Disclaimer: I do not own the Phantom of the Opera or any of its characters, they are the brainchilds and brilliance of Gaston Leroux, Susan Kay and Andrew Lloyd Webber. Any song lyrics used are strictly the property of Andrew Lloyd Webber, Richard Stilgoe and Charles Hart.
A/N Okay, this chapter really drained me to write, but prepare yourselves for my LONGEST chapter yet. Phew! I was originally going to divide it into two seperate chapters, but then I felt the dramatic impact was lost if it wasn't kept as a whole. So, enjoy!
Chapter sixteen.
"You look beautiful Christine."
Christine turned to find Madame Giry standing in the doorway gazing at her. She smiled, "just one finishing touch…" She reached over to the mantel-top where a pair of light, feathery wings lay, and attached them securely to the back of her flowing white gown.
"You look like an angel," Madame Giry smiled. Christine grinned, "Well, I'd rather hope so as that was really the point. Is Meg ready?"
"Almost!" came a cry from the opposite side of the hallway. She emerged from her room carrying a length of black, fluffy material, "now who wants to attach this?" Christine smirked at her friend's antics, indicating for her to turn around so she could attach the tail to her cat costume. They all stood before the full-length mirror and admired their handiwork.
"Yo-ho, yo-ho… a pirate's life would be…" Patrick emerged from the shadows of the hallway, his rough voice lifted in a light sing-song fashion. "Well aint ye a sight t' see!" He growled, drawing his black mask down onto his face. "So, my dear ladies… are we ready to go masquerading?"
XxXxXxX
Christine descended the steps of the carriage gracefully, her white feather mask tucked securely beneath her arm. A pirate, a cat, and a stern ex-ballet mistress descended the steps after her, all staring up at the Opera House with awe of its splendor. The managers had truly gone out of their way to make the evening impressive and majestic. Everything from the balloon lights, to the red and gold streamers that unfurled out from the tier balcony over-looking the entrance to the Opera, to the thirty or so footmen, who escorted ladies and chauffeured carriages, screamed of grandiosity. They slowly made their way up the front steps, securing their masks into position, following the rest of the guests through the foyer into the grand hall. Everything from knights, gypsies, witches and vampires, to fairies and animals of all sorts surrounded them, as they were ushered inside. Christine wondered if Erik was already there. When the heavy-set double gold and glass doors swung open before them, Christine's breath fell away as she took in the marvelous sight before her. Drapes of rich reds and golds clung to the marble walls, emphasizing the black and gold tapered candles which burned in ornate candelabras and wall sconces. A large, glittering chandelier hung above their heads the candle-light sparkling off each crystal surface to project an array of colour throughout the room. Christine stared up at it and couldn't help imagining it crashing down upon her; she shivered at the thought. A minor orchestra was fitting their instruments at the front of the great hall; preparing for the evening's festivities. She looked across at Patrick, whose countenance was suspended in awe, and she wondered whether this was the first gala even he'd ever attended.
Christine turned and saw Mr. Martineau and a man she assumed to be the other manager of the Opera standing by the doorway, greeting their guests. Meg caught their attention and proceeded over to them, smiling widely. Christine and the rest of the party followed.
"Ah, Miss Giry," Martineau nodded enthusiastically, "a pleasure as always, I'm glad our invitation found you well enough."
"Indeed sir," Meg curtsied prettily. "I believe you already know my maman, and Christine de Chagny?" Martineau nodded in polite acknowledgement, "a pleasure as always." "-and this is a friend of ours; Patrick Raynaud." The two men bowed to one another.
"Thank-you for the kind invitation," Patrick said, giving them one of his charming smiles.
"Oh, I don't believe you've had the pleasure of meeting my co-manager; Mr. Christian Faurster," Martineau said, indicating the man standing silently to his left. The ladies curtsied while Patrick gave a short bow. "This is the charming Miss Giry, our new Prima Ballerina, her lovely mother and friend; Christine de Chagny."
Faurster nodded. Christine gazed at him for a moment, noting the cool gray eyes set in hard chiseled features. He had dark brown hair that fell slightly into his eyes, a straight aristocratic nose and prominent cheeks bones. He smiled warmly at them with a serene quality, "a pleasure to meet you all. I hope you enjoy the gala."
At that moment, the orchestra struck a chord, summoning up a song and filling the hall with festive music. Christine thought this would be the perfect opportunity to seek out Erik, and she looked at Madame Giry with a meaningful glance. She nodded silently. Patrick turned to Meg, "would you care for a dance, mademoiselle?" Meg blushed a little, taking up his proffered hand, "I'd love to."
Christine slipped silently into the crowd, taking in the beautiful décor and costumes that spun in an array of colours around her. She saw many beautiful and elegant costumes, and wondered whether she would even recognize Erik if she saw him. Somehow he had always managed to melt into the atmosphere whenever he had wanted to. He could enter a scene so quietly that most people would remain ignorantly unaware of his presence until he chose to alert them to it.
She had just reached the catered food area when she thought she heard her name whispered, and turned wildly around to see if anyone had called. There was a lot of conversation and noise; could she be sure she had not simply imagined it? Or misheard someone calling another of a similar name? She stood idly by the table, her eyes roaming the crowds, devouring each masked face and costume with her eager eyes.
"Christine…"
Christine jumped; she had not been imagining it this time! She turned all the way away, desperately searching for the source of the ethereal voice.
"If this is a game Erik, it's not funny," she murmured beneath her breath.
"Christine…"
"Merde!" she cursed, slamming her palm down upon the table top, causing several guests to jump in alarm near by. "Just show yourself!" she hissed.
"Comtess?" Christine froze at the use of her Parisian title, the note of surprise and utter disbelief lightly masking the icy quality of the voice. She spun around. A pair of critical, cool green eyes looked her over contemptuously.
"Why, if it isn't Christine de Chagny," the woman almost laughed at the sight of her, throwing aside formalities. Christine paled a little as her eyes fell upon the fiery red hair, fair skin and cruel eyes of the Dutchess of Cornwell; one she had hoped never to encounter again. Her red hair was twirled into an elegant bun at the nape of her neck, with large green feathers protruding from the firm knot, her neck decorated with an array of diamonds. "I never expected to see you here. I knew you were abroad, as the Comte phrases it…, but really Comtess… another opera house?" She smirked, her thin red lips curling in malice.
Christine narrowed her eyes, catching her full implication and curtsied graciously. "Madame de Martineau; the surprise is mutual, I assure you."
"Yes," she drawled, "Richard's brother Michel is always issuing us with invitations to these sort of gatherings; we're here by special request. Besides, it is of no consequence to me, Richard and I have been in this part of the country for three weeks now; I wanted a break from France and he had business with the estate in London."
"I see," Christine responded absently, her eyes still roaming the crowd for Erik; the source of the ethereal voice.
"Yes. It's not all work though," she laughed mirthlessly, "I've been undergoing music tutelage."
"Oh? I didn't know you sang."
"Play, actually," she smirked. Christine frowned. "Piano."
"Oh."
"Yes, the man is quite brilliant… has quite a touch." Christine's eyebrows quirked briefly; were her cheeks usually that pink?
"Ah, speak of the devil…"
Christine lifted her gaze and felt the bottom of her stomach drop out from within her, and her heart constrict painfully within her chest. Erik strode powerfully towards them; the very crowd itself seeming to part before him. Christine bit her lip to stifle the gasp that threatened to betray her surprise as her eyes devoured his appearance. Her eyes suddenly began to sting with welling tears as she recognized the outfit; how could he wear something so mocking in front her? He wore tight dark maroon pants with polished knee-high leather boots, and flowing white silk shirt parted to reveal his chest, a black cummerbund and maroon jacket with a high collar. A black leather belt with silver fittings adorned his waist, on which a scabbard hung to his left, its silver skull hilt glinting maliciously in the candle-light. His black hair was slicked back from his face, which adorned a black mask, and a black cape draped across his shoulder and trailed majestically behind him. As Don Juan he was the epitome of strength and masculinity. Christine bit her lip and tried not to notice how Erik outshone all the other feeble creatures in the room, who could only dream of possessing his eternal grace and charm. In those few seconds it took him to cross the hall, Christine felt her resolve start to crumble. The way he moved and carried himself almost overpowered the room; he was both master and commander – the world was his throne, and everyone knew it.
He stopped before the two women, his yellow eyes shining coldly behind his black mask. His mouth was quirked in a slight display of amusement as he took in the horrified expression on Christine's face.
"Comtess, may I introduce to you Monsieur Deveraux?" Her eyes sparked with malice as she too, recognized the outfit. She watched Erik's gaze fall upon Christine, his yellow eyes blazing with repressed anger as her mouth fell open with utter disbelief. The very air between them became alive and charged as they stared at one another.
"Erik?" Christine choked out, her voice rising on a note of growing incredulity. "You're Madame de Martineau's new music tutor??"
His eyes hardened, "indeed," he replied stiffly.
Madame de Martineau's hand flew to her mouth in mock surprise, "Oh? Are you at all acquainted with one another?"
Christine opened her mouth to reply, but her words stuck heavy within her throat. Somehow, having representatives from both worlds acquainted with one another made the whole situation seem surreal and other-worldly.
"Vaguely," Erik replied for her, the corner of him mouth twitching.
Madame de Martineau smiled with glee at the hurt look in Christine's eyes as she stared up at Erik.
"Now, now Erik, I was just telling the dear little comtess here of our music lessons," she simpered, "there is no need to be unsociable and taciturn," she said laughing, running her hand up his arm in a flirtatious manner. "You must dance with the young Comtess here, I insist." Erik turned his cool gaze on her, the corner of his mouth quirking again.
"Only if it will appease you Cornelia, my dear." Christine's hands balled into fists at her sides at the sound of the endearment. Erik stiffly held out his elegantly-gloved hand to her, his mouth set in a grim line of resignation as his eyes assessed her coolly. "Comtess?"
Madame de Martineau stared down at her mockingly, her sharp features narrowing slightly as if daring her to take him arm. Christine stared back at her with equal intensity, the mutual loathing of one another settling heavy in the air as she reached out to take Erik's arm with cool determination. She would not allow this woman to get the better of her again.
The orchestra struck up a chord, a slow romantic song played richly on the cello and other stringed instruments. Erik hissed at the sound of an off-tune instrument amongst the players, his arm winding its way about Christine's waist, as her fingers slowly traveled up his arm to entwine with his gloved ones. His movements were fluid and languid, but his shoulders were set stiffly, his gaze averted. Christine painfully resisted the urge to rub her fingers down the tense muscles of his back, as her hand rested on his shoulder. The silence was like a thick and suffocating smoke between them, and Christine felt herself drowning in his presence once more. Being so close to him again and feeling the comforting feel of his arm around her once more was intoxicating. Her fingers burned from his touch, the heat searing through the thick leather of his gloves, seeping through her fingers and traveling down her arm, filling her body with warmth. She couldn't help but notice how perfectly they moulded into one another.
She looked up into his face only to see him glance at her with cold indifference, holding her no closer, nor touching her more than the dance deemed necessarily.
"Erik?" His cool gaze traveled down to her face once more.
"Comtess."
His cool indifference hurt her more than he could know, but inside, the darker side of Erik's persona roared with approval. If she loved him a tenth of how much he loved her, she would be suffering immensely indeed. He fought hard to repress the cruel smirk threatening to don his lips as he moved her about the dance floor. Christine turned her head and saw Madame de Martineau gazing levelly at her, the scornful smile upon her face unmistakable. Christine felt her anger flare up within her, how had she managed to worm her way into Erik's life? She looked about her at all the other couples on the dance floor, the way they spoke cheerfully with one another, completely at ease and comfortable… Christine's hand tensed on Erik's shoulder. He was playing with her, holding her at length to torture her with the nearness of his presence. Her mouth fell open; this was a game to him, his smirk betrayed it! Stupid! She cursed herself, she should have known! If it was a game he wanted, it was a game he would get.
She stroked her hand down his shoulder and felt his muscles twitch involuntarily, knowing it would provoke and anger him. The grip on her fingers tightened almost painfully. "I had no idea you were so well acquainted with Madame de Martineau, Monsieur Deveraux," she purred lightly, brushing her bare fingertips against the base of his neck.
"Indeed, she enjoys my music and I enjoy her money. She is also married to the brother of my manager, Mr. Michel Martineau."
"The great Erik Deveraux," Christine quipped thoughtfully, "-former Phantom and Angel of Music- turning parlour tricks for the amusements of rich women." He remained stubbornly silent as Christine leaned up to whisper scornfully in his ear, "I didn't know the Phantom had a price."
He swung her out from his body, his foot work light as air, yet his expression a barely contained storm of emotions. Christine pressed on, knowing she was about to unleash his full unbridled fury upon herself, yet unable to stop. She was pushing him to the limit, and yet she watched the destruction with morbid fascination.
"I must confess I was surprised to find you at another opera house, Monsieur. I rather thought you might have grown some spine and desisted from scaring little ballet girls with things that go bump in the night."
"Such as yourself?" Erik growled through gritted teeth. His hand increased its pressure at her waist as the tempo of the music changed, quickening to a swift pace. He swung her outwards, winding her quickly into himself with accordance to the dance. His strong arms were wrapped about her small form now, and his lips rested irresistible close to her ear. She fought the intoxicating haze of nonsensical euphoria from her mind, and he whispered menacingly into her ear, "No precious Vicomte here to protect you now, princess." She ducked beneath his arms, being drawn upwards to face him, "oh, the sweet irony of it all," he hissed.
"You will let me know, Monsieur, if you happen to come across a deranged psychopath lurking somewhere in the vicinity of the stairs, will you not?" She spat back angrily, "I hear he likes to make an entrance."
"How is it Comtess, that we happen to keep running into one another? I thought I made my intentions perfectly clear?" He pushed her back as he led, spinning her under his arm and drawing her back inwards like a puppet on its string. "Could it possibly be that you're stalking me?" He stared intently at her, his mouth twitching upwards in mock amusement.
The back of Christine's head came to rest upon his chest. "Don't flatter yourself – it isn't worth the effort," she scoffed. "Besides, I'm sure you know all about stalking, Monsieur, as I recall that is your area of expertise."
Erik growled as he flung her down, her hair barely skimming the ground before he pulled her up again, flinging her into his body where he held her tantalizingly close. He proceeded to encircle her, and, like a predator encircling its prey, he lavished in his seductive power over her.
"Still a petulant child," he mocked shaking his head silently, "your childish antics bore me. You will never learn, will you comtess?"
Christine gazed at him in cold bewilderment.
"You long for your play toy of old, Christine, but we cannot have everything we desire," his eyes flicked quickly over her body and she felt the heat rise to her cheeks.
"You're weak, Christine." The way he whispered those words, so cold and unfeeling, sent slivers of ice down her spine. "That's why it was so easy for me to manipulate you, even as an adult, you still cling to the childhood fantasies of the Angel of Music, as though in some way that will bring your precious papa back to you." Christine's eyes suddenly burned with tears of hatred as he spat those hateful words; how could he speak to her so cruelly?
"Well the world is cold and cruel to everyone, Christine, and you are not extraordinary enough for it make an exception." She had ceased to dance, her muscles seized in upon themselves at the sound of his hurtful words.
"H-how dare you," her words quivered with barely suppressed rage, as angry tears threatened to envelop her vision. "I hate you," she snarled unexpectedly.
Erik laughed mirthlessly, as his lips curled in malice and… victory, "Ordinarily that would have killed me to hear you say that, Christine and yet now, somehow I can no longer bring myself to care." She tried to back away from his blazing eyes; his hands which had moments ago filled her with warmth were cold as ice, strong and skeletal and reminded her of death. He seized her in a fierce grip, dragging her reluctantly close to his masked face, "you're dueling in a game you cannot win. You see, you can not comprehend that you no longer hold me in your power, Christine." And with that he pressed a rough kiss to her lips. One brief, crushing kiss… he branded her with the violence of it, leaving a bold warning upon her lips. And before it had even begun, he pushed her from him, releasing her from his skeletal grip and disappearing soundlessly into the dancing crowd.
Christine stood shaking in the middle of the great hall, feeling terribly alone despite the masses of people around her. His words had been so callous, so cruel… and how could he tarnish to memory of her father so? She hated him in that moment, hated him with every fibre of her being… and yet, as she tried to calm her shaking nerves, she knew that he was right. He was right! She had been naïve, weak, and selfish! All these things she could admit to, but she was no longer a child! Was this part of his game? Did he think by saying horrific things to her that he would eventually drive her away? No, she would not give him the satisfaction of winning again… he wanted her to run, to cry, to beg his forgiveness. She was done begging. Quickly she pivoted on her heel and stormed after the direction of the masked man.
Christine quickly found Madame de Martineau –Cornelia- again, and true to her fears Erik was by her side once more.
"Oh, little Comtess… are you quite alright? You almost look on the verge of tears."
Christine lamely muttered something about confetti being in her eye before she suddenly felt very foolish for pursuing Erik. She turned to go when Cornelia, sensing her apprehension, called her back.
"Oh, little Comtess," she simpered, winding a serpentine arm about Erik's waist to afford Christine a good view of her seeming power over him. She lavished in the bewildered glare of Christine, as she noticed Erik took no objection to her advances. "You will join us tomorrow evening, will you not?"
Christine averted her gaze from Erik's impassive face and plastered a fake smile across her lips, "tomorrow evening?"
"Yes, some friends and acquaintances of mine of having a little musical gathering, a soiree of sorts. Surely you will join us? I know of your… triumph on the Parisian stage." Christine darted a look at Erik whose face and eyes remained passive and expressionless. Cornelia followed her gaze. "Monsieur Deveraux will be there of course as my special guest." She placed a possessive hand on his arm, despite the disapproving looks of the women around her. She reminded Christine of a snake; slithery and sly, poised to attack at a moments notice.
Christine smiled graciously, "of course."
"Splendid," she retracted a small card from her silk-lined purse and handed it to Christine, her eyes glinting maliciously. She replaced her mask and hung on Erik's arm, "Come now, Erik, let's leave the little Comtess to enjoy the rest of the party," and they walked off together, Cornelia's laughter still ringing in Christine's ears.
Christine stood numbly on spot, staring at the card clenched in her fist and watching their retreating forms. Erik did not even steal a glance over his shoulder as he left; it was as though she were invisible. Suddenly Meg appeared at her side, dragging a panting Patrick behind her,
"Christine…who was that?" Meg's voice held a certain tone of awe as she peered over Christine's shoulder.
"Who was what?"
"That man Christine," her blue eyes were transfixed on Erik as he moved Cornelia about the dance floor with a rhythmic swaying motion. Patrick coughed awkwardly at Meg's outward display of pleasure. Christine smiled ironically at her friend who hadn't recognized the infamous Opera Ghost, and probably never would; then again, who would? "Who is he?"
"That, Meg, is your charming maestro, Monsieur Erik Deveraux."
Meg's gasp of surprise was audible, even in the loud and overly crowded room. "No, surely not?"
"I assure you he is."
"But he's so handsome," Patrick coughed louder this time, trying desperately to make his presence noted. Christine stared at her friends in amusement. Meg ignored him.
"Who's that woman dancing with him? Probably some snobbish, stuck-up English woman," she added sullenly. Christine snorted. "No, she's French."
"Oh?" Meg frowned, "probably some snobbish, stuck-up French woman-"
"-okay, enough already!" Patrick sighed dramatically, bringing the conversation to an end.
XxXxXxX
Christine sucked in a large breath as she gazed about at her surroundings; what was she doing here? The address printed neatly on the card had found her standing in front of a summer villa on the outskirts of London; the tall stone pillars that supported the large open balcony were entwined in luscious green vines which contrasted perfectly against the rough-cut texture of the house's stone work. She was quickly asked to produce her invitation by a footman before being ushered inside. The large oak doors closed softly behind her as the sound of a gentle piano tune drifted throughout the house, mingled with the many voices of those who had also been invited to attend.
Christine followed the sound of the music and found herself standing in front of an elaborately constructed parlour. There were long tapered candles in large, shining brass candelabras all along the wall which emphasized the numerous portraits hung high above them. At least twenty people had gathered already in the parlour, and she looked about her at all the cliques formed in little circles across the vast expanse of the room. Christine suddenly felt very lost; what on earth was she doing here?
"Comtess," Christine spun around to find Cornelia standing behind her, a broad smile sweeping across her face, never quite reaching her eyes. It was a smile that was cold and calculating and sent shivers down her spine. Christine bristled under her scrutinizing stare. She plastered another fake smile across her lips.
"Cornelia, what a… lovely party you have gathered here."
Cornelia's eyebrows quirked slightly, "yes, I really must get things underway though. Comtess." She nodded and walked off. Christine was not remorseful for her lack of presence in the slightest.
Christine stood idly beside the door, watching the scene unfold before her eyes. She caught a glimpse of Erik through a small gap in the crowd, and her breath hitched involuntarily in her lungs. Gone was the vindictive anger he had sparked within her the night before, now replaced with a cool neutrality of the situation. Although his words were laced with spite, she was sure he was deliberately setting out to hurt her with the hope of pushing her away from him. Christine had never really boasted much of a spine when it came to her former teacher, too fearful of his fits of temper. Oh, she was afraid of his black moods to be sure. But one thing she now lacked from those years ago, when the blissful fantasy of the Angel of Music still ensconced her, was her innocence, naivety and indecision. Suddenly thrown into the carnivorous world of Parisian aristocracy, she was subject to heavy critique and disdain, and had been forced to grow-up very quickly. Having tasted the bitterness of Raoul's world, she now wondered how she had ever come to desire such a life. Dear Raoul…how had she managed to warp their childhood memory into something unrecognizable? Well, gone were the days of indecision; she knew what she wanted, and for once in her life she wasn't afraid to go after it.
Whether Erik chose to acknowledge it or not, they had both entered into a dangerous game; the stakes were high and only one would emerge victorious. Christine fervently prayed it would be she who was the victor, for if she won, they both would.
Erik had yet to note her presence, and Christine was content to sit back and observe his actions casually. The way he mingled between the groups of women, with cool flattery and pleasant gestures amid many flutterings of delight, painted an astonishing picture of her maestro that Christine had never thought to witness; he was the epitome of everything charming and amiable! Christine could almost scoff at the sight if it wasn't so shocking. If she wasn't so adamant that he knew nothing of her presence in the room, she would have sworn that every one of his gestures were deliberately aimed at punishing her, for it sparked deep within her an impossible resentment and jealousy for the life of normalcy he now apparently led. Did he really need her as much as she needed him?
She watched on in bitterness as she saw that snake-of-a-woman, Cornelia approach Erik from across the room and slip her hand onto his arm in a gesture of intimacy. He bent down low as she whispered something indiscernible into his ear.What angered Christine more was that he seemed to neither reject her advances, nor treat them with surprise – as though this was a familiar thing.
Christine didn't have long to stew on this thought as she was suddenly approached by a middle-aged gentleman. "Bonjour, Madame." He greeted in French, dipping into a formal bow.
"Bonjour Monsieur," Christine answered back prettily.
"I have not seen you here before Madame; is this the first time you have attended one of Madame de Martineau's social gatherings?"
"Oui," Christine nodded, wondering why this man had approached her so suddenly.
The man dipped his head, "I must confess that you intrigued me the moment you set foot in the parlour-" She winced slightly at his over-confidant tone and he continued hastily, "-it's refreshing to see a bright new face, Madame"
Christine studied the mysterious gentleman's face; he had brown hair swept back off his forehead, a small mouth, and glasses from behind which kind brown eyes smiled at her. She extended her hand nervously, "Please, it is mademoiselle, sir."
"Oh? Even better." He took her proffered hand and pressed a swift kiss to her knuckles, "and may I enquire as to what my enchantress' name is?"
"Christine de Ch-," she stopped herself mid-sentence and coughed awkwardly, "-Daae, sir. Christine Daae."
The gentleman's eyes widened then narrowed skeptically, "Christine Daae, did you say? Former Christine Daae of the Opera Populaire?"
Christine was a little taken aback by his abruptness, but nodded slowly, "Indeed sir."
"I have heard much about you mademoiselle, and none of the praise has been exaggerated, I assure you."
"Oh?" Christine's intrigue was sparked; who could possibly be talking about her in London?
"Yes, I was even honoured to attend your stage debut in Hannibal… I did not recognize you just now - was that almost two years ago?"
"Nearly three," Christine admitted.
"And where are you performing now? Here in London?"
"I'm… not performing anywhere," Christine confessed, "I don't sing anymore."
"Good heavens! Why ever not?"
Christine's eyes dropped to the floor, "my teacher, he…" she looked across at Erik once more, "he died."
The man suddenly looked very uneasy, "Oh, I am very sorry to hear that." There was an awkward silence where neither knew what to say to break the ice. He coughed uncomfortably, grasping at any means of diverting the conversation away from the depressing topic of death. "But surely a voice such as yours, mademoiselle; a pure and refined instrument, should not be kept in the dark." Christine noted his modest use of flattery and smiled briefly. She studied his face a little more closely and noted the light wrinkles about his eyes which betrayed his age. She watched as his face lit up, a mischievous glint entered his brown eyes as his gaze fell upon the piano at the front of the parlour. Christine followed his gaze and felt the bottom of her stomach drop out from within her. Oh no…
He turned back to her with an enthusiastic smile, "Well, this is a soiree after all! Come! You shall gift the audience with a rare sight into heaven with a short rendition."
"No!" Christine said automatically, "no, monsieur, I really cannot sing anymore!"
"We shall see, mademoiselle, we shall see." He took her reluctant hand in his own large one and led her up to the front of the parlour. Christine watched in horror as curious gazes followed their sporadic movement across the parlour up to the piano. Cornelia's green eyes followed her every movement, like a snake rearing to strike, and Christine was thankful Erik was no longer by her side, though silently praying this nightmare would end. She glanced about her, panicking, searching for any sign of him, but he was not there. The circle of Cornelia's closest friends who gathered around her, one of whom Christine had met in Paris, (though she was a little less flustered and embarrassed now), stared up at Christine, their curious glances mixed with nervousness as they turned to Cornelia. She remained silent and calculating.
"Monsieur," Christine began weakly, feeling her knees wobble precariously beneath her skirts.
"Come now, mademoiselle, even if your voice is a tenth of what it was it will surely be a rarity for most of those gathered here tonight who wouldn't know a top C if they heard it – I guarantee it," he smiled encouragingly at her, flexing his fingers in expertise. Christine's head was swimming with the familiarity of the gesture and she caught Cornelia's eye as she stared contemptuously at the pale comtess who looked as though she were about to faint.
"Mademoiselle," the gentleman interrupted, placing himself in front of the piano. "I believe you are well acquainted with this piece, yes?"
Christine looked over his shoulder at the title emblazoned across the top of the parchment manuscript. Her heart gave a little flutter. Faust. Christine felt her entire body shake; and was conscious she probably wouldn't have the strength to produce a single note, no matter how soft or off-pitch. Surely this would be her downfall, and if Erik were indeed present to witness, her performance would leave him in no doubt of the probable train-wreck her voice had become without use or vigorous practice.
"Please, monsieur, I cannot sing-" she protested weakly once more.
He held up a hand to silence the crowd, "-Messieurs, Madames, Christine Daae will be singing a short rendition from the opera, Faust."
He struck a chord on the piano, then gently eased himself into the introduction, cuing for the beginning of Christine's aria.
Oh, how strange!
The first note that escaped her lips was shaky and lacking confidence, but she soon found herself relaxing as the familiarity of posture and breathing took hold.
Like a spell does the evening bind me!
She closed her eyes as the tension eased out of her body. Her hand fell upon the gentleman's shoulder as she braced for the onslaught of memories, an onslaught which strangely enough, didn't come.
And a deep languid charm
I feel without alarm….
XxXxXxX
"I said you would get your damn opera, Martineau!" Erik hissed, "but if you don't desist in your infernal pestering I cannot promise I won't tear it up the moment I-" he stopped mid-sentence. Music was filtering in through the open parlour door, and Erik felt his blood run cold. The first thing he recognized was the song; it was a scene from Faust, but then, then voice hit him. It was shy and shaky at first, reluctantly coerced into song by the gentle ministrations of the pianist. Erik felt his muscles stiffen, his eyes narrow, and his breath stop in his throat. The most innocent, remarkable, angelic voice floated out onto the balcony where he and Martineau stood, and Erik knew then beyond doubt, who the owner of the magnificent voice was. He was vaguely aware that Martineau was staring at him, his attentions also captivated by the angelic voice. His face paled as he peered around the balcony door and caught sight of Christine standing by the piano.
"Good Lord, is that little Miss Giry's friend up there? What's her name – Christie?"
"Christine Daae'," Erik muttered darkly.
"My God, that girl has a magnificent voice. You should audition her for your new opera, Deveraux."
Erik was positively seething, "I'd say she's a little flat in the upper register."
"Oh come now, Deveraux, give the poor girl a chance – she's not a professional singer!"
"Indeed," Erik said through gritted teeth, "one might wonder though, who constructed such a fine instrument."
Martineau ignored him, "just think what you could do with a voice like that; especially if she was under your tutelage."
Erik felt the anger rise up in him. "I have much better things to do with my time, as you very well know Martineau, than wasting it on teaching young girls to croon!" he snapped viciously.
Martineau shrugged helplessly, and moved closer to listen. Erik seethed at his impertinence, reluctantly stepping quietly into the parlour after him. He watched with a sense of bitter detached pride as Christine captured the hearts of all those in the audience.
With its melody enwind me
And all my heart subdue…
As Erik watched with morbid fascination she seemed to lose herself to the music, and he felt his spirit drift upwards to join her by the piano. Your soul will always belong to the theatre, Christine. Her voice reached within the very depths of his to caress his black soul with the promise of eternal beauty and light. It had been so long since he had heard her voice in his head, and now she was standing mere meters away from him, her voice ringing as true and as pure as it always had. Erik felt his relentless grip on his anger start to dissipate; the one last vice he had clung to, to keep her from his heart. If he could resent her, feel anger towards her; he could hate her. Erik looked up at the man who sat beside her at the piano; deft hands gracing the ivory keys, and felt his stomach tighten into an unforgiving knot. He knew this man.
Erik felt the hatred boil deep within him once more, but Christine was no longer the source of his anger; his own pitiful self and inexplicable actions were. Why did he insist of driving her away from him, when she came back time after time to prove her love for him? Why couldn't he let go of his anger, and allow himself to take her into his arms, as they both desperately craved him to do? Had he driven her into the arms of yet another man? He looked about himself in disgust.
None of the pathetic women in the room would ever rival the eternal beauty and grace that his angel possessed. She was perfect in every way, from her chocolate-brown trellises, to her pale ivory skin, and captivating doe eyes… but that voice… the voice that he had wrought from within that petty ballet rat to produce a beautiful and captivating swan. She was truly an angel, and yet there were imperfections in her song, from lack of regular practice and use. Undoubtedly that infernal boy had tried his best to squash to music from within her soul. But it would never truly be gone; this was one thing that the boy could never possess; her voice, her song, her soul belonged to him, and only him.
A dark bitterness rose within him, that it was not he who sat by her side, he whose fingers danced across the ivory keys. Her voice had been an inspiration to him for so long, but now, now it was nothing but torture. He could no longer listen to her angelic voice, without seeing her with the boy, feeling her betrayal cut through him like a knife. He staggered slightly; she had now given her song to another man… and had inadvertently committed the ultimate betrayal. His one last remaining hold over Christine had cruelly been ripped away from him, like everything else he had come to depend upon in his lifetime.
She came to the end, her last note spiraling into the chilling silence of the room. Dimly she was aware of the piano concluding its accompaniment as she steadied herself against the gentleman seated before it. Her head was spinning from the thrill of music, and her heart pounded madly from her breathlessness.
Erik watched on bitterly as she threw a hand out to steady herself, her hand coming to rest upon the gentleman's shoulder. He helped her upright, placing a delicate hand about her waist in a manner that spoke of intimacy. He rubbed her shoulder soothingly, bending down to whisper in her ear. Erik had seen enough.
"Are you quite alright, mademoiselle?"
"yes, I think. Just breathless."
A dazzling light caught her eye from within the crowd, and she felt the colour drain from her face as she stared into the eyes of her former maestro, the light reflecting off his brilliant white mask.
"Erik," she whispered, her brown eyes lighting on his smoldering golden gaze, His cold countenance had been expelled from his body, and she saw his heart laid before her in that stare. And then he was gone. There was a moment of silence, where the whole room seemed suspended in time, and then they erupted into applause.
"My dear," the gentleman spoke softly, "you have a voice that would captivate London. Allow me to introduce myself mademoiselle; I am Gaston de Chateau; formerly of France."
"The composer?" Christine replied distractedly; her eyes scouring the parlour for any sign of Erik.
"Composer," he nodded slowly, "and musician. And… vocal tutor if you would allow me the great honour. It would surely be a crime to keep a voice such as yours free from the stage of London," He leaned closer to whisper in her ear, "London will fall at your feet." Just give me your soul and I will give you the heart of Paris, Christine. The familiarity of the words struck a sudden chill in Christine's spine.
She backed away, "I'm sorry monsieur, I need-"
He held up his hands quickly, "I understand. I do not expect an answer straight away." He reached within his jacket and extracted a card from an inner pocket, "here is my card." Christine took the card from his outstretched arm hesitantly, where he captured her hand in his own, "It was a pleasure meeting you mademoiselle," he purred, brushing his lips against the soft skin of her knuckles. "Until me meet again."
"Yes, excuse me!" Christine dashed away before Monsieur de Chateau had a chance to detain her any longer. She could feel his eyes boring into the back of her head as she wound her way through the crowd now gathered in the parlour.
The band had resumed its position at the front of the parlour, and had started to play a soft waltzing tune. A space was cleared amongst the crowd and several couples took to the floor. Christine turned back to see if Monsieur de Chateau was watching her and immediately collided with a tall form, stumbling clumsily.
"Oh, excuse me mon-" Christine looked up. A pair of cold yellow eyes stared down at her calculatingly. "Erik," she breathed fearfully.
His hand shot out abruptly, making Christine jump slightly with surprise. "A dance madame?" he whispered silkily.
"Erik, I –" she looked at him. "What?"
"A dance."
Christine nodded dumbly, utterly confused with the whole situation and the emotions running torrents through her body. Erik took her hand in his and led her out amongst the dancing couples, quickly adjusting his movements to theirs. For a long time he did not say anything, but she felt the tension in his body and saw the unreadable expression in his cold, glassy eyes.
"Tell me, Christine," he spoke at length, the words hissing out from between his gritted teeth, "was it all a game to you?"
Christine stared back at him blankly which only set about to fuel his anger. "A game Christine!" he demanded in anger and annoyance. "Did you miss toying with your poor Erik?" His hands trailed down her body, clenching her hips in a painfully fierce grip. "Did you delight in mocking him with your presence, your kisses? Was it fun to see him struggle with the belief that you might actually care for him?"
"You should not be the one to speak of games, Erik." She muttered darkly, wincing slightly at the pressure about her waist.
"No?"
"No." she stared back at him in defiance. "I've seen you with Madame de Martineau – do not even attempt to hide it. You both seem to be very well acquainted with one another."
Erik's yellow eyes flared, and a cruel smirk twisted his lips. "Your powers of observation astound me, my dear. But what business is it of yours, little comtess?" He said, throwing Cornelia's words at her.
Christine refused to answer as she felt Erik's hand travel up her spine. He looked at her, hungrily devouring her with his eyes, imagining her in the hallway once more. Christine felt the heat rush to her cheeks under his intense gaze.
"Oh, you are a sly one, aren't you?" he whispered suddenly, his hand explored her back, her waist, the nape of her neck.
Christine stared up at him in fright, "stop it, Erik. You're frightening me."
"Yes," he mused darkly, "I've always been very good at that, haven't I?" He paused, his eyes smoldering once more. "Tell me, Christine, why can every other man so easily take what should have been rightfully mine!" He hissed dangerously, the shadows of insanity creeping up behind his furious eyes. He reached a hand towards her throat, "your voice," he hissed. The tips of his cold fingers brushed against her neck and Christine felt herself shudder involuntarily.
He let his hand drop to her shoulder, "even now you recoil from my touch! Do I repulse you that much, Christine?" he cried in frustration and disbelief.
"Erik, I-"
" –I did not see you shrink from the touch of Monsieur de Chateau!" He spat, his anger fuelled by his frustration.
"Monsieur de Chateau? Gaston, he-"
"Oh, so it is Gaston, now?"
"Erik-"
Erik, however, was consumed by utter rage now, his hands shook uncontrollably and he looked down at her contemptuously; his eyes ablaze with irrepressible fury. He looked her in the eye and sneered cruelly, "I wasn't aware the Comte had taken in a common whore for a wife, otherwise I'd have advised him better on his choice-"
A sharp slap silenced the chatter in the room. Even the music ground to a stop as curious gazes turned in their direction. Christine glared at Erik, her small hands clenched into fists by her side. "You… how dare you," she hissed at him, her small form shaking in barely controlled fury, "I hate you." Though she had whispered the words, they emanated throughout the entire parlour, reverberating off the walls as a collective hush went around the room. A red mark slowly flourished across the unmasked side of Erik's face, as he recovered from the shock of being slapped. His entire body stiffened and he looked down at her with sheer coldness and utter contempt.
"Forgive me, madame," he whispered icily, straightening his evening jacket. "I had not wished to offend you."
He then turned on his heel and stalked out of the parlour. Christine watched him leave, her heart pounding loudly within her chest, her gaze suddenly falling on Madame de Martineau who sneered smugly at her. Christine suddenly felt very claustrophobic in a room filled with people who she didn't know. She needed to get out of there. Throwing propriety to the wind, she spun around and fled out the side door of the parlour, fervently wishing for the nightmare of an evening to cease, and to find herself waking in her comfortable bed; the whole evening's proceeding having only been a dream.
But the nightmare was far from over.
A/N Okay, I promise ALL will be revealed in the next chapter; we're finally getting to the resolution of everything. Please take the time to review, as this chapter was really difficult for me to write, and I really would love to know what you thought. So PLEASE review... A special thanks goes to my reviewers for chapter 15; Lair Lover, miffster, Luckii Jinx, Catoftheopera, scully35, LonesomeGurlAngelofDeath, MimaEtcy, Lady Wen, Miss M. Paroo, Ayesha, and of course, free2bfroody. I love you guys; your reviews make my day. Until the next chapter, which should be out sooner than this one. Cheers!
- wing.