asked, now rather disturbed by what he was hearing.
"When he isn't particularly angry, there's a warmth there I don't know how to describe, and sometimes I think I hear . . . reverence, which I don't understand."
"Are you certain he's a man?" He asked one last time.
"Before the concert, I was so nervous; I went to the dressing room to see if I could hear him once more before I had to perform. It was pitch black, but he was there. He asked if I doubted him, and I said that I just needed to hear him. When he answered me, his voice was right next to my ear. He's done that before, but I've never felt his breath on my skin. He was stood there right next to me for quite a while until I had to go."
"Did he touch you?"
"No. And I didn't dare even try to touch his arm and find out for certain. But surely no angel could do that and not been seen in the dark?"
Gustave looked at his goddaughter, who was as much like a child of his own as she was to Antoinette. He saw the hope in her eyes, the convictions and the doubts.
"I think you're right. Whoever he is, I think he must be a man." Christine breathed a sigh, whether it was of relief or not she couldn't say.
"Because I don't believe angels can love." Her head snapped back up to her Uncle.
"I know it should be Antoinette's job to be the old romantic, seeing as you women usually have the flair for these things, but I think it's fallen to me. If you are certain he was jealous when you were talking about young de Chagny, then I would have to say it explains that and the rest of his behaviour. Have you never wondered?" Christine struggled to answer, her mouth opening and closing in disbelief.
"It crossed my mind once, but I never seriously considered. . ."
"Then don't." She turned back to him, now extremely puzzled.
"If he does indeed love you and has promised to keep you safe, then he won't break his word. Wait for him to say something on the matter, and until then, enjoy the relationship you have. If you think about it too much, you'll only end up spoiling that."
"Then you don't object that he's deceiving me?"
"Do you?" Christine thought about it a few moments – not needing very long, seeing as she'd thought of it many times before.
"He only called himself the Angel of Music when I did. He says he wants us to show the world what music can be together. I don't know why he keeps to the shadows, but I think he plays the part because it's the only way he can teach me, and stay invisible."
"Do you know who he is?"
"No. I think he might be the Opera Ghost though."
"The one whose house you live in?" She nodded. "And you still don't mind?"
"He's not the Angel of Music, I know that. But he's my angel of music. I don't mind, because I don't think he's visiting."
Gustave squeezed her hand before getting up and pressing a kiss to her forehead. Christine had always lived in a relatively small world, so she was not one to open up easily to others. She certainly didn't give away her trust or even the most basic of her affections easily. And this 'angel' had inspired a devotion in her that she had only ever shown to family.
To her loved ones.
Was it possible? Antoinette had arranged for her to live in the Ghost's house. She would know more about this man, whoever he was. Whatever the relationship Christine shared with him, if there were any signs of it being taken advantage of, Antoinette would not have it. He trusted Christine's judgement of the man, and he trusted Antoinette's judgement of the situation. Not that he would stop praying. As he reached the door, ready to leave Christine to change for the operation, he paused and turned.
"Oh, Meg wanted me to try and get it out of you, since you weren't particularly forthcoming. Where did you get the dress from? You were exquisite."
Her eyes filled with tears a little.
"He gave it to me." She whispered
"Christine?"
"He doesn't know about this." she said, gesturing towards the right-hand side of her face. "You saw the dress he got for me; he thinks I'm that beautiful. He expects nothing less than perfection in our lessons. Even if he isn't an angel, he's still so . . . daunting." She answered, her voice shaking. Gustave returned to her side and held her fiercely before holding her at arm's length so she looked directly into his eyes.
"Christine, stop. If he loves you, it won't matter. If he cares anything about you, it won't matter. I'll warrant he seeks perfection only in your voice, which we all know you can give. And you are beautiful. Never mind about the scars. You are beautiful and you always have been, and after today, there won't be any scars to discourage a worthwhile man. I'd say worthy, but I don't think the gods have made him yet."
Christine smiled and returned the hug.
"You old rogue. You'd like him you know." She said as he straightened up once more.
"Why's that?"
"He always knows just what to say as well."
"I think I might like him, you know." He said with a smile
"Gus-Gus." She replied with a slight groan.
"I'll come up with a story for the dress."
"Just don't involve the wardrobe department. Meg has a lot of friends there."
"Why am I not surprised?" They shared a smile.
"Uncle Gustave, thank you." She returned with deep feeling.
As she started readying herself once she'd been granted solitude, her thoughts returned inevitably to her angel. They focussed on the song they had shared. Each line of the stanzas had been about a pair being broken apart in such a way as you could only wonder how each half would survive without the other. When she had been left to sleep last night, the only thing to keep the nightmares at bay had been the sound of his voice, filled with those questions. She had not missed the way his voice had become richer the one time the song allowed him to sing and call her a Stóirín. His little treasure. Had he been waiting for her to reply with a Grá for reasons other than the music required it? She had sung for him in the concert when she had first thought she could only sing for her father with any success, and he knew it. And then she had left him. But he had blessed her when he knew that she was coming back, he had called her his darling.
But never his love.
She had an idea.
When Gustave passed Antoinette in the hallway, they exchanged a look that promised a long talk later, but also that everything was OK. By the time she reached Christine's room, her daughter had gotten into the hospital gown and removed all traces of make-up. The reminder of the state she had been in after the fire came flooding back, but was quickly pushed aside out of habit.
"Mother, when you go back tomorrow, will you do something for me?"
He had spent two days staring at his portraits of her, at the curtain that hid his gift for her from sight. He could not bear to look upon it directly, knowing she was gone. The only music that his fingers could draw from the keys was dark, gloomy and bitter. He didn't want to risk it drowning out the sound of her sweet voice raised in song, blending with his.
He could not lose the memory of her calling him her love.
Even if it had only been because the song required, it still made his heart swell. He had sung that last line to her to try and convey that he understood the words. He knew she did, for she sang them with such meaning, and it was not the kind inspired solely by music. She had promised to come back as soon as she could. He hoped she kept that, because he could not take three weeks of this.
How can the heart survive? Can it stay alive If its love's denied for long?
She had sung the words. And he knew the answer.
No.
"When I'm miles and miles apart from you I'm beside you when I think of you, a Stóirín a Grá" He did not even realise the words were coming from his lips until he was halfway through, but he did not stop the music. As he whispered the last four words, he found himself caressing his latest portrait. Christine as she was on the stage, radiant with beauty as music poured from her. The watercolour was filled with a silent ecstasy that he had created. He had made her happy. Would that she were here so he could do it again.
This was how Antoinette found him: hunched over the organ, singing softly to a picture of Christine. She saw the others that were scattered within his reach and knew there were more. Gustave had explained as much of his conversation as he could without breaking Christine's trust. That her daughter had made the connection about her tutor's possible identity was about the only thing to surprise her. The rest merely strengthened her resolve to keep a close eye over the two of them.
She nudged a loose rock, the sound alerting him to his presence. She was still far enough away it did not look as though she had invaded his privacy. He knew though, she could see it in his eyes. But he appreciated it nevertheless.
"Shouldn't you be with your daughter, Giry?" He threw over his shoulder as he began gathering up the drawings. He knew she had seen them, but they were still his and she did not need to see the detail.
"Meg is watching our video of The Nutcracker before the Royal Ballet production begins. I had time for a visit."
"And what would bring you down here away from the festivities today of all days?" He asked sardonically.
"I come bearing a gift." His head whipped round, uncertain as to what to make of this.
"Madame,"
"If by my daughter, you were referring to Christine, she is with Gustave and she is well." His shoulders sagged slightly with relief.
"And she was most insistent that I come."
"She wanted you to come and see me?" He echoed hesitantly.
"Actually, she wanted me to leave her gift in front of the mirror. Since I can only assume that means it's for you, I thought I would ignore her instructions as well and deliver it in person." He had expressly forbidden her to visit at Christmas, as she had tried several times in the past. Her excuses had actually been quite inventive. This was the first time one had worked though.
"She sent me a gift?" He had yet to move. She stood before him.
"What is Christine to you?" He snapped out of his daze and looked down at her.
"She is my student."
"What is Christine to you?" She asked more gently, making it clear she had no intention of letting him avoid answering.
"I don't know." He sighed at length. She regarded him, reading in his eyes what he couldn't say. She took her hand out from her coat and offered Christine's gift to him.
He reached for the rose, unable to believe it was real, that this was real. He lifted it with the same care as when he had lifted Christine those weeks ago. It was a single yellow rose whose bud was just beginning to open; the stem bare save for two leaves, leaving room for the sprig of white ivy wrapped carefully around it.
"She was very particular about it. She knows the meaning of flowers."
He cradled the flower as he would a child. He slowly moved backwards and sank down onto the stool again, all the while staring at the bloom he held. Antoinette watched him, awed by this change. The only feeling he ever usually expressed outside of music was anger or something like it. Now, he was as expressive as a child. He looked as though he had been given the world and saw nothing else but Christine's gift.
"No one has ever. . ." He whispered, raising his head in wonder to look at Madame Giry. She swore she could see a tear in his eye.
"Happy Christmas, my dear. From both of us." She said knowing the simple wish had come true this year as her hand rested on his shoulder. He didn't feel it though. All he saw was the rose. It spoke of joy, of friendship. He traced the ivy around the stem which spoke of affection, and then the rose leaves.
She had given him hope.