Chapter Nine: All the World's a Stage

Months passed and the weather warmed. Winter gave way to spring and the barren fields on the outskirts of Paris, once blanketed in white, burst into the colors of a thousand wildflowers. Erik longed to go outside, to feel the sun on his skin, to smell the sweet flowers in bloom, to walk hand in hand with Christine through the fields that lay just beyond the Girys' property, but alas, he still could not risk being seen, so he settled for working by the open kitchen window, listening to Christine's voice waft in on the breeze, singing as she gathered flowers in the garden. The repairs at the opera house were almost completed, and Erik's wounds – both physical and spiritual – were healing well.

Monsieur Leroux was good on his word, and the people of France eagerly awaited the weekend paper, anxious to read the next edition of Le FantÔme de l'Opéra. Erik had given Leroux permission to use his real name on the condition that the author explicitly stated that he had named the character after the man who was currently working on a musical stage production of the series which would serve both to draw attention to the upcoming opera and to avoid arousing suspicion that he and the Phantom were one and the same. Picking up the latest edition of the paper, he immediately flipped to the appropriate section and cut out the article, adding it to a growing stack of newspaper clippings on the table, using the salt and pepper shakers as makeshift paperweights. He'd read it earlier that morning, and to be honest, it hadn't set well with him. Leroux's Phantom was not him, that much was certain – Erik himself had actually suggested that Leroux use the "traditional" view of him as a skeletal figure because that was what the audience was expecting and because anyone who hadn't seen him on stage during Don Juan would assume it to be true, increasing his chances of not being recognized as the true Phantom. But his lack of physical resemblance to Leroux's Phantom was not what troubled him. What troubled him was that Leroux's story was coming to an end…and his version of the story ended quite morbidly. It had to be done, of course – no one could ever know that he was alive – but he hated that he died so alone and unloved. He hated that the story – and his opera – had to be cut short and leave Christine running off with the Vicomte de Changy. As he penned another line of lyrics, he considered what might have happened if she had never returned to the opera house and shuddered. Leroux probably wasn't too far off. And the worst part was that he was going to have to relive that moment on stage – that moment of pure and absolute bliss followed by the crushing anguish and utter despair of believing he would never see her again. Reliving the unmasking frightened him, but reliving Christine's departure was going to tear him apart. He wouldn't need any of his acting skills to be convincingly realistic in his emotions. He didn't want to do it. To be honest, he wasn't even sure if he could do it. But they were counting on him. Leroux was counting on him to turn his series into a successful stage adaptation; Madame Giry and Meg were counting on him to bring the opera house to life again, to restore their jobs; and Christine was counting on him to face his fears with courage and his past with dignity. He would not let them down. Not after they'd come this far.

At long last, Erik sighed and put the pen down, glancing up to see Madame Giry coming in from the gardens through the back door. Her arms were full of roses of every hue. She laid them gently on the counter and began searching the cabinets for a vase. She selected one made of green glass with a long, tapering bottleneck and a small, rounded base. Setting it on the counter, she poured in a bit of water from a pitcher and began arranging the flowers. Without her back still turned to the table, she addressed him.

"How is the opera coming along?"

"It's finished."

Madame Giry turned to face him. For a man who had just completed a masterpiece, he certainly sounded subdued. He stared blankly at the paper in front of him.

"Do you know," he said quietly, "that I have never signed my name?"

She waited for him to go on.

He continued to stare at the paper, unmoving. "I fear that I have been O.G. for so long that I no longer know how to be Erik."

Madame Giry abandoned the roses and put a comforting hand against his back. "You have always been Erik. Even when you were the Opera Ghost, there were still traces of you. That is why I never gave up."

Erik closed his eyes before his emotions could get the better of him. He gave a half-laugh that turned into sob. "I feel as though I don't even know myself."

She moved her hands to his shoulders, applying a comforting pressure. "You are more yourself now than you have been in years. You have been becoming Erik your entire life, but only recently have you discovered who Erik actually is. You know who you are. You are just afraid because being Erik means being better, and you don't know if you can live up to his standards. It is alright to be afraid. What is not alright is to run from your fear. Do you understand?"

Erik was blinking profusely, taking deep, shaky breaths. So far, the tears had not come. He nodded. When he had calmed down a bit, he spoke. "There still remains the problem of my surname…or lack thereof."

Madame Giry was silent for a moment. "Gérard," she said quietly. [1]

"What?"

"It was my maiden name."

"Yes…yes, I remember."

"It is a common last name. I have many relatives throughout the country and could easily claim you as a distant cousin."

Erik looked up at the woman he had long thought of as a mother with a hopeful longing in his eyes. "You would…consider me your family?"

"You have always been a part of this family, Erik, in everything but name. I believe it is time to remedy that."

"You never told me…"

Madame Giry smiled. "You never asked."

Slowly, Erik picked up the pen and touched it to the paper. He took great care in each stroke, forming the letters so that they were written perfectly, lovingly. At last, he put the pen aside, allowing the ink to dry before running his fingers over the words.

Erik Gérard

Erik peered out at the audience from behind the curtain. Leroux's series had been quite a hit, and Christine was not slack in her promise to the vicomte to obtain a full house. Every single seat was filled. He scanned the audience for familiar faces and found Leroux in the third row and the vicomte in box five. Still can't resist trying to make me angry, can you, de Changy?

He felt Christine come up behind him. She laid a hand on his arm. "Well, I suppose this is it…the moment we've all been waiting for. It looks as though we've had a good turnout."

"Yes." Erik didn't want to admit it, but he felt sick to his stomach. He closed the curtain. For the moment he had donned his white half-mask and wig, and he tried to reassure himself with the knowledge that for the majority of the opera no one would see him without either. He hoped he didn't look as nervous as he felt, but Christine could read him like a book.

"Just remember that during the most difficult scenes, I'll be on stage with you."

Erik took a deep breath and nodded.

She took his hands. "Erik, all of these people are here tonight to hear your music. They wouldn't have come if they weren't expecting something great. They believe in you. I believe in you."

"They wouldn't if they knew who I really was."

"Forget who you were. Show them who you are."

Erik looked up to see Madame Giry headed in their direction. She stopped a few feet from them, clasping her hands excitedly. She smiled, glancing between the two of them. "It is time." She put one hand on his shoulder and one on Christine's. "I am so very proud of both of you."

The first four acts of the opera went by quickly and without incident. The minor unmasking scene in the second act had gone well. It was so brief that the audience hadn't really had a chance to look at his face, which suited him just fine, but it had been difficult for him to reenact the anger he'd felt toward Christine at the time, cursing her and practically throwing her to the ground. He'd spent several minutes after the scene was over apologizing again and again and checking to see that he hadn't actually hurt her. But the scene that he was absolutely dreading was coming up, and he was beginning to lose his nerve. Dressed in his Don Juan attire, he adjusted his cape and looked at his reflection in the mirror, something he wasn't generally fond of doing. At the moment, he resembled a dashing casanova, and he almost, almost felt handsome except for the scar on his face, which the mask did little to cover…but the illusion wouldn't last for long. He lifted the black mask just the slightest bit from the right side of his face and sighed. No matter what Leroux or Christine or Madame Giry had told him, he still felt ugly. Being Erik in front of them was one thing. Being Erik on stage was quite a different matter. It had been easy for him to slip back into the persona of the Phantom on stage. Almost too easy. When he had acted out the killing scenes, he had gotten such a rush, such a surge of power, that he'd had to stop himself before he actually harmed the actors. He had thought that part of him had disappeared, and when he realized that it hadn't completely gone away, that he still had the ability to kill, it frightened him. He heard someone coming and quickly replaced the mask, hoping no one had seen. He knew it would be inevitable that they would see eventually, but he planned on putting it off for as long as possible. He turned to greet the visitor, relieved to see that it was Christine.

"Christine, I don't think I can do this."

She took his hand, interlacing her fingers with his. "You can."

He shook his head.

"Just look at me," she said. "When you're on stage, just forget that the audience exists. Don't look at them. Look at me…Remember, I will be the one removing the mask, and I already know what is underneath." She gently lifted the mask up and kissed his right cheek, then slid the mask back into place. "You're going to be fine."

It was time. "Past the Point of No Return" was nearly over. They were winding their way up the staircase. They were almost to the top. Erik could barely keep his mind on the lyrics. He had written this song for them – for her – and yet he couldn't feel the passion that he'd had on the night of the fire. This time all he could feel was mind-numbing fear. He kept his eyes on Christine, refusing to look anywhere but her face, thankful that this scene required their constant eye contact. His heart felt like it was going to burst from his chest. He held Christine close, losing himself to her touch, running his fingers along her skin, imagining for a moment that the world contained no one but them.

Say you'll share with me one love, one lifetime

Lead me, save me from my solitude

Say you want me with you here beside you

Anywhere you go let me go too,

He felt the reassuring warmth of her hand against his cheek, saw the look of love that was in her eyes. He braced himself for what he knew was coming.

Christine that's all I ask of –

The mask and wig came off, revealing his face to the audience, to the world. All the feelings of that night came rushing back. He felt naked and exposed, helpless and vulnerable, betrayed and hurt. He glanced briefly at the audience, and he froze. They weren't laughing. They weren't screaming. They were completely silent, staring at him. And he couldn't move.

The audience had started to whisper. They were growing restless, waiting for his next movement, his next line. He looked away and found Christine's eyes. She was staring at him, too, but not in judgment or anticipation. Her eyes shone with admiration and pride.

Immediately, he fell back into the role, cutting loose the line to the supposed chandelier and sweeping her off her feet to a place below the stage while the crew prepared the set for the dungeon scene. They ran up the stairs from their place beneath the stage, coming out on top just as the curtain began to rise. He flew through the lyrics with perfect pitch and timing. He threw himself into the role with full force. He wasn't thinking now. He was just doing. Doing whatever his mind told him to do, whatever the scene required. He acted on instinct. He couldn't allow himself to feel too much during this scene because if he did, he'd surely lose all control. It's almost over, he thought. It's almost over. He knew in his mind that it was just an act, but the passion and pain he felt were still very real. It was too recent; the wounds were too fresh. He was reliving it all – the hatred, the love, the joy, the heartbreak. The emotions were overwhelming and stage lighting was too hot and the crowd was too large and just when he thought he couldn't take it anymore, he felt Christine's lips on his and the world stopped turning.

There were gasps from the crowd. Some were whispering. Some looked scandalized. But Erik saw none of it. He kissed her with more passion and love than he had ever kissed her before and he could feel her heartbeat against his chest and he could taste their mingling tears on her lips…and then it was over. When they broke apart, the tears he shed were genuine; the heartbreak he felt was real. It hurt to watch her go, and it killed him when she returned the ring. He wanted to run after her. He wanted to stop her. He wanted to take her in his arms and spin her around and kiss her until he ran out of breath. But that wasn't how it had ended. He forced himself to remain behind, watching as she reenacted the most painful moment of his life – the moment he thought he would never see her again. It was all he could do to keep from completely breaking down as he heard her voice – that sweet, angelic voice he loved so dearly – singing words of love to another, echoing off the walls of the opera house, mocking him for ever believing that such a beautiful woman could love such an imperfect monster of a man. He was alone on stage now. Utterly and completely alone. Just as he had been on the night of the fire. Gripping the candle stand until his knuckles were white, he slammed the metal into the mirror. There was a brief stinging sensation as a shower of tiny glass shards bit into his skin. He didn't care. He just kept smashing until at last he broke through the final mirror and walked off the stage into Christine's open arms, wrapping her into a fierce embrace.

The music ended. The curtain fell. And the crowd erupted into applause.

Christine looked up into his eyes, those soft green eyes so full of love, and beamed. "Do you hear that, Erik? That is all for you." She raised a hand to stroke his wet cheek. "They are cheering for you."

Monsieur Leroux pushed his way through the crowd that had gathered outside the dressing rooms. Spotting Erik and Christine headed into one of the doorways on the far right, he shouted to them, waving to get their attention. "Erik, m'boy! Miss Daaé!" He brushed past the guards, who recognized him as the author, and made his way to them. He clapped Erik on the shoulder. "Erik, my lad, that was sheer genius! Amazing! Makes my work look like utter rubbish!"

"Monsieur Leroux, I wouldn't be here if weren't for your so-called 'rubbish.' Thank you."

"Oh, nonsense, boy! Nonsense! You have more talent than all of Paris put together!" He turned to Christine. "And you, Miss Daaé, are certainly gifted as well. You truly sang like an angel tonight."

Christine blushed. "Thank you."

The journalist tipped his hat, smiling widely. "Congratulations to the both of you."

Christine shook her head. "I'm still amazed at how many people came out. I heard someone say they had to start turning people away because all of the seats were filled!"

Leroux knit his brows. "Oh, well, yes! Congratulations on that, as well." He laughed when he saw their confused faces. "Erik, m'boy, I know a good act when I see one, but you'd have to be a mighty good actor, indeed, to kiss someone like that!"

Erik flushed.

Leroux simply laughed again. "Well, best of luck to you – though, I'm sure you won't need it. You two were made for each other." He tipped his hat again and turned to leave. "Keep in touch!"

Christine was just about to close the door behind him when she saw that another familiar face had made it through the crowd. Raoul stood quietly in front of the door, his gaze flicking between Erik and Christine. "May I come in?"

Christine looked hesitantly to Erik, who gave a curt nod. They stepped back, allowing the vicomte to enter before closing the door.

Raoul stood with his back to them. He was silent a moment before speaking. "The opera was quite a success tonight. Well done." He paused. When no one spoke, he continued. "However, I know that it did not end as you would have liked…which is why I've come to say goodbye." He turned to face them and took Christine gently by the shoulders, looking into her eyes for what he knew might be the last time.

Think of me, think of me fondly

When we've said goodbye

Remember me, once in awhile

Please promise me you'll try

Flowers fade, the fruits of summer fade

They have their seasons, so do we

But please promise me that sometimes

You will think of me

He leaned forward and placed a soft, chaste kiss on her forehead. "Don't forget about me, Christine." He looked to Erik not with the bitterness of an enemy but the respect for a man who has won. "Take care of her."

"I will."

[1] Obviously, this is a reference to Gerard Butler who played the Phantom in the 2004 film. Gérard (also spelled Girard) actually is a French surname. It literally means "strong spear" or "strong spear warrior."