Disclaimer: I do not own Erik or anything/anyone related to or mentioned in The Phantom of the Opera, whether the musical, book, or play…obviously.
Review Replies:
Emma Noble: I'm glad you like my story so much, especially since you are a fellow fanfic-er yourself! Hope you like this newest (and long overdue) installation.
SuniMoon: Yes, I have read both the Gaston Leroux novel as well as many published continuations by various authors. And if you can't wait for me to use Erik's name, you're finally in luck during this chapter ;) Enjoy!
Chapter the Fourth
IN WHICH Paris is Explored and Looted AND A Name Inspires Much Thought and Revelation
Christine told Raoul that she was going to Paris to meet some old friends for a day of shopping and relaxation.
"Raoul, dear, I hardly ever see Meg at all anymore, and besides, it will give you a chance to spend some father-son time with Michel. You know how much he's been wanting a day with his papa."
Raoul looked up from his breakfast. All of a sudden, his appetite had mysteriously disappeared.
"Christine…why are you going to such lengths to try and convince me to let you go? Is there something, some reason which you have not cared to discuss…"
No, she thought, do not think of Erik. Think that I am simply a silly woman looking for a day's amusement. She placed her hand on his and caressed his fingers with own.
"Dearest, I have no secrets from you and I hope that you keep none from me. I shall stay away from that part of the city, if it would make you feel more secure." God will forgive my lying, she thought. Christine could see the relief covering her husband's face.
"Then, my wife, I agree wholeheartedly that this excursion will be just the thing you need to make you better reacquainted with you friends—and your pocketbook!" He rose from the table and kissed Christine softly on the lips before turning away. "Just…be careful, my dear."
Oh poor naïve Raoul, she thought as she watched her husband leave to find their son, I have lied to you and kept so many secrets. I wish I could confide in you…but I pray that you need never find out what I have done—or what I am going to do.
- - -
A few days later, the Phantom's curiosity had been mostly replaced by annoyance, both at himself for not being able to find the damn sketchbook and at his guest for finding such a good hiding place. He had only been able to search for the book while the girl was asleep but it seemed to him that he had looked in every nook and cranny that his house contained, and it was utterly impossible that the sketchbook was anyplace else. If she had been drawing him in her spare time, it had to be hidden here below. There had to be one place that she would have thought he would never look…
And then it came to him: her dressing room. He had set up an area for her to primp and dress in a corner of the main room, behind a few Chinese dressing screens. The space contained one of his writing desks, many dresses and outfits that he had made for another woman of the same build, and the only mirror left in his world: a small rounded hand mirror with a handle and frame of pure silver, one of the many lavish presents he had received from the shah during his visit to Persia. He had hidden it away to keep himself from destroying it—for although the wounds of the incidents of five years previous were beginning to heal, he still could not abide mirrors.
The Phantom abandoned his thoughts somewhat gratefully and crept quietly over to the gap between two of the screens. Amelie rolled over and cooed softly in her sleep, causing him to glance at her quickly. He had only about an hour before she would wake—time was running short and he was determined once and for all to find the damned sketchbook on that morning. He stepped into the room.
He had, for the sake of her privacy, kept well away from the dressing room before then. Now, the room looked lived-in: the few cosmetics he had found God knew where were on the writing desk and the trunk full of clothes was in the corner, with a few dresses lying atop the open lid. And on almost every open space, on the screens and the desk, were pieces of paper graffitied with Amelie's artistry. So that was what all the time she spent behind the screens was for! The Phantom felt a slight tendril of annoyance writhe inside him. Women.
He sat at the desk and opened the top drawer carefully and, finding only more scraps of paper, closed it and reached for the next drawer. He closed that drawer quickly, a slight blush spreading across his face. Only a woman would keep undergarments in a writing desk.
When he opened the third drawer, he saw the navy blue cover and realized he had finally found the sketchbook. He took it and shut the drawer, making his way out from behind the screens to sit aside the piano. Touching the book softly with his fingertips, he reached to open the book and found himself unable to do so. What are you so afraid of? He asked himself silently, and almost immediately he knew what it was that he feared: Amelie's fear. Her rejection. He was afraid just as he had been afraid when he had first sung Christine to sleep years ago, afraid that Amelie would think him a frightful monster, an aging nightmare.
Amelie stirred and stretched as she woke with a groan and the Phantom slid the book into the space inside the piano bench that traditionally housed sheet music. Amelie wandered into the dressing room and emerged half an hour later fully awake and groomed. The Phantom breathed an internal sigh of relief, due not only to the fact that she had not felt any artistic urge and therefore missed her sketchbook, and also because for the moment he did not have to face his fears.
"Good morning, monsieur. I trust you slept well?" She noticed that he was sitting on the cold stone floor next to the piano and the piano bench. "But why are you sitting on the floor?"
He stood and dusted himself off. "Must one have a reason for everything one does?"
As he walked away to busy himself and preparing breakfast, Amelie noted his coolly cordial tone and recalled with a mixture of guilt and annoyance their unresolved argument of the previous day.
"Are you…you are still upset from our…argument, then?"
He looked up from his task with hooded eyes. "One could assume so."
And I had such good dreams, she thought. What a way to wake up. She waited until he had forcefully set dishes of food before himself and her and had sat down before she decided to speak and try to make amends. Both of them had erred but if he would not be the gentleman, then she would just have to act the lady she had been raised as.
She set down her glass after taking a small sip of wine, looking at him until he felt her eyes on him and looked up from his meal. Amelie cleared her throat. "Monsieur, what I said yesterday, I cannot say that I did not mean to say what I did—because I meant to say it, I meant every word, and therefore I am not sorry."
His eyes darkened in rage but before he could say anything she held up her hand. "What I am sorry for is that I could not control my temper. Simply because I felt anger at what you said is no reason to act the way I did. I was childish and for that I am sorry. I behaved appallingly."
He was still annoyed, she could tell. "And what? You want me to…forgive you?" he asked with contempt.
"I want to know that we are…friends again."
"Whoever said we were friends?" He stood to leave the table and she stood with him.
"I do. I am friend to you, whether the feeling is mutual or not."
After a moment's pause, he replied, "Of course it is." She smiled at his reply and held out her slim hand.
"Shall we shake on it, then? Friends, regardless?"
He hesitated. Very rarely, if ever, had he ever had need to shake hands. Gentlemen performed the greeting, not monsters such as he. Or was he? He slowly slipped his hand into hers. She shivered slightly when his cold skin met hers but smiled nonetheless. The Phantom held onto Amelie's warm hand for a moment, as long as he dared to, then pulled away.
The smile remained on Amelie's face as she began to pick up the dishes of food that neither had really touched but the look faded when she saw the tableau that some artisan had painted onto the plate she held. It was a family, mother and father standing beside son and daughter with their house behind them. The Phantom glanced over her shoulder and saw what she was studying with such feeling. He knew what was coming, and when she turned with the dish in her hand he wished he did not care about what she was going to say, or simply that it would remain unspoken.
"My family believes I am dead, monsieur. I have to set things right and let them know that their child still lives." She braced herself, afraid of his reaction. Surely he would not…force her to stay?
He sighed quietly and turned away as if he could not bear to look at her. "When…will you leave?"
"In a few days, perhaps a week, I should go. If you would like, I could…come and visit?"
He did not turn, simply stood with his back to her. "As you wish, mademoiselle."
Tears formed in her eyes. Here she was, talking of returning to her mother and father, when he had none—had never had anyone waiting for him. "Monsieur…"
"Mademoiselle Amelie, you have never truly seen Paris, have you?" The world is at an end, but does it matter? Let me bottle myself up for a few days, let her enjoy her last days with me. I cannot survive all these feelings, so let me at least try to pretend they have gone—or better still, pretend that I never had them at all. "Would you like to see Paris as I do?"
She studied him for a moment, surprised, then nodded. "Nothing would please me more."
He grabbed his cloak and handed her one, twirling his with an elegant flourish as it settled on his shoulders.
"How exactly do you do that, with your cloak?" Amelie asked as she fastened hers.
"Practice, my dear," he remarked as he swung one of the broken mirrors away from the wall to reveal a narrow, darkened stairway.
- - -
Amelie followed the Phantom up the stairway, trying to block out both the pangs of her injuries and the ever-increasing stench that seemed to be coming from the walls themselves. The Phantom seemed not to notice the smell and continued at the same pace, only stopping to make sure she had not fallen too far behind.
They reached an archway of sorts, with more a hatch than a door. The Phantom spun the handle with not a little force and the hatch creaked open. A wave of noxious air hit them, so that even the Phantom was inclined to put a gloved hand to his nose.
"Monsieur, what is that horrible smell?"
He stepped through the doorway into ankle-deep water with Amelie close behind. "The sewers, mademoiselle. Portal to almost every street in France, and the only way I travel now."
She coughed, eyes watering. "Well, I've no objection as long as we keep moving. How can you stand it?"
He shrugged nonchalantly as they continued their trek. "I suppose it is one of the many disagreeable things I must put up with." Why is it that almost everything she says disarms the walls I have spent so long building?
This silenced her, and the only sound was the echo of their footsteps in the water. Now and then, the Phantom would glance at the numbered plates beside the ladders the pair passed.
Just when the torch he was carrying first began to splutter, the Phantom stopped. "Our first destination, mademoiselle, is a theater. Have you visited any other than my home, that is, a functioning house of the performance arts?"
She took the torch as he began climbing the ladder next to where they stood. "I believe I might have visited one once long ago, as a child perhaps."
He reached the top of the ladder and she began her ascent, passing the torch up to the ledge where he crouched just under a manhole. She was almost to the top when her shoe slipped on a rung—and before she could even draw breath to scream he had caught her and hoisted her up to the ledge.
When she had calmed he did not open the manhole but turned to her with eyes intent. "Mademoiselle, before we enter the theater, I must extract a promise from you. Promise me that you will not attempt to run. I know you are eager to return home but I would prefer to make sure that you do not run into any unscrupulous men or worse, your friend Jenny. And…I have not spent time with another person for so long. Allow me to enjoy your company for the remainder of your time with me."
Her eyes widened slightly as she felt his embarrassment and awkwardness. "You have my word, monsieur. You know I am not in any condition to be running anywhere."
"Thank you." With a grunt, he pushed the manhole cover aside. Daylight flooded the sewers as the two emerged onto the street.
- - -
The day was spent in a whirlwind of novel sights and sounds. Amelie and the Phantom visited not only the theater but one of Paris's many art museums and other landmarks that were accessible via the underground network of tunnels. While aboveground, the Phantom and his guest kept to the shadows to avoid attention but several times were forced to flee when too much attention was paid to them.
As dusk began to creep across the sky, Amelie's rumbling stomach reminded her that they had not eaten since breakfast, a scant meal due to the tensions that had clouded the early morning. When the street performers they had been watching from behind a copse of trees began to scatter, along with the gathered crowd, Amelie thought it a good time to mention food.
"I'm rather hungry after this day of adventures. What do you suggest we placate our poor stomachs with?"
The Phantom made a quick scan of the area. "Well, mademoiselle, we are only a short walk from a vender and I feel that portable food is perhaps best considering the method of payment we are forced to use."
After spending a day without the restraints of tension or conflict, Amelie was not about to reprimand her guide's morality. Stealing food was a petty crime compared to other immoral acts, such as attempted murder, she contemplated darkly.
"I shall accept, monsieur, but only if you promise me one thing."
He eyed her warily, hints of the gap in understanding between them resurfacing. "That depends, mademoiselle, on what you would have me promise."
She smiled widely. "You must attempt to teach me your methods of, shall we say, procurement?"
He relaxed and the corners of his mouth turned upward in mirth. "How could one refuse such a polite request?"
They made their way to the corner where the vendor's cart was situated, silently walking through the shadows as if they too, were mere shadow. The Phantom pulled Amelie aside into a recess in the side of a building to talk her through her first crime. "Now usually I would go about this differently, having the ability to throw my voice but as I have you to assist me I believe I shall attempt something slightly different."
She thought for a moment then realized she could guess what plan he was talking about—one of the oldest tricks in the book. "Let me guess—I shall, say, pretend to hurt my ankle while walking across the street and the kind vendor will abandon his cart to assist a lady in need. You, meanwhile, will have attained our food while I shrug off any further assistance politely."
The Phantom blinked, surprised. "Precisely my thoughts, mademoiselle. Very astute of you."
She shrugged off his praise, embarrassed, and set the plan in motion. Their charade worked as perfectly as Amelie had described it—the unaware businessman perhaps too interested in the well being of a reasonably good-looking young lady. She refused his further offers of help and limped pointedly down the remaining length of the street, turning the nearest corner with a wave. The Phantom appeared as if from thin air, holding two paper-wrapped sandwiches and wearing a slight smile that was barely visible.
"Perhaps we should head back to the park for a while before returning underground? I do not often get a chance to savor the fresh air."
She agreed and took one of the sandwiches as they retraced their steps. The park was devoid of people, save a few questionable-looking women who scurried off when they saw the two approaching. They found a bench and sat to eat, enjoying the cool twilight breeze. Amelie could not help babbling between bites.
"This was one of the best days of my life, monsieur. I've never seen so many amazing things all at once! How lucky you are to be free to roam where you would, seeing the world as no one else does."
He turned to her from his meditations, a strange look upon his face. "You consider me lucky? Mademoiselle, my deepest wish for years was to be accepted into polite society as a gentleman, not to roam the night like the contemptible thing I am. My brand of luck would not appeal to many."
"No, monsieur, you misunderstand me." It seems all we do is misinterpret the other. She reached out without thinking and clasped his hand in both of hers, feeling an urgent need to explain to him, to make him understand what he did not see. He looked shocked at the contact but did not withdraw his hand.
"You have freedoms that most gentlemen cannot imagine. The people of high society, as doubtless you have seen during your time in the operahouse, live lives controlled by deceit. They must do as society bids, be molded into what other desire, while you have the means to do as you please and live according to no one."
He opened his mouth to speak but she silenced him, eager to release some of the emotions that she had until now not recognized within. "Wait—I have not finished. The gentlemen and ladies I know appear to be beautiful, refined people but for all their finery one cannot truly know them. They hide their flaws from the world…while you wear yours openly, not by choice but still as honestly as a true gentleman should. For that, I envy and respect you."
Barely breathing, she slowly reached up a trembling hand to his face, and tentatively brushed her fingertips against his unmarred cheek, soft as butterfly wings. Then her hand fell to her side as she waited, unsure of how he would react to such a presumption.
He froze at the first willing human contact he had had in five long years. He did not know what to do or what to feel, only that his heart was beating loudly in his ears and his skin burned icily where her delicate hand had touched his face. He did not want this again…he could recognize the feelings he had had long ago returning and dreaded what would result. He could not survive any more of life's seemingly unending miseries. So he did the only thing he could: the Phantom hid the feelings deep within, to rediscover later when Amelie had long left him and he was no longer in danger of opening another Pandora's box. By nature and circumstance he had been hardened against friendship and—he barely dared to conceive of it—love.
He let his gaze wander, focusing anywhere except on the girl sitting beside him, searching for words. "I-I thank you for your kind perception of me, Mademoiselle Amelie, but the hour is late and I feel it is time to return belowground."
The expression on her face wrenched his heart and he cursed his weakness. The Phantom watched her do much as he himself had done, steeling herself against injury—and at the same time, against other possibilities. She stood quietly and walked alongside him back to the sewers, where the trickling darkness excused the tense lack of conversation.
Upon reaching the operahouse, the silence remained palpable. They moved to the cloak rack and hung their garments without speaking. As she turned to walk away, the Phantom could not stop himself from reaching a hand out to Amelie's shoulder. She turned, eyes intent with unfathomable emotion. His arm dropped to his side as he opened his mouth to speak—to make some apology for his callous standoffishness.
"Mademoiselle, I am not only known as the Opera Ghost. I would have you know that my true name…is Erik."
"Erik…" The word sounded richly musical as she spoke it aloud, as if testing its use. "Thank you, Erik, for all you have done for me. You are…a true friend."
She smiled with a look of cautious warmth and regret. Feeling awkward and suddenly embarrassed, she practically fled to her area within the underground lair. After many moments, Erik turned to his own space, musing within his thoughts of the day he had spent with one of the few people who had ever cared for him—in some small way at least.
In her bed, Amelie lay staring at the ceiling, unable to sleep some minutes later and finally deciding to attempt to sort out the muddled feelings she had been keeping from the front of her mind.
Erik…a name that will not leave my thoughts! I am a fool—trusting a strange man who is a known lunatic! And yet, I do trust him. Despite the mask he wears, I cannot help but to think of his face—those piercing eyes that seem to see right through me…oh, be sensible! Nothing will come of this girlish fantasizing. Yet perhaps just for tonight, I can let myself think of him. If only I could know how he feels about me—no, I do not want to know. He is a man…hmm, a man…and I am only a silly fawning girl. He cannot possibly feel as I do…
Erik tossed restlessly then finally turned onto his back to stare at the ceiling.
Her hand on my face—so gentle and loving. No, I only imagined its lovingness. Amelie is a young lady who does not belong in my world, who will leave me forever soon , someday to marry a dandy of society who will make her happy. I am nothing to her yet when she touched me, I felt human again. Fool! She cannot possibly feel anything for such a monster. I will miss her deeply—what will I do once she has gone? There is truly nothing left for me here. It will be just as it was when Chr-Christine left.
His heart ached with pain that almost made him gasp aloud. He remembered the day, that hideous day, when all his foolish dreams had ended in so much fire and pain. Christine's eyes had been so full of pain…and she had—she had…
Erik's hand moved involuntarily to his lips. They felt numb with the thought of the long-ago kiss that he remembered so clearly, filled with despicable pity and resolute finality. A sudden thought blazed through his raw mind that sent chills through him:
A kiss from Amelie, one not of pity and remorse but of love and kindness…a kiss between a man and a woman, not a monster and his prisoner. Was it impossible or…
Hours later, Erik lay awake, still attempting to dismiss this new imagining. His mind's wanderings could be far crueler to him than reality could ever be. Before he lapsed into unconscious sleep, one thought remained forefront in his mind:
I will play for her…I will wake the music one last time. Before everything is over and I am left again with nothing, I will give her music.- - -
Wow, an extra long chapter! It feels good to reexplore writing fanfiction after such a long absence. Please review with comments, questions, etc. I'd like to know what to do to make this better – and what my readers think.