Chapitre Huit: Le Vérité du Ange

Christine's eyes fluttered open, and she moaned as a terrible searing pain in the side of her head jarred her fully awake. She couldn't really remember what had happened, or where she was, or why her body ached.

She frowned as the ceiling came into partial focus, and she realized that she was looking at the stained, cracking tiles of her dressing room. She struggled to sit up, and found herself lying on the floor before a sharp pang in her head distracted her.

As she clutched her head in agony, a beautiful, familiar voice, deep and sonorous, inquired concernedly, "Christine, how do you feel?"

It was the Angel's voice—but instead of resounding from all corners of the room, it came directly from her right. She turned quickly to locate it, and was shocked to see a man kneeling by her side.

This wasn't the Angel—Gods, who was he? "Angel!" she cried, clutching trembling fingers around the charm at her throat, a relief of Thor's magical hammer etched in pewter. "Angel, help me!"

"Do not be afraid," he pleaded. "You are in no danger."

It was the Angel's voice!

He was clad fully in black, save for a white porcelain mask covering half of his face. The half she could see was attractive, seeming very noble and breathtaking, with dark, passionate eyes. But he was still a very mortal man, despite his likeness to the dashing Angel she had imagined. Could this possibly be the Angel…? No, it could not be true! She raised an arm in an attempt to rip off his mask, but the sudden motion sparked unbearable pain in her shoulder.

"Your shoe broke and you fell," he said somberly, as she collapsed back onto the floor.

The pain, the swirling confusion in her head, and the nausea threatening her stomach were so overwhelming that she started to sob. She tried to keep from shaking because it hurt so badly, but to no avail. "I feel so sick," she whispered. "My head hurts and I feel sick…and dizzy…" She breathed deeply, trying to focus her thoughts. "Everything is blurry."

"You may have a concussion," he said.

"A what?"

"An impact to the head that jars the brain—"

"Oh, Gods, don't tell me that," she said, as her stomach threatened to revolt.

"You woke up quickly, and the bump doesn't look severe, so I think the concussion is mild," he said, pain in his deep voice.

"How—how long will it last?"

"A few hours, a few days at the most—as I said, it is mild."

She lay on the floor for a long time, the masked man at her side; she kept her eyes closed, thinking little and waiting for the pain to subside. The dizziness started to let up, and in its place, her ears began to ring. When the shock had worn off, her thoughts started to gather. "So then…you're…not an angel?"

It took him a long moment to answer. "No."

"Gods, gods," she sobbed, "it was all a lie." Her hopes, her dreams, dashed, and in their place this man, who had lied to her, convinced her that the Angel of Music had come at last. Oh, she had been such a fool!

The Voice—or whoever he was—looked even sadder than before. "I'm so sorry, Christine."

"Who are you, then?" she demanded, her voice choked with sobs.

"I am Erik," he said.

"Erik what?"

"I do not possess a last name—I am merely the phantom of this opera house."

Christine's heart sank even further. So, she thought miserably, THIS is the Opera Ghost. And that, too, is but a sham; merely a fantasy to ensnare the weak-minded.

"I am sorry, Christine, sorry for everything," he said, still on his knees. He could not bring himself to meet her eyes. "I did not want to lie to you. And I didn't mean to destroy your illusions like this—I just wanted to protect you from harm—and in my haste, I've ruined everything…. And on top of it all, you were hurt."

"It's not your fault," she said, touched by his grief. "I'm very clumsy."

Her words didn't lighten the somberness of his expression. "As soon as you feel better, I'll leave—go to dinner with the Vicomte de Chagny. I won't trouble you ever again." His anguish was so poignant that she began to cry, and she realized that his eyes as well were threatening tears. "I would beg that you would allow me to remain as your instructor, but I cannot even ask—I've deceived you too greatly for that." The half of his face not covered by his mask was bold and rather handsome. His eyes, just a shade darker than emerald, were bright and shining despite the dim candlelight. The forced calm of his body belied the passionate fire in his eyes, and she blinked in surprise. She didn't have much experience in the subject, but he seemed quite in love with her.

She supposed it wasn't that surprising; she was fantastically beautiful, after all—it was natural that men would fall for her.

Christine thought about it for a several minutes, finding it difficult to focus her thoughts. She wasn't sure what to do about the masked man. He had taken advantage of her faith and desperation. She felt so betrayed and so stupid for believing him that she never wanted to see him again.

She started to tell him to leave, but then stopped to think. Why had he lied to her? What had he gotten out of it? He'd gone to far too much effort to teach her for the whole thing to have just been a joke. It would be better if she sent him away until she had figured it out. Yes, she would send him away and go to dinner with Raoul as planned.

A sharp pang in her head put an end to her ambitious plans. She was in no condition to return to life as usual, not for dinners, performances, or anything else. She weighed her headache against her desire to keep her dinner date with Raoul. She hated to lose a glamorous dinner, and worse, what if Raoul took some other girl instead? But at the same time, she could have dinner with Raoul any time she chose—he was completely infatuated with her—and Raoul would love her all the more for having worried for a while. When he came back to see what had happened to her, he would be so concerned that he would undoubtedly cancel his plans for the rest of the week to spend every minute by her side.

Another horrible pain made her decide that it would be better if someone was watching her condition until Raoul arrived. "Perhaps you'd better stay for a few minutes," she said, touching the lump on her head experimentally. "I might faint again."

He stayed at her side, silent and unmoving, seeming afraid to speak lest she reconsider and order him to leave. She made no attempt to speak either, contemplating what she thought of this peculiar man and how he fit into her plans to marry the Vicomte de Chagny. It was, strangely, a comfortable silence, and in a few minutes, she fell asleep on the floor, wrapped in blankets.

# # # # # # # # # # # # # # #

Raoul waited in the carriage for a few minutes, thinking of the lovely dinner he was about to spend with Christine, and how best he could extract from her the reason why she had been so rudely and blatantly ignoring him. At first he had thought it was her way of making him desire her all the more, but it was becoming rather tiresome. Perhaps it was just her maidenly shyness. Well, that was tolerable, he supposed, as long as she got over it sooner rather than later. He only had three months until he had to give up his irresponsible bachelor existence, and he wanted to enjoy the company of the most beautiful women in Paris as much as possible in that short time. So, regrettably, much as he enjoyed the challenge of romancing a recalcitrant girl, if Christine spent much more time being maidenly, he'd have to abandon her for easier conquests. It would be a terrible shame; she was undoubtedly the most gorgeous thing he'd ever laid eyes on.

To pass the time, he absentmindedly studied the interior of the carriage. Though he rode in it most every day, he never took the time to admire it. The windows were lined with gold leaf and equipped with shining little hinges to allow air in to the passengers. The wall opposite him was painted with an accurate reproduction of da Vinci's Annunciation, glowing in the light of the street. It was a beautiful painting, depicting a kneeling Gabriel revealing to Mary that she was to bear the son of God. His wings were luminescent and golden, looking like the delicate wings of a swallow rather than the strong eagle-wings that Raoul fancied angels really had.

An angel…. That reminded him—every time he managed to corner Christine and demand an explanation, she babbled something about an angel. He supposed it was the Angel of…what was it…Music, yes—that her father had always talked about. Perhaps she attributed her recent success of Faust to the angel her father had promised her—but to take stock in such an absurd story was pure folly. Surely she didn't think that it was the Angel of Music she had been talking to the other night? No, that was ridiculous. She had never had much by way of brains, but no one was that stupid.

He had never discovered the identity of the brazen scum foolish enough to come between him and his lovely diva, and Christine still denied the fiend's existence. But, as long as it didn't interfere with his seduction—and because he could tell she was absolutely smitten with him, despite her reluctance, he wasn't worried—he supposed it didn't matter. It was probably just some stupid illiterate stagehand trying his hand at a prank.

Growing impatient, he tapped his fingers against the leather seat, wondering what could possibly be taking so long. Surely she couldn't still be dressing. He supposed the two minutes he'd given her wasn't really enough time, but he had wanted her to hurry. And anyway, it had been at least fifteen minutes. Perhaps she had gotten lost. She had never had much of a sense of direction, either….

With a sigh, he jumped out of the carriage and started back up the steps into the opera house.