An Unexpected Visitor
He stepped out from his hiding spot for the final assault but stopped dead in his tracks as he came face to face with a very familiar figure. There weren't many things that could make the Phantom turn pale but this was one of them.
"Erik?" the elderly man blinked at him in disbelief.
"Father?"
Erik just stood there, stunned and disbelieving in the freezing fog that had rolled in from the sea. Now there was someone he never thought he would see again. But it was undeniably him, though his fair hair had long since turned white and his face had gained more than a few wrinkles and his dark priest's robes seemed a little more worn and threadbare than he remembered. He looked a lot shorter than he remembered, fairly obvious really seeing as he had only been a child when he last saw him. Just how long had it been exactly? He wasn't entirely sure, although logically it couldn't be any more than thirty years. Truthfully, his past felt like some kind of incomplete puzzle and he had lost more than a few pieces, and the memories that remained could never quite be placed in the right order. Nor did he want to give an order to that scattered collection of horrors.
"What are you doing here?" was all he could say, feeling so thoroughly shaken by the encounter that his usual instinct to disappear into the shadows was forgotten entirely. What on earth was the man doing here, surely this had to be more than coincidence. Had he been following them? That didn't seem likely. Father Bernard was an intelligent man but he hardly had the time or the energy to track him for three decades over three continents. What had he forgotten?
"Is that any way to address your tutor?" cried the elderly priest his face betraying a similar level of distress that he himself was feeling. "Where have you been all this time? I thought you were dead!"
"I think it would be best if we went inside." The Phantom replied, still feeling a little blindsided "There is much to explain."
Mifroid glanced across the small table at the woman who was quite possibly the only useful source of information. He was about to go home all engines blazing, determined to go to the Opera House to find her when the boy on the front desk had handed him a rather cryptic note from the very woman he was intent on questioning. Now they found themselves in a small cafe on St Germaine des Pres surrounded by a far more artistic crowd than he was used to. Mifroid did not approve of the creative temperament, and found the people who possessed it rather rude.
"I was rather surprised when I received your letter, Madame." He said with a slight chuckle "In fact I was about to go and see you."
"I heard they took you off the Phantom case." She said sympathetically.
"Well we were only supposed to be there for security measures." He replied, a little bitterly "La Surete normally take care of the investigations. Well that and I may have offended the Vicomte de Chagny."
"Yes, I heard about that. They're still searching the cellars, and they're keeping the whole thing very quiet so I suspect that they're... assuming the worst."
"But that could take them weeks." Mifroid exclaimed. "Trust me, Madame; it is no easy task finding a body in a place like that, especially when there isn't one."
"Then I'm correct in thinking that you believe that Christine is alive." Said Madame Giry with a smile. "I was hoping that was the case. You see, she is like a daughter to me; she very nearly was in fact. And while I have good reason to believe that she is safe, I could not live with myself if that wasn't the case."
"Just what exactly are you suggesting?" he asked, he had come here for answers and had only ended up with more questions. Shouldn't she have gone to the Vicomte for help if she wanted to find the girl? They shared a common goal after all.
"You discovered how his illusions work; you found a way into his house in a matter of hours. I've been searching for it for years and did not even come close. La Surete wouldn't know where to begin if it weren't for you." She replied earnestly.
"Flattery will get you everywhere, Madame." He joked but she ignored him.
"That is why I need your help. I need to find them. I need to make sure she's all right, that he's all right."
"Madame, who is he exactly?" Mifroid asked. The Vicomte mentioned that the woman knew the Phantom but her statement had been far from cooperative and she had not said much.
"Before I tell you anything monsieur, you must promise to help me as I have asked, and to promise that you will not tell another soul about any of this, not the police, not even your own family."
Mifroid hesitated, his own vigilantism deflating slightly. Was she asking him to aid a fugitive? That was a little heavy, even for him.
"Madame, this man has committed at least one murder. Now even if he hasn't harmed Mlle Daae, I can't just turn a blind eye to that."
"I understand monsieur." The ballet instructor replied, her face still largely unreadable. "Then may I at least ask you not to report to the authorities until after we have found them. Then when you have all the information you can do whatever you think is right."
Mifroid nodded, seemed a lot more acceptable but her confidence worried him a little. Was she really so convinced that such a murder could be justified? Well she was horribly mistaken.
"I don't need an answer right now monsieur, but if you decide to help me then I will be waiting here at the same time tomorrow evening. For now I think it would be best if we stayed away from the investigations at the opera house." Mme Giry concluded finishing her glass of wine and getting up to leave. "Farewell monsieur, I hope we shall meet again." And before he could question her further she was gone leaving the aging gendarme in the smoky cafe.
She was still shaking. How long had it been and few minutes, an hour? He hadn't come after her. She had been afraid of that. She would have to explain herself eventually. Explain what it was that had made her lash out. She needed time. Just a little longer, to think of exactly what she wanted to say.
In the past, when she was still a child and he was still the Voice or the Angel, he would listen to her confessions. They weren't really confessions, as they very rarely talked about her sins. The subjects of these conversations were mostly things like how she was feeling and the dreams she had. Sometimes she would tell him if she'd done something wrong. She had been so convinced of his omnipresence that she felt it best to come clean if she misbehaved, in case lying would anger him even more and drive him away.
He was never angry with her though. He would scold her sometimes if she neglected practising for his lessons, but for the most part he would just listen patiently and usually dispense a little angelic advice, most of which involved apologising to Mme Giry.
And as for the dreams, well for a long time he made them go away entirely. Reassured by his presence and safe in the knowledge that her father was safely in heaven where he belonged and not lost in some other dark unthinkable place, and that she had at least some chance at redemption, her childhood nightmares and sleepless nights had slowly faded away. Oh they resurfaced occasionally, how could they not, but when the Angel was near her she felt that almost forgotten certainty that everything would be all right. Perhaps she had become dependent on that certainty. Perhaps that was how it had all gotten so out of hand.
Because after a while, the voice alone was not enough, she began wishing that it could somehow be made flesh, take on a human form so it could be with her always and not for the few precious hours of her lessons and conversations. And when her dreams confirmed this desire in the most vivid detail, she felt she could no longer keep her wish to herself and on the day of her next confession, she told the Angel of her most intimate dream. There must have been other time when he had made mistakes, but perhaps she had never noticed them, or more likely she had chosen not to notice them. But his interest in the dream seemed far more human than anything she had heard from him before. He had wanted to know every last detail, and in spite of her growing doubts he had told him, the knot of fear collecting in her stomach combined with the strange emotion she had felt in sleep.
Then everything had fallen apart, although she was not sure if it had been her confession that had encouraged him to reveal himself or Raoul's sudden reappearance in her life. Perhaps it was a little of both, that had lead him to take her from her dressing room and confirm what she had suspected for such a long time but had not been able to face.
She heard the back door open and close and as she peered from behind her curtain she could just about make out his shape in the darkness of the walled garden. Where had he gone? Had he abandoned her already like before when she had seen his face? Had he merely gone for a walk to calm down?
She couldn't bear it if he left her again. The first time, with the pain of his lies and his anger fresh in her heart and the darkness creeping back over her far stronger than before, had been almost as painful as the night her father died. Because if there was no angel, then father hadn't sent him, and if he hadn't sent him then he couldn't be in heaven, and if he wasn't in heaven then... She couldn't carry on that thought, but for week it had continued in an endless loop in her mind coupled with that face and rage and the pain and the complete and utter despondency that was far greater than her own. What kind of life had he known? It had all been too much. She had needed someone, anyone. And Raoul had been there.
She was about to get changed for another troubled night when she heard voices downstairs.
The elderly priest looked around the music room with approval. Erik had poured them both a rather large cognac each, he had a feeling they would both need it. The man's presence unsettled him and it brought up memories he did not wish to think of, about his mother especially.
"I like what you've done with the old place." Father Bernard said with a nervous laugh, of course he would be nervous, Erik would have felt the same way if the scrawny deformed child he had taken pity on had grown into such a monster.
"Spare me the small talk, father, how did you find me?" he snarled.
"That's just it, lad. I didn't think I would find you. But when the notaire mentioned that someone had bought the Destler house, I just knew it had to be you. I knew that if there was the slightest chance you were still alive, you'd find your way back here." The old man babbled excitedly, forgetting his fear for a moment.
"The Destler house? What on earth are you talking about?"
"Don't you remember this town, Erik? I used to bring you here when you were a boy during the summer. Your grandfather built this house you might not have recognised it, you were only six and it didn't have those awful walls back then. And we used to walk along the beach every morning and watch the changeable tide."
So that was why he had been so drawn to the place. There had been something familiar about it, something that he couldn't put his finger on. But he had long since forgotten the name of the town or the arrangement of the landmarks, the tide had brought back memories, but it was like that all around that part of the coast and there were probably hundreds of villages like this one, so why had he chosen it? Had it been an unusual coincidence or had the memory been there deep beneath the surface of repression.
"The changeable tide, of course, I had almost forgotten. You'll forgive me for not dwelling on my childhood, father. You know as well as I do that it was not a happy one. After what happened, I preferred to forget." Erik sighed.
"Yes, I know." The priest said regretfully, "But what brings you here now? I saw you this afternoon with a young girl. Is she yours?"
Erik looked up sharply at the unusual question before realising that the old man had assumed that Christine might have been his daughter, and who could blame him, she was certainly young enough. The fact that the priest had seen the together had set him on his guard, he would surely ask too many questions, perhaps even demand to talk to Christine herself. And who was to say that he wouldn't go to the police if he learned the truth.
"No." He said unable to hold back the sadness in his voice at the other meaning of the man's question. "No, she is not mine."
The priest's concerned face became visibly worried and he lifted a trembling hand as though he was about to reach for Erik's arm or shoulder but decided against it and took a sip of his drink instead. He seemed wary, as though he understood that Erik was no longer the child he once knew.
"Then who is she? Erik...Son, if you have anything to confess, please do so now. If you're in trouble I can help you."
"Help me?" he heard himself laugh derisively the well of bitterness inside him suddenly overflowing. "Help me, father? How exactly do you propose to help me? I may not have remembered this place old man, but I remember you and all your self-righteous meddling and empty prayers. Will you make me sing again for your entire congregation like a performing monkey, father?" he was feeling the darkness creep up on him until he was blinded by it, like countless times before, like every time he saw her with that boy, safe in their snowstorm.
"I only thought it might help you, boy, I did not expect them to react as they did." The older man said earnestly. "And I wish to help you now, you and the girl."
"You sent me out there, like a lamb to the slaughter!" He bellowed "Now I suggest you leave, father, and if you have any sense of self-preservation you will not come back here. What I do is no business of yours." His voice had lowered to a low growled as he strode to the door and held it open for him. He did not miss the frightened gasp from the landing as he moved to the front door, or the sound of Christine scurrying back to her room. Just how much had she heard. The girl was too curious for her own good, not that loved her any less for it. Her incessant questions as a young girl had been rather endearing.
"You may threaten me all you want, but I will not turn a blind eye to this. If you have done anything untoward I demand to know." The priest said calmly as he had addressed him so many years ago when Erik had had one of his episodes. "If you need me, the church is easy enough to find, I reside in the cottage behind it. I shall return tomorrow when you've calmed down." He said finally as he made to leave.
"You will come to regret that decision." Erik mumbled after he had closed the door.
There had been a man downstairs the night before. There had been shouting but she could not hear what was being said from her spot on the landing. She had snuck out of her room when she heard her false angel return, using the excuse of fetching some water to wash with in her room, the thought of sharing a bathroom with Erik was still a little too much to handle even if there was a lock on the door. But suddenly the door to the music room opened and like the coward she was, she had scuttled back to her room, not ready to face him or the stranger just yet.
She peered at the clock from under her quilt. It had been nearly six in the morning when exhaustion finally claimed her after hours of lying awake in the chilly bedroom, worries and nightmares blending together seamlessly. It was now nine; she had only been asleep for three hours. She almost missed the chloral... almost. After that disastrous performance of Il Muto, Raoul had insisted on taking her to a doctor, who had put her insomnia and mild hysterics down to the stress of her sudden rise to fame and the pressures of rehearsals. And she had not argued; she knew what happened to mad people in hospitals. It was far easier to convince herself that it had all been a dream and to take her knockout drops every night, than to face the reality of what had happened, or what might have happened.
The season had ended early that year and she had fallen into a routine of ballet lessons and almost religious fasting and artificial sleep and sitting quietly through Raoul's weekly visits feeling nauseous and exhausted. He must have liked her drug induced passivity because he returned every weekend with even more lavish gifts and pink flowers by the basket-load, fresh from the deChagney hot-house. After a while, with no sign of her angel anywhere, she had begun to believe that maybe it was all a dream, and her childhood friend turned her head with memories of her father from that magical summer by the sea, when she had been wholly innocent and before everything had gone wrong. He made her feel like she was that person again, she didn't care if it was a lie, she wanted to be that girl again, pure and without a care in the world. And when he had proposed on Christmas Eve, she had said yes. But she couldn't quite bring herself to reply when he told her he loved her. She had not said those three words in such a long time; she honestly had no idea what they meant anymore. And she could not bring herself to wear his ring on her finger, that strange feeling of dread and guilt would always stop her hand.
Then on the night of the bal masque when her angel had returned in all his terrifying glory, she found herself lost for words. She was amazed that she didn't pass out in front of him, like the first time he'd been near her. She had not taken her tincture that evening, and after a good six hours of lying awake in her tiny room listening to the sound of her fiancé's snoring when he was supposed to be standing guard, she had taken the entire bottle with her and slipped out into the snowy morning towards her father's grave, not quite sure what she was going to do.
There was a soft knock at her bedroom door and Christine froze under the covers. She hastily sat up in bed and made sure her robe was tied, she had slept in it along with one of the warmer nightgowns she had found in the dresser. It had been so cold during the night and there was no wood in her fireplace, and she did not dare go downstairs to fetch some.
"Yes?" she called, her voice wavering a little with fear, she had locked her door the night before but with someone like Erik it didn't seem like quite enough.
"Christine, may I come in?"
He didn't sound particularly angry, perhaps staying away for the night had allowed him to down a little. Slowly she got to her feet, shivering a little as she left the warmth of her bed and moved across the thick rug and unlocked the door. She opened it slowly to reveal Erik, already fully clothed and carrying a breakfast tray. He had made her favourite, porridge with a spoonful of honey on top along with a pot of tea and some bread from yesterday that had been toasted. How did he know? She must've told him once. The scene was so bizarre that she couldn't help smiling a little.
His heart almost stopped when she opened her door to him. He had half expected her to still be angry at him, although he still wasn't quite sure what had set her off last night. But there she was, still in her night clothes, her hair a mass of chestnut tangles and her large brown eyes just staring at him with that odd mix of emotions that he was sure he'd never fully understand. And oh dear god, was she smiling at him? She'd never smiled at him before, at last not since he'd revealed himself to her and before that it had been the angel she had been smiling for, not him. But she was smiling now, and he felt as though he might drop the tray at any moment and take her right there against the doorframe.
"I thought you might be hungry." He forced out, realising he had been staring. It wasn't her state of undress that had him on edge; he had seen her in far more revealing clothes, both onstage and that night by the lake. It was definitely the smile that had rendered him speechless, and the small fleeting vision of him bringing his wife breakfast in bed. How he would treasure such moments if he had them. But he knew with a sinking feeling that he would not. He wasn't even fit to touch the hem of her dressing gown. She eyed the tray of food, seeming a little nervous, just like she had done as a child. It was then that he noticed how tired she looked and wondered if losing her appetite wasn't the only problem that had come back since he had been away. Had he been the cause of this? Had no one even noticed?
"I don't think I can remember the last time I ate breakfast." She said quietly.
"You must eat something, Christine. You hardly touched your dinner last night." And now he was sounding like an overbearing mother. It was a little hypocritical of him; he probably ate even less than she did.
"I-I know. But I'm not sure if I can." She stuttered. He had expected her to say something like that, so he had decided to at least make her something she liked and that was easy to swallow while still being quite nourishing.
"I can bring you something else, if you don't like it." He encouraged. He could see the guilt in her expression.
"It's not that, I just ... W-would you sit with me?" he certainly hadn't been expecting that and could only nod dumbly as she took the tray from his hands and drifted back into her bedroom. She halted as she caught a glimpse out the window with a surprised gasp.
"The sea, it's gone!"
He looked out over the wide expanse of sand and salt marsh where the sea should have been. "It's a dry harbour. The tide goes out for miles."
"It's so strange. Like a desert." She said moving to sit on the bed and began pouring her tea. He felt a flutter of relief when she began eating, and was glad that he had arranged for regular deliveries from the nearby dairy farm.
He decided to sit at her writing desk, with the chair turned to face her. It was far enough away, so he wouldn't make her nervous. That and he didn't trust himself to get too close.
"I suppose so. But deserts aren't usually so flat." He replied but regretted the comment. Why on earth had he said that? He had been silent about his past for so many years, which was fairly easy since he had no one to talk to. But now he was filled with a desperate longing to share his life, countered with a paralysing fear of rejection once she learned the truth.
"Have you been to a desert?" she asked curiously.
"Yes, but that was a long time ago." He said dismissively. She looked hurt, and he wished he could have been a little braver and told her about the blistering heat, and the sand storms, and how cold it could get when night fell but the stars were so bright with the milky way arching across the sky, that he found it hard to truly resent that harsh environment, even though it nearly killed him.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to pry." She said quietly, pushing her food around. "And I'm sorry for what I did last night. I don't know what came over me."
"Don't apologise. You have nothing to apologise for." He cut her off sharply. He had just taken her away from everyone she knew and loved, she had every right to hate him.
"I just... I hate it when you say things like that. That I should have let them kill you. Do you truly believe that?" she said, her eyes shining with unshed tears. "What kind of life have you known that would make you think that?"
"Christine, if you knew that life it would not be my words that you hated." He replied coldly and got up to leave, ignoring the turmoil that she inspired within him. Had his words really affected her so much? He had expected her to be angry, to have seen sense and demanded that he return her to Paris. But instead her concern seemed to rest solely with him. He just couldn't trust that. He didn't dare to. If she knew what he had done, what he had planned to do she would not look at him with such concern.
She fought back tears as he door slammed and could no longer stomach the sickly sweetness of the oatmeal. She had tried once again to make peace and once again she had been shot down for it. And once again she had no idea how to draw him from his black mood.
She had broken through the thin sheet of ice on the surface of her wash bowl and attempted to make herself appear at least reasonably presentable before she dressed. Erik had mentioned something about them having hot water through some form of boiler, but she had no idea if it was working or not. At the opera house she had never had access to that kind of luxury, and had to make do with the kettle and tin bath in the dormitory wash room.
Thinking of it sent a rush of homesickness through her, that place had not been the nicest place to grow up but it was still a home to her in many ways. She realised that she missed Meg and Madame Giry terribly and wished there was a way she could let them know she was all right. She missed Raoul as well though perhaps not as much as she had expected to. The thought made her feel guilty, as did the idea that although she was still fond of her childhood friend she couldn't help viewing her sudden removal from the responsibilities of her engagement with a certain degree of relief. Was he looking for her? What would happen if he found them? She tried not to think of it, for if her angel found himself at the end of the vicomte's sword she was certain that she would not be able to stop him. And it was never her intention to see anyone hurt.
She did not hear from Erik for the rest of the day and the door to him remained resolutely locked. She had no clue what he was doing in there, at first she believed him to be composing but there was no sound and most definitely no organ music. Although with Erik's obvious talent she wouldn't have been surprised if he was able to pull entire symphonies fully formed out of his head without once touching an instrument. Her father had told her that Mozart had been able to do that, and in her opinion Erik could easily rival those great composers in brilliance and while he was no angel she still felt humbled that he had chosen her as his pupil.
After she had dressed she made her way down to the kitchen, noticing that Erik hadn't cleaned up after preparing her breakfast, nor had he tidied much from the night before except for sweeping up the broken glass. She would have to broach the subject of how they were going to share the household chores. She was aware that he had looked after himself for a long time, but also that his underground home was not the tidiest of places. After he work was done she found herself at a loose end. She considered going to the music room to get a closer look at the treasure trove of instruments that were stored there, but she did not want to cause a disturbance just yet by making noise, nor did she want to explain herself if she clumsily broke something valuable.
The library seemed a much better option. And she spent a good half hour looking through all the different title, at least all the titles that she could understand. They did not seem to be arranged in any particular order which annoyed her a little, they just seemed to have been thrown together haphazardly. She would have to rectify that at some point but she realised with some dismay that that was an almost impossible task. How did one arrange Chinese scrolls in alphabetical order?
For now she would have to make do with a good read and spied a copy of La Dame aux camellias that looked quite promising. She had never read it but had adored the Opera Populaire's production of La Traviata some years ago. Her intentions were interrupted once again when he attempt at reaching it dislodged a small untitled volume which dropped to the Persian carpet with a dull thud. As she stooped to retrieve it she recognised it as a journal of sorts, and there were drawings, his drawings. The page it had opened on revealed a sketch of a majestic domed building the likes of which she had never seen before. Burning with curiosity she grabbed both books and, feeling that going out into the cold rain was not on her agenda, decided not to waste the current firewood and carried them to the kitchen intending to curl up in the rocking chair by the range. She was so focused on the notebook in her hands that it took her a few moments to notice the dark ecclesiastical figure in the garden approaching the back door.
"I had a feeling I'd see you again, Monsieur Mifroid." She smiled over her the rim of her glass of Ricard. She looked very odd in her funereal dress and her hair was braided so tightly it seemed to pull the skin on her face back. Was that how women of a certain age disguised their wrinkles these days?
"What can I say? I can't turn down a challenge." The gendarme grinned back; he definitely took no shame in his wrinkles. "...Regardless of the risks."
"Will you get into trouble with your superiors for this?" she asked curious.
"No but if my wife finds out what I'm doing, I'm dead. And I don't mean that in a figurative sense, she will beat me to death with her umbrella. She's rather proficient at brawling you know, it's one of the reasons I married her."
"Moving swiftly on." Madame Giry stated, already looking rather annoyed. "I suspect that the Vicomte deChagney is becoming frustrated by the current investigation. He's insisting that Christine is still alive, if he learns of our actions he might interfere."
"So, she's his fiancé, I might not like the lad that much but doesn't he have a right to get involved?" Mifroid asked.
"In any other circumstances it would not bother me but in light of recent events I believe that he'd only cause problems." She looked nervous, perhaps there was more to the affair than the Vicomte had told him that night.
"All right. Well perhaps we could begin with you telling me what you know."
"What happened at the Opera house had been building up for a long time. I suppose in order to fully understand it I must start from the beginning. I have already told you the circumstances of how I met the Phantom, or at least the boy who would become the Phantom. The boy in the, cage looked dangerously thin and was covered in his own filth, he looked as though he couldn't have been any more than ten years old but I never knew for sure. Once we were safely hidden in the cellars the boy broke down, clearly horrified at what he'd just done, perhaps he was even more horrified than I. I tried to clean him up but he only flinched away from my hand and clutched at that horrible sack he had been forced to wear even more tightly as though he feared I would rip it off. He was like that for a long time and the only thing I was able to do was bring him food and water. I also borrowed some old costumes from the storerooms and a mask, I felt as though it would be cleaner than an old sack with eye holes.
For weeks he would shy away from me every time I ventured down there, I'd hear him sometimes, or perhaps it would be more accurate to say that I sensed his presence since he moved almost silently, but I never saw him when I left him things. They would always be gone the next day though. He was a strange boy. The other girls in the ballet corps began to whisper rumours, about hearing noises in the night, wailing and sometimes they would hear the most beautiful voice singing. I heard them too when I tried to sleep and my heart broke for the child. That was how the story of the Opera ghost began, it continued long after he had left."
"So he left then? What happened?" Mifroid asked, he had not realised how enthralled he had been with her story.
"I was getting to that." Madame Giry frowned "Over the few months that he stayed below the Opera Populaire it soon became apparent that the child was tremendously gifted, and I soon began to bring him things that might take his interest, books and drawing materials and sheet music. He made the most amazing drawings of the stage and of the statues on the roof; they could almost have come alive from the page. He'd leave them for me to find, along with little notes saying thank you. That was how we communicated at first, and I suppose it became his preferred method for we spoke very little back then. I have some of them with me."
She handed him a bundle of yellowed letters all of which were written in the sort of loopy cursive handwriting that children learned in school. Among them was a sketch of a young woman, clearly a younger version of Madame Giry in a costume from Il Seraglio. The notes ranged from simple thank you letters to enthusiastic ramblings about what he had done that day. His eye fell on a curious one.
Dearest Netta,
I know you will scold me for going down there again but I could not help myself. You would not believe the things I found there. There is a great lake past the third cellar and beyond that if you're brave enough to swim it is a cavern that I suspect was built as part of the catacombs. I now believe the cellars are connected to a whole labyrinth of tunnels and old mine shafts that lead all over Paris and I am anxious to explore them. I know you will not be pleased but perhaps I will make a raft for us and I will show it to you the next time you visit me.
"Netta?" Mifroid read, raising an eyebrow. He really couldn't picture a horribly disfigured murderer using such a childish nickname.
"I never did let him show me the tunnels. I was afraid of the dark." Madame Giry said sadly. "Perhaps if I had I would have been able to find him. Now more than ever I keep wondering if all this could have been avoided if I had just talked to him in person, reasoned with him. He might have listened."
"There's no use dwelling on the what ifs, Madame." The lieutenant said solemnly then hastily clutched at the next letter with a sudden excitement.
Dearest Netta
I've finally deciphered the miner's symbols in the lower tunnels. My first suspicion that the strange markings were a code for them to find their way was correct but since then I have found that some of them direct you to specific places and others warn of dangers that might occur in the area, for example a simple one would be to carve a curved line to signify water, meaning that that particular tunnel is prone to flooding. I have included a list of symbols that I have discovered and their meanings.
He stared at the list, eyes almost bulging out of his head at the detail. "Oh Madame, I think you've found a new piece for our puzzle. He must have used his knowledge of those tunnels to get away."
"He learned to navigate them awfully quickly. That letter was written less than a week after the previous one. He built some sort of dory down there, one that was only big enough for a child to use."
"So you're telling me that an eight year old boy, his other talents aside, not only managed to map out Paris's vast largely unmapable subterranean networks but also knocked up a boat in his spare time out of, I don't know, old set pieces?"
"Yes, Monsieur Mifroid that's exactly what I'm telling you?" Madame Giry said sternly.
"Right, did the boy tell you anything about his true identity or where he was from?"
"Only that he was an orphan and that he had no home to return to, Monsieur." The strange woman replied. "Other than that he was a complete mystery."
"Well, he's had a least some schooling, that's for sure." Mifroid stated. "His ability to swim and build basic watercraft would suggest that he was at least partially raised in a maritime environment, but I can't be certain of that. Please continue, I believe you were about to tell me how the two of you parted ways." He said, perhaps more information would reveal itself as she went on. Right now that only solid lead they had was the letter with the symbols.
"Well things continued fairly peacefully as the months passed. He gradually began to recover from the trauma of what had happened at the gypsy camp although he still didn't speak much and became nervous if I looked him directly in the eye. For a while, things felt...settled, I suppose, if you could call it that. But although we never discussed it, we both knew that it couldn't last.
It was my fault, I had become careless about sneaking out at night to meet him, and a young man named Joseph Bouquet had followed me and accosted me in one of the corridors. I know the boy was only trying to help me but, it was too late, Bouquet had seen him right before he lost consciousness. There was no other option for him but to leave."
"Joseph Bouquet, wasn't that the other man who died?"
"The very same, he was the only other staff member who had been around back then. The police called his death a drunken accident, I was hoping that they were correct, but after the incident with Piangi I have my doubts. A more likely explanation was that he had discovered the Phantom's whereabouts and had gone looking for him, a very foolish thing to do."
"When did this man return? Are you even sure it was the same person?" the officer asked.
"You were there that night. You heard him sing. Well even as a child his voice held some strange power. It's difficult to explain. And he knew things about me, things that only he would know. He would not allow me to see him when he returned, he merely spoke to me from his many hiding places, but I knew it was the same boy I rescued all those years ago. I believe it was about five years ago, when he came back, and at that time he had been gone for almost twenty five years. As you can probably imagine, the grown man was nothing like the child I had known. I asked him about where he'd been all those years, but he refused to speak of it. Whatever had happened during his absence had left him greatly altered, cold and unemotional."
"He didn't give that impression the other night." Mifroid stated. If anything the man he had seen onstage seemed as passionate as the opera he had written.
"No, I believe he has been altered again since his return to Paris." Madame Giry agreed. "Let me tell you about Christine."