Chapter Eight: A Legend is Born

The light was too bright. Painfully, blindingly too bright. Erik closed his eyes and groaned. There was a burning sensation in the lower right part of his back, as if someone had taken a hot branding iron to his skin, and his face felt like it had been clawed open by a wild animal. He opened his eyes again, just a slit, and tried to take in his surroundings.

He was lying on a small, soft bed covered with an old patchwork quilt. He thought he recognized some of the fabric, though he couldn't quite seem to remember where he had seen it before. There were a few drops of blood smeared across the white embroidered pillowcase, which he assumed must have come from his face. To the left of the bed there was a nightstand with a small oil lamp and a an open Bible. In the far corner of the room was a dusty old bookshelf lined with every genre from poetry to politics. He scanned some of the titles – Faust, Frankenstein, Notre-Dame de Paris, Sense and Sensibility – and smiled at the bitter irony. Whoever owned this room must have had him in mind. [1] At the base of the shelf a violin was propped against the side. It looked as though it hadn't been used in ages, but judging from the quality of the wood, it had once been a fine instrument, indeed. Erik was intrigued. He had never played a violin before, but he had taught himself many things, and he felt confident that, if given the chance, he could learn to slip the bow across the strings as easily as he could slip his fingers across the keys of the pipe organ. He wondered whether whoever owned the neglected instrument might allow him to play it. After all, they certainly didn't seem to be using it. He noticed the light again, spilling through the small, square window with an intensity that told him it was most likely mid-day. He lifted a hand to shield his eyes.

Where am I? The last thing I remember is Christine –

His eyes widened. "Christine! Where is Christine?"

The turning of the doorknob caught his attention. Instantly, he sat up, scrambling to cover his face, but completely forgetting about his back, which screamed in agony at the sudden movement. He was still gasping in pain when the door opened. He shrunk back against the bedpost, wishing desperately that he could disappear.

"Calm yourself, Erik." Madame Giry approached the bed. "There is no need to hide from me." She smiled softly. "Welcome back to the land of the living. We thought we had lost you there for awhile."

Erik slowly let the hand slip from his face. "Where is Christine?" he repeated.

"Asleep on the sofa in the main room. The poor child has hardly gotten any rest the past few days. She has been so worried about you…We all were."

Unused to such expressions of concern, Erik was uncertain how to respond. "How long have I been asleep?"

Madame Giry pulled a chair he hadn't noticed before to the bedside and took a seat. "Three days."

Erik was incredulous. "Three days? Has it been that long?"

Madame Giry looked grave. "Christine tells me that you had fever a few days before the…accident…It was almost gone, but when your body experienced the stress of the wounds, it must have come back. I think there was a slight infection, as well, which contributed to your condition."

He ducked his head. "I am sorry for causing you so much trouble…I appreciate your help, but you should not have brought me here. I do not wish to put your family in danger."

"We would only be danger if they thought you were still alive."

"Antoinette, you know the penalty for those caught harboring a murderer. If I am seen – "

"You will not be seen."

The look on her face told him the argument was over. He sighed. She was the only person who could look him straight in the eyes without his mask and manage to intimidate him. Though only a few years his senior, she was the only mother figure he had truly ever known, and he held her in great respect.

Madame Giry broke the tension. "I must apologize for my daughter's actions. I do not think she ever intended for you to be harmed; nevertheless, she should not have been so hasty in her decisions, and I should have kept a closer eye on her."

"She was only trying to protect Christine. I cannot fault her for that. And she did tend my wounds…I suspect that seeing that horrible, bloody mess was more than enough punishment for her." His eyes suddenly flashed to the bookcase, and he nodded toward it. "Is that your violin? May I borrow it sometime?"

The ballet mistress looked mildly surprised. "I did not know you could play."

"I don't. But I would like to learn. If you would allow it, of course."

"You will have to ask Christine. The violin belonged to her father. She does not play, but she cannot bring herself to give it away."

"Why is Christine's violin in your guest – " His expression suddenly darkened. "You put me in Christine's bedroom?" His voice was low, dangerous. Here he was, sleeping in her bed while she was forced to sleep on the couch.

Madame Giry didn't flinch. "On her request, yes."

Erik sighed again. She had never feared him the way everyone else did. Most of the time, that was a good thing, but every once in awhile, when he tried to use society's fear to his advantage, it was just irritating. He sulked.

Madame Giry chuckled softly at his immaturity and shook her head. "I did not ask her to give up her room. It was her choice."

Erik was silent for a moment. "May I see her?"

The ballet instructor stood to leave and began walking to the door. "As soon as she wakes, I will tell her that you wish to speak with her. In the mean time, you should continue to rest. I will be back in a few hours to change the bandages." She was about to step into the corridor when she suddenly turned to look back over her shoulder. "Oh, and Erik?"

He glanced up.

She smiled softly. "Welcome home."

Home. The word was unfamiliar to him, foreign. In all of his life, he had never truly had a home. Erik slowly lowered himself back to the bed, mindful of his back, and stared up at the ceiling. Had it only been a few nights ago that he had been staring up at the floor of the Opera Populaire? When he had invited Christine to stay with him, he had been wrong in referring to his dwelling beneath the opera house as a home. It was a lair, perhaps. A house of sorts. But certainly not a home. A home was more than just a place to live. It was made up of people who loved and cared about you, something he had never felt he had.

His mother's house had been cold and unforgiving. She had done her best to feed and clothe him and keep a roof over his head, but it was all out of obligation, not love. Nevertheless, he had loved her, and it had nearly killed him to watch as the cruel man who had defiled his mother and cursed her to give birth to a monster burned her at the stake. He remembered watching from behind the bars of the gypsy circus cage, hearing her scream, smelling the scent of her scorched flesh. He shuddered. Even now it sickened him to think of it.

Living with the gypsies had been the worst experience of his life. For nearly seven years he had endured unbearable beatings, incessant humiliation, and sanitary conditions that would make even a sewer rat recoil. That horrible space between bars was about the furthest thing from a home that he could imagine.

Beneath the opera house, things had been different. There, he was ruler. There, he was king. He'd had the entire labyrinth of passageways and dungeons to himself. Alone with his music, no one dared to disturb the infamous Opera Ghost. But the problem remained that he was still alone. And then, he'd heard an angel sing. An orphan girl, singing prayers in the chapel, sounding as lonely and forlorn as he. And slowly, he began an acquaintanceship which turned into a friendship which blossomed into love. He had been too shy to show himself at first, had taken on the guise of an angel to conceal his horrid features and spun a web of lies that in the end had nearly become his own hangman's noose. He had escaped, narrowly, but only because Christine had had the strength to see past his faults – internal as well as external – and show him a better way.

Now, as he lay in her bed in Madame Giry's cottage, he thought about what it might feel like to actually have a home. Here, he was among friends. Here, he had a family. Christine had pulled him from the pits of despair, had shown kindness and selflessness on several occasions even before she had admitted her love. Meg, who had grown up knowing about him from her mother, had always kept his history a secret. She had never pried too deeply into his past or let anyone know that she knew of his lair – not even Christine! And despite her mistrust of him to properly care for Christine, he knew that it would take more than loyalty to one's mother and best friend for most people to care enough to stitch him up – though admittedly, she could have been a bit more gentle! Madame Giry had taken him in on countless occasions, even when putting herself and her daughter at risk. For years she had served him at the opera house, not only as a messenger, but also to pick up things he needed in town, taking a percentage of his twenty thousand franc allowance to buy him food and other necessities. He had offered her pay, but she had always refused it unless she absolutely needed the money. And then there was Élise, the tiny gray kitten who had managed to find her way into the vaults beneath the opera house and who had currently wandered into the room, nudging the door open to let herself in. He remembered the first day he saw her, cold and wet, shivering as she took shelter from the icy winter rain just inside the entrance of his emergency escape tunnel. She had never been afraid of his face. To her, he just looked like any other human – a human who had happened to be very nice to her, and she hadn't forgotten it. Every once in awhile she had slipped away from the ballet dorms and come to visit him in the hidden passageways that only she and he knew how to navigate. Now, as she hopped onto the bed beside him, her green eyes glowing with the unconditional affection that only an animal can give, he realized that he had always been loved. Well, perhaps not always and perhaps not in the way that he had longed for, but still, he had been loved. Blinded by what he had thought love was supposed to be, he had neglected to realize what it actually was. Love was self-sacrifice when it was easier to indulge. Love was keeping others' privacy when it was easier to spread gossip. Love was putting others first. Love was service. Love was innocent affection and acceptance given freely. And sometimes love was pity.

Erik smiled – truly smiled – for the first time in what felt like years. He stroked Élise, relishing the feel of her warm, rumbling purr against his fingertips. Yes, he thought, I am home. And I am loved.

After a few hours of rest, Erik had become bored. He had been confined to a bed off and on for nearly a week now, and it was beginning to bother him. He hated being so still, so unproductive for such a long period of time. Usually, if he wasn't composing, he was singing, and if he wasn't singing, he was reading. He didn't quite feel up to composing, and he wasn't sure if Madame Giry would appreciate his opera singing in her quiet little cottage. Not to mention he might wake Christine…or alert the authorities of his presence…or hurt his back taking the deep breaths required to hold some of the notes. He frowned. Well, if singing was out of the question, at least he could read. He skimmed over the list of books on the shelf again. He was familiar with most of the modern classics, many of which he owned in his personal collection back at the opera house. He had always loved poetry and found a few of the history books moderately intriguing, but nothing in particular had caught his eye. He wanted to read something new, something different. That was when he noticed the book on the bedside table. Curious, he picked it up. Realizing what it was, he was half-surprised that the Holy Book hadn't burst into flames at his touch. Having grown up on the streets and in the dungeons, Erik had never actually read a Bible before. What little he had learned about God as a child described Him as an angry, arrogant God who expected perfection and punished those who were imperfect without mercy. But Christine had told him otherwise. Christine had told him of a God who was loving and kind, who reached out to the weak and forgave those who made mistakes. He'd had a hard time accepting it at first, but already he had come to realize that his plea for love had not gone unanswered nearly as long as he'd once thought. If that were the case, then maybe, just maybe, his latest cries for forgiveness had been heard as well. The book was open to the ninth chapter of Acts, and he found himself suddenly drawn to the story as his eyes scanned the page. [2] He had just finished reading the chapter when there was a soft knock on the door. Sitting up a bit straighter, he closed the book and set it aside.

"Come in."

He had been expecting Madame Giry but was instead pleasantly surprised to see Christine. She looked tired, as though she hadn't slept for days, but she was smiling. She did not say a word but walked silently over to the side of the bed and wrapped her arms gently around him.

"Oh, Erik, I'm so that you're alright. I thought that…I thought…" She could not bring herself to say the words out loud.

He heard a soft gasp and felt something warm and wet hit his shoulder. He pulled her in a bit closer and stroked her hair, allowing his fingers to slip through her soft curls. "It's alright, Christine. I'm fine."

She lingered for a moment longer before pulling back. "How are you feeling?"

"Much better since you arrived."

She noticed for the first time since entering the room that her Bible no longer lay open. She said nothing but raised an eyebrow in question.

"I was…curious," he explained.

"Curiosity has led many great men and women to amazing, life-changing discoveries."

"It has also led many men and women to their death," he said gravely. "You of all people should know that curiosity can cause you to make dangerous mistakes."

"Perhaps I did allow my curiosity to get the better of me a few times, but if discovering who you are was a mistake, it is without a doubt the best mistake that I have ever made." She smiled.

He returned the smile, glancing down at her hand on his lap. The ring was still there. His ring. Their ring. He couldn't believe that she was still wearing it, that it hadn't all just been a trick of his fevered mind. He took her hand in his, running his thumb over the ring, making sure it was actually there.

"So, I suppose now the question is," he said, "where do we go from here?"

"I don't know." She shook her head. "We can't stay here forever, but we can't risk you being recognized…and we can't go back to the opera house…Well, I suppose we could, but… I would have no job to return to…"

Erik averted his eyes guiltily.

There was another knock at the door, and Madame Giry stepped in. "Ah, so I see that you are both awake now. Good. Well, I shall not interrupt you for long, but I do need to change your bandages."

Erik groaned at her utter lack of appropriate timing and started to slip off his shirt when he realized for the first time that he was not wearing the same clothes that he had been in on the day of the fight. His clothes were clean. There was not a trace of blood on him anywhere other than a tiny bit on his forehead and a small splotch of red that was just beginning to seep through the bandages. He took a deep breath, trying to keep his voice level, but he spoke through clenched teeth. "You undressed me."

"You were covered in blood, Erik," Madame Giry responded. "What did you want me to do?"

Erik had flushed the color of a tomato, and he desperately wished for the mask. Why, oh, why did Christine have to be present for this conversation?

"And before you ask," the ballet mistress continued, noting that the color had risen in Christine's cheeks as well, "neither of the girls was present. It is something that I am sure neither one of us wishes to discuss, and something we will not speak of in the future." She had another one of her famous "conversation terminated" looks on her face, and he didn't question it, grateful to be leaving the topic.

"Now then," she said, "I believe we should begin with the bandages. Unfortunately, I am running out of the appropriate material, so I am afraid we shall have to make do with a bit of the scrap cloth."

Christine glanced up at her teacher. "I could go into town if you'd like for me to buy some new bandaging material," she volunteered.

Madame Giry shook her head. "Thank you, Christine, but that won't be necessary. I am trying to save all the money that I can. I do not know if or when I shall get another job…" She sighed. "I have worked at the opera house for so long, I do not know what I will do now…"

Erik felt the guilt sink in again, and for a moment, he almost wished that they could go back to the previous conversation. Embarrassment was something he was accustomed to. Guilt was not. Of course, neither of the women had actually blamed him, but…

"What can I do?" he asked.

Madame Giry and Christine glanced at one another, then looked back at Erik, uncomprehending.

"It is my fault that the both of you are out of a job. What can I do to help?"

The room was silent for a moment as everyone collected their thoughts. Christine's eyes suddenly brightened, but her look of enlightenment was quickly replaced by a frown.

Erik noticed. "What is it, Christine?"

She bit her lip. "I have an idea…but you're not going to like it."

The ballet mistress seemed intrigued. "Well, whether or not Erik would like to hear it, I certainly would."

Christine hesitated. She didn't want to upset Erik, but she knew the plan would never work without his support. She glanced his way and noticed that he was giving her an approving look to continue. She took a deep breath and looked into his eyes.

"What if we could repair the Opera Populaire, bring it back to its former glory? If you had the chance, would you do it?"

"Of course. I have lived at the Opera for so many years I almost feel as though it is a part of me. When I destroyed it in the fire, I felt like the music had died, like a piece of my heart had died. Unfortunately, regret alone cannot restore, and even were I to put all of my savings into the repairs – which I would gladly do – it still wouldn't be enough."

"But if we could get a patron to support us – "

"I highly doubt the vicomte will wish to support anything with which I am involved, nor am I entirely certain that I want him meddling in the affairs of my opera house."

There was an edge to his voice that Christine did not like, and she gave him a disapproving look.

He looked down. "I'm sorry. But you must admit, it is a bit difficult to like a man who has, quite literally, stabbed you in the back." He paused for a moment. "Quite honestly, though, I don't see why he would want to support us after all that has transpired."

Christine twirled a strand of her hair nervously. "If I can convince him that you will cause no more trouble and that the opera could once again be great, I think he might consider it."

"And how do you propose we accomplish this?"

"We write an opera." Christine was silent for a moment, watching her companions' expressions change from surprised to concerned.

Erik proceeded carefully. "Christine…It is a wonderful idea, but an opera cannot be written overnight. It takes even the best composers years to finish their work. Don Juan Triumphant took me at least two or three years to complete, and I had been working on some of the pieces far longer than that."

"Perhaps…but it wouldn't take so long if you already had the songs and the storyline in mind."

"You can't just use someone else's songs, Christine."

"I'm not suggesting that…I…I want us to use your songs…" She paused. "I want us to write an opera about us…about you."

"About me?"

Christine nodded hesitantly.

He laughed, somewhat harshly. "And where, pray tell, do you plan to find an actor willing to play the role of the disfigured monster?"

Christine said nothing, but the hopeful look in her eyes was the only answer he needed.

"No! No, I will NOT!" He tried to make his voice angry and intimidating, but at best he sounded hurt and at worst he sounded terrified. "Do you realize what you are asking of me, Christine?"

"You said you would help if you could…"

"So you would parade me around like – like some sort of animal and use my deformity," he spat the word angrily, "to your own advantage? Is that all you think of me? Is that what you wish?"

"No." She took his hand in hers, but he pulled away, refusing to look at her. His breathing had become shaky, and she could tell that he was having difficulty controlling his emotions, though whether it was anger or hurt he was holding back she did not know. She gently reached up and turned his face toward her. "I wish for the world to know what a wonderful man you are. If they know the truth, perhaps they will better understand…and will come to love you as I have."

Madame Giry, who had been silent up to this point, decided to enter the conversation. "Christine, you are forgetting that to the rest of the world, he is still a criminal."

"To the rest of the world, he is dead. Besides, very few people have actually seen his face close enough to recognize it, and the new scar will make him more difficult to identify."

"But he will be out in the open, right in front of their eyes!"

"Which is the exact opposite of what they will be expecting."

"Christine," Erik finally spoke again, "all of Paris will be watching." This time there was no mistaking the mortifying fear within his voice, and she knew that it wasn't fear of being caught but fear of being seen that troubled him.

"Erik, this could be the opportunity that you have been waiting for. This could be your chance to make things right, to share your music with the world…to start a new life. Isn't that what you want?"

"I can't go out there alone, Christine."

"You don't have to."

Erik closed his eyes and took a long, calming breath. "Alright. If you can convince the vicomte to give his support, I will do it."

Christine smiled and gave his hand a gentle squeeze. "And I will be right there with you every step of the way."

Christine knocked on the door of the de Changy residence and did her best to suppress the uncomfortable roiling of her stomach. Never in her life had she been so nervous about seeing Raoul, and it bothered her. They had always been able to talk before. They had always been comfortable around one another. Even after nearly nine years apart when he had shown up at the opera house that day, it had seemed as if no time at all had passed since they'd seen each other. They'd slipped into casual conversation about days gone by almost instantly, and their childhood infatuation had quickly progressed into something more…or so she'd thought. Perhaps that was the problem. Perhaps things had moved a little too quickly for her to adjust; in the course of only three or four months, she had gone from being a simple, single chorus girl to a young woman who was the star of the show, caught up between the innocent love of her childhood sweetheart and the romantic passions of a mysterious, murderous opera ghost. It had all been a bit much to take in, and confused about her own feelings, she had made a rash decision that had nearly cost her both of the men that she cared for. But now that she'd had time, she had made her decision, and she could only hope that Raoul would forgive her and come to understand in time.

A wiry-haired, squinty old woman with thick glasses answered the door, and Christine put on what she hoped was a genuine-looking smile.

"Oh! Miss Christine! It's so wonderful to see you, child! I heard the most awful rumors about you running off with some strange, misshapen man old enough to be your father! Oh, I knew it wasn't true!"

Christine blushed profusely and decided it was better not to address her assumptions. "Hello, Lydia. Is Raoul at home today?"

"Oh, of course! He'll be so happy to see you!"

"I'm not so certain about that," Christine mumbled.

"Oh, nonsense! Of course he will! Come in, come in!" The excitable old woman grabbed Christine's arm and practically drug her into the house, slamming the door behind her. "Monsieur Vicomte! Monsieur Vicomte! Oh, you'll never guess who stopped by to see you!"

Just then Raoul came bursting through the doors at the end of the hall. "Lydia, what is the meaning of all this shout–" He stopped dead in his tracks "Oh."

The old woman gave them a knowing smile and backed away. "I'll just leave you two lovebirds to catch up with each other." She gave a quick wink before disappearing down the corridor, leaving Raoul and Christine alone in the entrance hall.

For a moment, neither spoke, the uneasy silence lingering between them. Raoul's eyes flitted to her fingers, noticing the glitter of the diamonds in her new engagement ring, the ring he had originally bought for her but which now symbolized her love for another. Christine caught him staring at the ring and instinctively hid her hands behind her back.

"I suppose you haven't come to apologize, then?" he asked.

"No." Why was it so difficult for her to talk to him? He was the same man that she had known a few weeks ago, so why did things seem so different this time? "Actually, I came to ask a favor. I know that I have no right to come here and ask for your help, but – "

"No, you don't." He didn't order her to leave, but neither did he give any indication of the warmth or friendliness that she had felt before.

"Raoul, I'm not sorry for the decision that I have made, but I am sorry for hurting you."

"What is it you want from me?" His voice held no emotion. No anger. No sadness. Just…nothing.

"I – that is, we – would like for you to become the patron of the Opera Populaire again."

"Christine, in case you have forgotten – which I'm quite certain you have not, considering you've spent so much time there lately – there is no longer an opera house to be patron of!"

"There will be…if you will help us rebuild it."

"Why should I pay for his mistakes?"

"He is willing to pay for the repairs, as well. He is willing to put in all the money he has, Raoul. But it won't be enough."

"It was never his money to begin with, Christine. He practically stole it from the managers, what with those death notes and such."

"Raoul, please. I am not asking for a personal favor…I wouldn't ask you to do it if it were just for me or just for him, but there are so many others involved! Think of Madame Giry and Meg, of the maestro, and the ballet dancers…They have no place to go now…Please, if not for me, consider doing it for them."

Raoul shook his head. "Even if the opera house were rebuilt, no one would ever come to it. Who would be mad enough to host an opera in the place where so many misfortunes occurred?"

"I would."

Shocked into silence, Raoul simply stared at her as though she had grown an extra head.

"I can promise you an opera unlike anything you've ever heard before. I can promise you a full house on opening night…and I can promise you that if you will do this for me, I will never trouble you again if you do not wish to see me."

He took a moment to think it over before slowly nodding his head. "I will consider it."

"Oh, thank you, Raoul! This means so much to me…" She didn't know what to do now. A kiss or a hug of gratitude might be considered inappropriate in the situation, but a handshake seemed too formal for two people who had known each other for so many years. The uncomfortable silence had returned. She sighed. "Oh, Raoul, why can't we just go back to being friends as we were before?"

He raised a hand to touch her cheek and looked into her eyes. "Because you have always been so much more than just a friend to me."

"You did WHAT?" The folds of skin that were nearly healed bulged against the stitches in his face.

The ballet instructor glared. "Do not raise your voice at me, Erik! When you are at the opera house, you may behave as you wish, but when you are at my house, you will be respectful. It will only be for a few hours."

"And what am I to do during that time? Hide in the garden shed again while you and your guest have tea?"

"No. I would like for you to meet him."

Erik nearly choked on the breakfast tea he'd been sipping. "What?"

"He is a family friend, Erik. He will not reveal your secret. I am sure of it."

"Antoinette, I do not even have a mask here with me! Do you expect me to meet someone looking like this?"

"I expect you to be yourself and to be kind to our visitor."

Erik huffed. "That is a bit of a contradictory statement."

"Only because you make it to be so." Madame Giry sighed. "Why must you be so difficult?"

"I was brought up fearing society, and society was brought up fearing me! In case you haven't noticed, I don't particularly do well with other people, especially nosy newspaper reporters! Why are you so sure that he won't tell all of France that I am alive?"

"Because he is an old friend, and I trust him."

"That's not a good enough reason. Perhaps you trust him, but I do not."

"You must learn to trust people, Erik! Love is built on trust, and until you understand that, you will never fully experience the joy that love can bring. Not everyone is against you, mon ami."

He sighed. "It is very difficult to trust others when they have never given you a reason to do so."

Madame Giry laid a hand on his shoulder. "I know. But you must start somewhere. Do you trust me, Erik?"

"Yes, of course."

"Then believe me when I tell you that I would not allow him to visit if I thought it would endanger you. I asked him to come for tea in part because I have not seen him in many years, but also because I thought that he might use his connections with the paper to help us advertise your newest opera."

"But I've barely even started it!"

"It does not matter. Let him hear what you have written. Tell him your story, and he will take care of the rest."

"Still…Would it not be safer for him to remain unaware of my survival? Already the vicomte knows, and that in itself is dangerous. I believe the only reason he has not turned me in is because he knows how Christine would react."

"Of course, it would be safer! Of course, it would be easier!…It will always be easier to hide in the shadows than to take that step out into the sunlight. But is that what you want out of life? To take the easy way out? You can survive doing that, but you cannot truly live. I will not force you into the light, Erik. You must decide to take that step on your own. Just remember that the sun reveals hidden beauty as well as hidden flaws."

"I do not see how I could be beautiful in any way, Antoinette."

"Then perhaps you are not looking close enough."

A knock at the door followed by the soft click of the doorknob signaled to Erik that their guest had arrived. Sinking back into the shadows with a dark hooded cloak wrapped around his shoulders, he observed from a distance as the visitor stepped inside, immediately transforming the atmosphere of quiet Giry household.

"Ah, Antoinette!" he boomed. "It's been ages!" The large man with an even larger personality pulled the ballet mistress into a friendly embrace.

"It is good to see you again, mon ami."

Erik felt the slightest twinge of jealousy as she returned the hug. She had never greeted him in such a way…Then again, he wasn't known for being the friendliest of fellows.

The man adjusted his spectacles, his bushy eyebrows shooting up in surprise as he noticed the fair-haired young woman standing a few steps behind her mother. "Oh, now don't tell me this lovely young lady is Meg? Why, the last time I saw her, she was a tiny little tot! Knee-high to a grasshopper, she was!"

Madame Giry smiled proudly, encouraging her daughter to step forward. "Meg, this is Monsieur Gaston Leroux. He went to law school with your father before he transferred into medicine. [3]"

Meg curtseyed politely. "A pleasure to meet you, monsieur."

Monsieur Leroux took her hand. "You have grown into a fine young woman, mademoiselle. Henri would be proud if he could see you today."

Meg blushed. "Thank you, sir."

He glanced up in Christine's direction, adjusting his glasses again. "And who is this beautiful girl?"

"Christine Daaé, sir," Madame Giry answered.

"The Christine Daaé? The daughter of the Swedish violinist and budding primadonna?"

"Indeed."

The large man tipped his hat. "Well, it is most certainly an honor to meet you, Miss Daaé! I have heard quite a lot about you." He shook her hand.

"Thank you, monsieur," Christine replied. "I do hope that it is only good things you have heard!"

The man's big, booming laughter filled the hall, his belly jiggling like gelatin. "Only that you have the most beautiful voice in all of France!" He chuckled. "Why, there are rumors that your vocal tutor was the Opera Ghost himself!...It's a pity what happened, really. I should very much have liked to meet the man who gave you such a voice."

"Then you are in luck." Erik leaped over the railing from his position on the staircase with catlike elegance and stepped forward, careful to keep his face turned against the hood so that only the left side showed. "I did not give her the voice, monsieur. I only helped her perfect the talent which she already possessed."

The visitor did not seem unduly surprised by his sudden appearance but merely glanced at Madame Giry, smiling. "I thought I might find you here."

Erik glared, mentally cursing the ballet instructor. So it was all a trick, he thought. They planned this in advance. He wondered whether Christine and Meg had been in on the secret, too.

The heavy set man continued, fingering his mustache thoughtfully. "Being a reporter, it is my duty to tell the people of France the truth. I should report you to the authorities." He held up a hand before Erik could interrupt him. "BUT I'm not going to." He clamped a hand on Erik's shoulder. "I know what it's like to be tight spot, m'boy. Get lost trying to find yourself and end up in trouble with the law. Had a few rough scrapes with the bank myself in my younger years. If I hadn't had Henri to bail me out, I might still be in the debtor's prison!" He chuckled. "Antoinette and her late husband have been good friends to me for many years. When she told me that you needed a little help getting back on your feet, I thought it was the least I could do to repay her kindness."

Erik looked down. "I should hardly think that murder and debt are comparable, sir."

Leroux crossed his arms, furrowing his brow. "What do you call yourself, young man?"

"Erik," he said quietly.

"Speak up, lad! It's your name – it's who you are! Be proud of it!" The giant of a man slapped him on the back, unaware of the injury hidden beneath the cloak.
Erik bit back a scream and resisted the urge to punch the man in that big belly of his. Once he had caught his breath, he spoke again, this time a bit more loudly. "My name is Erik, sir."

Leroux scratched his bearded chin. "Well, that certainly is strange…I don't recall any murderers by that name."

Erik was becoming frustrated with the reporter's game. "Monsieur, I – "

Leroux interrupted him. "You did not do anything. The Phantom was responsible for those deaths, and as I recall, there was an article not too long ago – which, by the way, I wrote – detailing his demise. The world believes that the Phantom died in the fire, and as far as I'm concerned, that still holds true. You may have once been the Phantom, lad, but that doesn't mean you have to be him forever."

Erik didn't respond.

Madame Giry took the break in conversation as an opportunity to move everyone to a more comfortable location. "Perhaps you two would like to continue this conversation in the sitting room? Meg and I shall prepare some tea presently."

Leroux nodded. "Of course, thank you, Antoinette."

While Meg and Madame Giry scurried off to the kitchen, Erik, Christine, and Leroux made their way to the sitting room where a blazing fire was in the hearth, radiating warmth and giving the room a cheerful, welcoming atmosphere. Christine and Erik sat beside one another on the couch while Leroux took a seat in an over-sized armchair beside the fireplace, the glow of the flames staining is brown curls a liquid auburn and reflecting off the lenses of his tiny, wire-rimmed spectacles. He pulled out a pipe from his pocket and carefully lit it, tossing the match into the fire. Taking a long, thoughtful puff, he blew a small could of smoke into the air.

"Now, then, now that we've established who you are not, let us begin working on who you are. I've heard a great deal about you, Monsieur Erik, but I'd rather hear you tell me about yourself than recite to you all that I have heard."

"There is not much to say."

"Of course there is! Everyone has a story, and I believe that yours is worth telling."

"Hardly. I can't imagine why anyone would wish to see my story performed on stage, though Christine has tried to convince me otherwise." He sighed. "I've never had trouble writing music before, but developing songs for this production has proven to be quite difficult. When I sung for her, the words simply came to me, but now…"

"Why not use the same words as you did before?"

Erik flushed. "No. No, I couldn't…They're too personal."

"Every song you write is personal. That's what music is! It's an expression of your thoughts, your feelings, your emotions. It reaches down to the depths of the soul when words alone cannot. That's where your talent as a composer eclipses mine as a humble writer. Music is all about feelings, and if your heart isn't in what you write, the audience can tell. I was a theater critic for awhile – I should know! If you really want to captivate the people, you've got to put all of yourself into your work – even the cracks and crevices in your heart you'd rather not show. When you do that – when you touch the fount of emotions in your own soul – then you'll touch everyone else. The reason you're having so much trouble composing is that you're trying to be something you're not."

Erik was cross. Who was this man who barely knew him to try to tell him who he was and was not. "And what exactly is it that I'm supposed to be?"

"Be Erik. Be you. That's all that anyone can ask of you."

"No one wants to know me."

Leroux took another puff on his pipe. "I believe Miss Daaé might disagree with you on that point."

Erik glanced at the girl and sighed. "Christine is different."

"And how do you know that others might not be of her same mind unless you give it a chance?"
"Others do not understand. They can't relate…"

"You might be surprised."

"You suspect that they can relate to a misshapen man who destroyed their theater and their lives?"

"No, I suspect that they can relate to a man who yearned for the love of a woman and the grace of God. Everybody can understand that."

Erik remained silent.

"Son, a sparrow can't learn to fly until its parents push it out of the nest. It seems cruel, but they do it out of love. What Christine and Antoinette are pushing you to do may be difficult, but just when you leave your comfort zone, just as soon as you feel like you're starting to fall, why, that's when you'll take off like you never thought you could. Now, I know you weren't exactly thrilled to find out about Antoinette's plans to invite me here, and as a reporter, I'll be the first to admit that I do tend to be a bit nosy. Your life's story is none of my business, and I don't expect you to share it with a journalist, but I consider any friend of Antoinette's a friend of mine, and I hope you'll think about sharing it with a friend. Publicity is what you're going to need to get this opera off the ground, and I think I can help. I'm no good at writing musicals, but I'm pretty good at writing stories. If you can give me an idea of where you're going with this thing, I could run a series in the paper so that by the time your opera is ready you'll already have a loyal following. [4] What do you say to such a proposition?"

Erik looked to Christine, who nodded her approval, then turned back to Leroux. "I accept."

"Wonderful! Now, I'd like to get to know the man behind the mask."

Erik stiffened. "I'd rather you didn't."

The jovial man burst into another round of his rumbling laughter. "Figure of speech, lad! Figure of speech!" The laughter subsided. "Though, to be quite honest, I highly doubt it is all that terrible."

"It is." Erik did not like where this conversation was headed.

"Lad, I've seen some horrible things in my time. This line of work does that to you. They never share the good news, only the bad. I've seen train wrecks and carriage accidents, shootings and stabbings, bodies mangled beyond belief. If you're worried about frightening me, you've nothing to fear."

Erik sighed. Might as well get this over with. Slowly, he reached up pulled the hood back from his eyes, letting it slide softly to his shoulders. He stared at the floor, waiting for Leroux's reaction. He had expected to hear a gasp of horror, or perhaps a shriek of terror, but what he heard instead made his blood run cold. The man was laughing! The man who had just encouraged him to be himself had the audacity to laugh at him to his face! Erik closed his eyes, shaking with rage. The fear he could always deal with – fear could be used to his advantage – but he hated the laughing. He felt his fingers curl into fists.

Christine saw his reaction and timidly laid a hand on his arm, trying to calm him. She glared at the man across the room. "How dare you? How dare you laugh at him when he trusted you?"

Leroux's laughter softened to a minor chuckle. "Forgive me, Monsieur Erik. I was not laughing at you."

"Then what were you laughing at?" Erik growled.

"The absurdity that you find yourself so abhorrent! Skin as yellow as parchment, a nose that never grew, eyes that glow in the dark – psh! What rubbish! You are hardly the demon described in such rumors. As a matter of fact, if one overlooks your minor imperfection, I believe the ladies would find you quite attractive..." He raised an eyebrow. "Isn't that right, Miss Daaé?" He gave her a wink.

Christine blushed.

Leroux chuckled, her reaction confirming what he already knew. "You see, lad, it isn't so much about how the world sees you but how you see yourself. [5] You see yourself as that wretched demon they describe, and that's all you'll ever be…But you learn to look at yourself as Christine sees you, and you'll do just fine. You must learn to let go of whatever's left of the Phantom – including the illusion that you are hideous – before you can become Erik."

Erik was stunned into silence. He opened his mouth to speak but found that no words came forth. When he finally found his voice, it was a bit shaky. "Thank you…sir."

Several cups of tea, two song rehearsals, and many hours later, Leroux was preparing to leave. He stood from his chair, stretching and stealing a quick glance at his pocket watch. "Well, Antoinette, it's been a wonderful evening, but I'm afraid I must be going."

Madame Giry smiled. "It was good to see you again, Gaston. Thank you for coming on such short notice."

"Not a problem, my dear, not a problem! It was quite enjoyable." He turned to Meg. "Meg, my dear girl, I'm afraid I'm going to have to insist that you stop growing up so quickly! At this rate, you'll be married with children before I get the chance to visit again!"

Meg giggled. "Then perhaps you should stop by more often, monsieur."

He smiled. "Perhaps I should."

Turning to Christine, he took her hand and kissed it respectfully. "It is true what they say, mademoiselle. You do have the most beautiful voice in all of France. Keep up the good work."

He grasped Erik's hand in a firm handshake and thumped him good-naturedly on the shoulder. "Erik, m'boy, take care! I shall look forward to seeing your opera preformed on stage."

Christine smiled. "Then you shall be present on opening night?"

He tipped his hat. "Wouldn't miss it for the world!"

[1] A few notes about the titles and how they relate to Phantom of the Opera:

Faust – In the original Phantom of the Opera, Faust was the main opera performed instead of Don Juan Triumphant, so this is a nod to Leroux's original novel.

Frankenstein – In Mary Shelly's original version, Frankenstein's monster becomes a killer because the world despises him for his grotesque appearance. The monster begs his creator, Dr. Frankenstein, to make another female monster as hideous as he is so that he can be happy. He promises to stop the killing and disappear from society forever if only the doctor will make him a bride because he knows no human woman will ever love him. Ultimately, Dr. Frankenstein decides against creating another monster, fearing for humanity, and the monster dies alone and unloved.

Notre-Dame de Paris – Most of you probably know this title better as The Huntchback of Notre Dame, a story about a deformed young man hidden away from the world in the bell tower of Notre Dame. In the original story, Quasimodo, the huntchback, is an outcast from society because of his deformity. When he is publicly whipped, Esmeralda, the gypsy, is kind enough to bring him water, though she is too put off by his appearance to actually allow him to kiss her hand. He falls desperately in love with her, but she does not return the feelings. Though he tries his best to save her, Esmeralda is eventually hanged on false charges and Quasimodo goes to her final resting place, holding her corpse until he eventually dies of starvation. Their bones are found years later, still locked together in an embrace.

Sense and Sensibility – This story involves a young woman named Marianne Dashwood who gets caught up in a love triangle between a young, attractive young man named John Willoughby and Colonel Brandon, a family friend nearly twenty years her senior who is a rather quiet, reserved gentleman. She falls for Willoughby, smitten by his charming ways and good looks, but Willoughby doesn't actually have her best interests at heart. In the end, she realizes that she was a fool for loving Willoughby and instead decides to marry the Colonel. (Though Raoul is not as reckless as Willoughby and Erik is certainly not quiet and reserved, I think there are a few similarities between the story and Phantom – i.e. young, handsome man who has it all vs. older man whose love goes deeper but who is ignored by the heroine.)

Okay, I think I broke the record for extremely long footnotes this time. :P

[2] In case anyone is curious, Acts 9 is where the conversion of Paul is described. Paul (formerly Saul) was one of the most well-known persecutors of Christians during the early days of Christianity. He killed many of Christ's followers, but one day on the road to Damascus, he was blinded by a great light and heard the voice of Jesus speaking to him, telling him to stop his murderous ways. After receiving his sight again three days later, Paul went on to become one of the greatest missionaries of all time! Basically, I'm drawing parallels between Paul's conversion and Erik's change of heart (though Erik's change wasn't quite so overnight), and yes, the blinding light at the beginning of the chapter and the fact that Erik is unconscious for three days are also intended to be part of the symbolism.

[3] Okay, I fudged a little on the dates here. Gaston Leroux wrote the original Phantom of the Opera in 1911. The events of the movie and my story take place in 1870-1871. Monsieur Leroux was actually born in 1868, which would make him only two years old at the time of these events if I were being historically accurate, but I wanted to include a tribute to the original author in my story, so I let things slide a little. Leroux actually did go to law school for awhile before squandering his money and almost going bankrupt. Eventually he became a writer for the French newspaper Le Matin and went on to write many novels, including Phantom.

[4] Leroux's novel actually did run as a series in a French paper called Le Gaulois from 1909-1910 before its publication in book format in 1911.

[5] Slightly altered version of a quote from the movie Beastly.