Sorry this is really late! Life has got in the way! I have decided now there will be no fixed date of updates, just once a week instead. Also, I have included a song from Faust – it is sung in French; if anyone wants to know the translation they can find it on my profile. Please favourite, follow and review! Here is Chapter Three!
Chapter Three:
THE ANGEL OF MUSIC
Paris, March 13th, 1881
Christine's POV
One of the greatest tragedies in life is that people underestimate how thin the walls are. And how someone can listen without you even knowing their presence.
Eavesdropping is a skill I learned many years ago. I first started putting it to use when I realized I had a natural talent for it. I was exploring the forest near the gypsy camp one day when a group of teenagers started hovering in the entrance, and I heard my name. It turns out that they were planning on attacking me that day when I visited the river as I did every night. They were quite far away from me, but I managed to hear every word they spoke. Therefore, on that fateful day, I did not go to the river's edge, and instead waited behind some bushes. They were angry and perplexed as to why I did not make an appearance, but soon grew bored and journeyed back to their homes. In truth, they'd frightened me so much that I did not visit the river for a year, just in case they came back. They didn't. But I didn't know that.
I started to see if I could eavesdrop on other conversations; I was successful. And I realized my talents: hiding and eavesdropping. Such flairs to appreciate!
And these "flairs" were put into action this very night! For I was in the catacombs of my home and I heard someone scream! I wondered who it was; for I had never heard that scream. It was divine; like a clash of notes on a piano, deafening yet somehow heavenly. It had immediately piqued my attention – I swiftly made my way to the place where I had heard the sound, and soon discovered that the voice had belonged to a man, when he started talking. But he had not begun the conversation; Mme. Giry had. She had called his name – "Erik", so beautiful – three times before he answered, his voice as melodious as his scream. He is an angel sent from heaven.
And I am a devil from hell.
I didn't really listen to Mme. Giry's side of the conversation; just what this mystical "Erik" said. He mentioned being "fine", to which Mme. Giry retorted that he was obviously not "fine". And he told her about his "dreams"; they must not be the dreams such a celestial creature such as him deserves. No, they are the dreams the repulsive monster that is me should have.
And I rightfully do.
He says he does not sleep; neither do I. Mme. Giry told him that no human could survive without sleep; so what does that make me? I had to strain my ears to hear the latter part of the conversation because for some reason their voices had both dropped a significant amount of decibels.
Mme. Giry then delivered the fatal blow: she was going to add to Erik's troubles. What troubles? Whatever they are, I wish I could comfort him without disgusting him. Yet that is not how life is. It is my role in life – to be revolting to everyone around me.
I had heard her go on about the person who'd revealed Erik's identity – the damnable bastard! I agree with Erik completely – who would be so cruel as to do that to someone? He's obviously been through colossal amounts of excruciating pain in his twenty-one years. . . why would someone willing add to that? I swear to God, if I ever find out who did this to Erik, I shall kill them with no remorse.
"Now one of the chorus members has left, therefore I have set you up an audition for the new place. It is tomorrow evening. I have secured the stage for you to practice now, so you must leave my company presently. The piano player is still there and will give you your sheet music. Your audition aria will be one from Faust, as that is the next opera they are putting on. I know you have heard the music and the words before so yes, you know it better than you might think. You will be successful in this audition, or I'm sorry to say this, but I will have no other choice than to cast you out on the streets. Is that clear?"
This was the most intriguing part of Mme. Giry's instructions. He was going to audition for a part in the chorus! He was going to have to sing. . . I will be able to hear him sing! If his singing is anything like his stunning voice, the angels will weep. . .
I shall weep. . .
I rapidly journey over to the little alcove the side opposite to the now-broken mirrors are; it's the part of my lair where the stage is directly under. I can hear best under there.
For some moments, moments which seem like eternity, there is silence, despite the occasional shuffles of the resident piano player's sheet music. Once again, I find myself straining my ears to hear something – anything – that confirms Erik's presence.
After a while I give up and start to travel back to the main part of my underground home, frustrated and confused. Why hadn't he shown? He seemed adamant that he would. He seemed desperate. He didn't seem like someone who would willingly break their word. And he has a lot at stake – he has his life – to lose if he does not win this place in the choir. Of course, if tonight he proved to be even just okay at singing, I'd guarantee him a place in the ensemble. If the managers felt otherwise a menacing letter could be quickly and deftly written to ensure they changed their minds. . .
Then I hear it. The sound: his voice. Then his footsteps, light and quick.
"Um. . . Hello?" His words send electric jolts through my body.
I rush over to where I can hear better and position myself accordingly.
"Yes?" says the piano player in his deep, brusque tone. "I must presume you are Erik?"
"Yes, I am," the alluring person in question answers. "I am here –"
"Yes, to practice your audition for tomorrow: 'Le veau d'or est toujours debout', Méphistophélès's aria from Act II of Faust. Do you know the words?"
"No."
He gives a small sigh and I can hear more shuffling of paper. There is a short silence between the two men while the piano player lifts up the lid of his beloved instrument and makes sure the music is correctly up on the stand. I hear the magnificent introduction; the anticipation and anxieties surrounding his voice is destroying me – I almost can't stand it anymore.
And then the bar previous to when Erik is meant to start singing plays. I take a deep breath, and Erik begins to sing.
Le veau d'or est toujours debout!
On encense sa puissance,
On encense sa puissance,
D'un bout du monde à l'autre bout!
Pour fêter l'infàme idole,
Rois et peuples confondu,
Au bruit sombre des écus,
Danse une ronde folle
Autour de son piédestale,
Autour de son piédestale,
Et Satan conduit le bal!
Le veau d'or est vainqueur des dieux!
Dans sa gloire dérisoire,
Dans sa gloire dérisoire,
Le monstre abject insulte aux cieux!
Il contemple, ô rage étrange!
A ses pieds le genre humain,
Se ruant, le fer en main,
Dans le sang et dans la fange
Où brille l'ardent métal,
Où brille l'ardent métal,
Et Satan conduit le bal! d"
I am stunned. I am speechless.
Oh Erik. . .
"Well done, that was quite good, Erik." The pianist says.
What?!
It was better than good. It was. . . Heavenly. Blissful. His voice was one of an angel, the highest angel. Ethereal. Haunting.
Perfect.
It is true that there were a few vocal mistakes, but with training – my training – he shall be absolutely divine. Flawless.
A star.
"It was?" Erik asks, an element of hope in his otherwise despondent voice.
Oh, Erik, you shall never know how utterly brilliant that was. . .
"Yes. You shall make a wonderful addition to the ensemble as of tomorrow." he compliments, yet his words and condescending tone make me burn with fury.
How dare he say that Erik is only destined for the lowly ensemble! Erik is meant for the leading role. The Maestro. The one that will draw in the crowds to the opera house, whose name shall dominate the advertising posters, the one whose voice will enchant thousands.
And I shall be the one to make that a reality. If he will let me.
I have no plan; unusually, no ideas for how to get what I desire come to mind. I shall just have to improvise and act as an angel.
An angel of music.
"I will?" Erik has an excited tone now.
Little does he know that his emotions reflect mine.
"Yes. Now, I advise you to memorize the words, as you'll be required to know them off by heart, therefore you may keep the sheet. Now, goodbye Erik, I shall see you tomorrow."
"Thank you, sir. Goodbye, sir." Erik sounded so pleased, I only hope to add to his ecstasy.
I hear the pianist leave. Erik is alone now, it is time to introduce myself.
"That foolish man!" I shout.
Erik quivers; I expected so.
"Who are you?" he inquires nervously.
"Who am I?" I make my tone sound like it is an insult. "Who am I? It seems you do not know your own Angel of Music, Erik."
"My Angel of Music?" Erik's surprise informs me that, to my utter disbelief, he has heard the phrase before.
"Yes! And I am still affronted that you do not know of me!"
"Oh, Angel," Erik pleads, "forgive me if I do not recognize your voice! It has been so long! I never thought I would hear my Angel. . . wait. How do I know you're my Angel?" He stops speaking abruptly.
My blood turns to ice. I did not imagine he would not fully believe me. But then again, he is not naïve or gullible; of course he would ask questions. I just have to come up with a convincing answer.
"You want convincing, do you? First of all, never doubt a word I say. Doubt only leads to mistrust. And you need someone to trust in your life, don't you, Erik? Someone who can make you feel safe, someone who can help you escape from your dreams. . ."
"You know about my dreams?" Erik questions, still remaining wary.
"Yes," I reply confidently. "I do not think it pertinent to divulge the intricate little details of them, but I will tell you I know they are about a lost loved one. Lost loved ones."
In truth, I made a complete guess about the nature of his dreams. Though common sense did come into action: why else would he be stuck inside this damning opera house?
"You know? About. . . Mother. . . Father. . ."
"Of course, Erik; it is my duty to know."
"Are they. . . happy in heaven?" His voice breaks; I think he is starting to cry.
"Yes, my dear, very happy," I say assuredly, a little guilt spreading inside me.
I do not want to tell him lies, but it is necessary. He shall thank me when he is the star of the Opera Populaire. What is one small lie in the grand scheme of things? It is minute; it does not matter.
"Have they s-sent you here t-to enquire about m-me?" Erik stammers – I guess it is out of shock.
"In a sense, Erik," I reply, readying myself for the request that is about to come. "You see, your parents were musical, and they have finally deemed you ready to receive tuition. Once in every great singers' lives, they are visited by their own Angel of Music, who seeks to improve their voices so they can truly astonish others by their unique gifts. You have been born with this magical potential, Erik, therefore you will obtain help from your Angel of Music. And that is I, Erik. You are ready. Ready to be celebrated. Ready to be a star."
"My parents wanted this now? They told me about the Angel of Music, but I assumed it would be a visit in a dream when I was a child, a juvenile fantasy. I am an adult now; I didn't realize these things could come true. I didn't realize my parents still wanted me to sing. . ."
He is only doing this for his parents. Well, I shall have to rectify that, shan't I?
"Yes, your parents wanted you to sing, but after the tragic ordeal – once again, I shall spare you the details – they saw you were in an unfit state to begin your training. Therefore, they have waited – until now."
My words were slightly shaky; I can't tell whether he believes me fully or is thinking that it is a massive coincidence that the day he was due to be thrown out of his home, a singing "angel" has come to help him. I don't know. I can't tell.
"Oh. . . okay. It seems they haven't forgotten me," Erik says, to my sheer relief.
"No; they will never forget you, Erik," I respond quickly.
"When do you want to give me lessons then? Where?" His voice is still a bit wary and awkward, but thankfully less than before.
I think rapidly. I have a meticulous plan in mind.
"Here, every night, same time. We shall see how that arrangement turns out. Are you happy with this, Erik?"
"Yes." His voice is doubtless.
"I shall come at that time then. I must leave now, Erik."
"Yes, I shall see you soon, Angel. Thank you." I hear him begin to walk away.
I am alone once again now, but currently I am filled with hope and promise, not darkness and despair. I will turn his already wonderful voice into something truly magical. And then. . . Maybe. . .
No, I refuse to think that far ahead in the future. It will only damage the whole process. I resign myself to this method.
Though I have now been inspired; I decide to continue composing for a little while. I move over to my organ, retrieve the composition I have been working on, and begin to play.
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