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Chapter 12: Alice Opens the Gate
Midmorning one Wednesday, Alice slipped away to the Rue Scribe gate. As she turned from the Rue Auber into her narrow street, the autumnal winds loosened her chignon, and she could not escape the foreboding sense of dread that hung around her like a heavy fog. The Rue Scribe was quiet, and fragile leaves whispered as they chased each other in circles across the street. Leaded clouds cast strange shadows and painted the empty street a lusterless, ashen grey.
She had at last deduced that the iron key from the Persian's fireplace fit the strange lock on the Rue Scribe. As she assisted Dr. Mechnikov, she had found herself repeatedly pondering whether her journey beneath the Opera had been merely imagined. But then, she thought, the Persian had confirmed her account of what lay beneath the set piece of Le Roi de Lahore. She began to suspect that her explorations had not been dreams after all. Given the Persian's link to the Opera Ghost, and the similar structure in the unusual key found in his apartment and the strange lock on the Rue Scribe gate, she soon questioned whether the key and lock were not a match.
Then, during one of Mechnikov's experiments "concerning the effects of certain chemicals on water-born bacteria," her suspicions were confirmed. Mechnikov had expressed his intention to purify the gutters of Paris with the chemicals, to increase the city's supply of clean drinking water. Peering into a microscope to observe a dying bacterium, Alice had suggested that he ask the municipality for access into the locked gates for the purification. He had looked up from his notes and had said most singularly, "There are no locked drains in Paris. They are all easily opened. From where else would I have obtained my samples?" There could be no doubt, then, that the lock on the Rue Scribe gate had an altogether different purpose than the one her father had offered. She had not only imagined a house with a lake beneath the Opera. Now she had come to the gate itself to test her suspicions.
In her hands, she held the instrument that would unlock the Phantom's kingdom. She held her breath and pushed the heavy key into the lock.
Iron scraped against iron in the quiet morning and echoed in the tunnels below—the key fit! That grating sound, ordinarily unpleasant, was music to the ears of Alice Mifroid just then. It meant that she had not imagined her escapade in the Opera's cellars. It meant that the rebuke that she had received from the Commissioner had been unjust! Now she would redeem herself!
She wrapped her fingers around the key and turned it in the lock. At last she felt the catch give way, and heard a rumble from deep inside like a waking dragon. She swung the gate open easily into the street and retrieved the key, then stepped inside and drew the gate shut behind her. The smell of sulfur flooded the narrow tunnel as she struck a match and lit the small lamp she carried. Pocketing the key and guarding the lamp against the wind straining through the gate, she took the steps down to the lake.
As she descended, a warm, flickering light came into view ahead of her. She rounded the corner and was suddenly blinded by an amazing light, as if she had stepped into dazzling summer sunlight. She shielded her eyes while they adjusted, and squinted into the brightness.
Incredible!
A tier of fire snaked along the walls of the massive cavern! It encircled the lake all the way to the house, and the towering flames leapt like dancing devils.
Alice remembered the sound she had heard when unlocking the gate, and speculated that turning the lock had triggered some apparatus to ignite drums of oil around the cavern walls. The same twisted ingenuity that had created a beautiful torture chamber beneath the Opera had now transformed the surreal lake into the depths of an inferno. She had not forgotten that the house by the lake belonged to a killer, but she was so eager for her proof and so amazed by the fire that she shaded her lamp and stepped into the boat.
As she crossed the lake, the ripples glittered in the flickering light as if she traversed a current of flowing lava within an angry volcano. When she reached the middle of the quiet lake, the blazing cavern suddenly erupted into song. A tranquil melody floated in the air and drifted across the glowing water:
"When one loves, he becomes mild.
I myself, I myself tremble more than you.
Why do you fear this shy servant,
who is beneath your reign?"
Those velvet verses from the opera Zémire et Azor spoke of tenderness, but the one who sang lent a voice of irresistible power. The world trembled with the plaintive tenor, whose soaring timber seized Alice's heart. Despite the fire surrounding her, and although she knew she headed towards the house of a murderer, she felt her heart relax of its own accord, tempted by the gentle music. Drawn by that hypnotic voice, Alice searched for its source in the shadows of the cavern. The frantic flames around the lake drove away the darkness, yet she could not find the one who sang.
Wait… There on the bank, by the house!
He stood dressed in evening clothes, with his back supported by the stone wall of the apartment, his long legs crossed at the ankles. From his shoulders hung a black cape with satin lining of pale ivory, and his hands were hidden by white kid gloves. A black opera mask, as smooth as silk, covered his face. The man looked to be the Prince Azor himself, in handsome human form! He sang to the stars, facing the heavens and clutching his breast with both hands as he poured forth the intoxicating pleasure of his voice.
"And I my-self," he cried, holding and embellishing the notes, "Yes, I myy….—"
He straightened so quickly and ended so abruptly that Alice jerked, nearly tipping over the boat.
"How did you get in here?"
The spell broken, Alice found herself sitting in the boat at the dock beside the house. The current must have taken her as the music drifted around her like a beautiful perfume. In front of her, the tenor had realized that he sang for someone unintended. His expression had transformed as rapidly as his music had ended, and he now bore a threatening scowl beneath his mask. He reached her in four quick steps, the gravel grinding under his shoes.
"I'll ask you again, and I have little patience. How did you get in here?"
Though his voice now had an angry edge, Alice could still hear the smooth cadence beneath it. He made no move to assist her out of the boat, so she stayed where she was. She had realized with alarming certainty this was the killer she had been chasing, the Erik of the Persian's warnings—and that her life was in danger.
Like two deep, empty chasms leading down into his malevolent soul, his dangerous eyes contained a pit of fire more terrible than the one surrounding the cavern! Yes!—His eyes burned like the Devil's! And the ring of flames that reflected in his horrible mask gave the appearance that his entire head was aflame. She was terrified—Alice Mifroid, brave daughter of the Police Commissioner of the Sûreté, was absolutely terrified!
She screamed, aware of her fate and of the futility of the call, but nevertheless unable to control the expression of horror boiling from her throat.
The man grabbed her wrist, causing her fist to open, and the key fell on the dock at his feet with a heavy thud. With her wrist still shackled in his cold fingers, he stared down at that archaic instrument for several moments, and then his terrible eyes fell on her. His grasp around her wrist grew impossibly tighter, drawing her nearer to him and all but dragging her up out of the boat.
"Where did you get this?" he hissed, his lips mere inches from her ear.
She bit her own lip to contain another scream. "I found it in the Persian's fireplace."
Her words broke the floodgates of his mercurial temper, and he struck her with the back of his hand. "You lie!" he cried, and these two words echoed tremendously in the cavern.
The blow had nearly sent poor Alice off the side of the boat, which set to rocking back and forth as she touched the tender flesh of her cheek where he'd struck her. "It's the truth, Monsieur!" She would not let a criminal accuse her of vice! "Look, I found a ring there, too. How else would I have gotten it? If it's yours, take it!" She all but threw it at him, to be rid of it.
The formidable Architect of Mazenderan released her wrist and held the gold ring between his thumb and forefinger. He studied it for a full minute against the light of the incredible fire. The ring's design was simple: only a bit of embellishment in the form of ribbing along the top and bottom edges. Yet he recognized the ring, indeed. His anger temporarily subdued, he collected the ring and key into the pocket of his waistcoat, then returned a steady stare at the woman in the boat.
"Didn't you know," he growled, "that I gave this ring to Christine Daaé, who was to return?"
Confused, Alice shook her head.
"It was not for you." Threats laced his words, the way that poison laces the assassin's drink. "Then how, you might ask, did they come to the Persian? An interesting question isn't it?" he inquired with a maddening nod of his head. He grabbed her by the arm again, this time pulling her out of the boat and into the house, his cape a swirling tempest behind him. Alice was now far too frightened to scream.
"Of course, she gave them to him," he said as he dragged her into his drawing room. His cold, bony fingers dug into her flesh from the strength of his grip—from the force of his rage. "She must have sent them to him because she didn't want to visit Erik herself! Not even if Erik were dead! Of course, it might be that she herself is dead, but then he would have told me, wouldn't he? There wouldn't be anything to hide then!"
Rambling on in this manner and still manacling her arm, he swung open the pendulum chamber of the grandfather clock and tore out the bottom of the chamber. Beneath it was a secret compartment, from which he removed a terrifying, white pistol. Alice found her voice and screamed again.
"Scream!" he laughed as he cocked the pistol, "No one can hear you in this Hell!" He surprised her then by pointing the weapon to his own skull.
Her scream died to a frightened sob. With her free hand, she struggled to pry open his grip on her arm.
"Do you know differently, about Christine?" he begged as he pulled her closer. His hands shook so terribly that the pistol shuddered in his hold. "Tell me why she won't return!"
"Please, Monsieur, put that away," Alice pleaded, trembling herself.
"You have nothing to fear. Only answer me!"
His voice broke, and she knew he was crying, although the mask hid his face. He released her arm to cover his eyes, then fell to his knees.
"She doesn't love me!" he gasped. "Oh, God! Just answer me!"
Alice didn't know what to do. Only moments before, she thought he would destroy her. Now the murderer she had been seeking wept at her feet, mourning his lost love! And he had released her arm, so she was free… but—
She knelt in front of him and reached for the weapon, her voice still wavering. "Monsieur, you must listen! I don't know Mlle. Daaé, and I don't know her reasons. Please, put this pistol away!"
"You too have seen my face, that horrible vision that I have no doubt still haunts your dreams. What other reason could there be for her to refuse to honor her promise?"
Alice wrapped her fingers around the barrel of the gun and struggled to pull it away from him. "No, I've never seen you before, Monsieur."
"You have! We met in the catacombs one Sunday, when you interrupted my devotions!"
Alice nearly released her hold on the pistol, she was so surprised. The Persian had lied—she really did explore the catacombs! And the image that had terrified her into a helpless faint…
"Ah!" he cried, noticing the change in her expression, "Yes! Now you know! Now you understand why she didn't return!"
"Monsieur, listen!" She redoubled her efforts, grabbing the gun with both hands and shoving her thumb behind the trigger of the pistol to prevent it from firing. "Monsieur Erik! You murdered men in cold blood! Could it be your character that turned her away?"
He pushed her away with his free hand with such force that she fell backwards onto the floor. "And you are entirely innocent?" he cried, rising to tower over her. "Stealing what isn't yours, and trespassing on others' property! It looks different from your point of view, I'm sure," he added when she shook her head as she struggled to her feet and reached again for the pistol. "Foolish woman! As a matter of convenience we all forget the laws of God and man, when they obstruct our endeavors. You think that I don't know what I am? I've had this curse since birth—a mask since my two demon-eyes first saw the world—loneliness from the very beginning of my life! From my first moments in this world, people assumed—A monster like me must also have the soul of one—I was accused even before I had done anything. Then they came for me…. They wouldn't leave me be—I had to silence them all! Then I became the monster they had believed me to be. So you see, Mademoiselle, even if it is my character that has repulsed her, it was still because of my damned ugliness!"
"Monsieur," she pleaded, releasing the weapon and folding her hands in supplication, "I'm begging you not to kill yourself. Whatever your appearance, whatever sins you've committed, you've still a soul!"
The Phantom stared at her. Why did she insist on sparing his life? An ordinary person would have allowed him to be done with it. Hadn't she been hounding him because of his murders, and wouldn't the punishment be death in any case? Yet this tender creature wanted him still to live because he had a soul.
But was that soul worth saving?
His pause betrayed his doubt, and she could read the remorse in his sorrowful eyes behind the mask. Though he made his ugliness an excuse for his crimes, but his own guilt tortured him more painfully than even his appearance.
She then took hold of his own hand that gripped the pistol. "A wicked heart could not have borne the love that you have for Mlle. Daaé. Since the murder at the Place Denfert-Rochereau, and as I've followed the case, I was curious to learn what caused you to kill. Evil would be the man who had everything, yet still killed for the pleasure. But you carry a heavy burden."
He had been surprised to feel her fingers moving gently over his own, but he was absolutely stunned to hear such a generous reading of his own heart by a stranger. He lowered the pistol.
"It was for some form of salvation that I prayed on that day we met in the catacombs," he whispered. "In the chalice on the altar, there was poison that would have ended my life. Something in your determination that afternoon revived my will to live." He dropped the pistol. "I had hoped that she would return to me, but now that my only hope is gone for certain, this life holds nothing for me but incredible pain: 'The agonies which are have their origin in the ecstasies which might have been.'"
He moaned in profound sorrow, and Alice was touched by the beauty of the sound. The world should know this genius, and appreciate his art!—but how?
"What if the face you hide could be transformed?" Alice was as surprised as he was to hear what she had said.