I truly appreciate the feedback!
Eldunari Liduen: Yeah, poor Erik *sniffle* I thought I had read Kay's Phantom, but I was wrong; I read Kate McMullan's adaptation some twenty years ago. I did, however, find Phantom at the library and will be reading it at last! And I'm glad you liked that line so much! Nice little bit of WAFF, huh?
Elfinmyth: Hehehe! Yes, I'm pleased people are enjoying my Christine-with-a-backbone as much as I'm enjoying writing her!
StrawberryStoleYourCookie: Really? I hadn't considered that. The thought just popped into my mind so I added it. I think I was writing A Doctor's Thoughts right before that, so I had all those little 'clinical' details rattling around in my brain.
LadyCavalier: Yes, I astound myself sometimes! Haha. And that scene will be . . . *ahem* what it will be. I know how you feel; apart from writing, I really have no life. Wait, maybe that helps my writing. Hmmmm . . .
Hmm . . . I wonder how long I can keep this fic going . . . Hehe, I refuse to set a limit on the number of chapters I write, so we shall see, won't we?
Erik and Christine's walk was quite uneventful. They had ventured a few blocks from the opera house to a street lined with quaint shops where no one would recognise them. Christine wore a cloak that covered her head and protected her from the cold and the late afternoon sun. No one stared or even gave them a second glance as they strolled past the dwindling crowds and paused to gaze into store-front windows.
No one but one man, that is. Unbeknownst to them, there was one person who could not take his eyes off of them. He sat at a table, alone, in the shadow of a bistro on the corner of the street they had chosen. Every time Christine turned to her escort, he would pay particular attention to her expressions. 'Does she love him?' he wondered.
The more he watched them together, the more indignant he became. Every smile she bestowed upon the masked man sent daggers into him. Each time she eased herself closer felt like a slap in the face. Cool evening breezes were teasing a few stray locks of flaxen hair out of her hood. When Erik lifted a gloved hand to brush them back, the man examining all their actions could take no more.
He rose from his seat and hurried home so he could tell his little brother what his precious would-be sweetheart Christine was up to these days.
Christine barely noticed the glare coming from across the street as Erik guided her back the way they had come. He pulled her into a doorway she might not have noticed and she was bombarded by a cascade of heavenly scents. As her eyes adjusted to the soft candlelight, she observed dark wood floors and a few small, sturdy tables graced with deep red tablecloths.
"Are you hungry, my dear?" he inquired.
"Oh, yes . . . Yes, I am," she admitted as she took the seat Erik had pulled out for her.
A woman a few years older than Christine came over, wiping her hands on a towel, and greeted Erik warmly. "Ah, Monsieur Utkin! How nice to see you again! And who is your lovely companion? I am Madame Fournier," she continued without waiting for Erik to introduce the two women.
"Madame Fournier, it is a pleasure to meet you. I am Mademoiselle Daae."
"Ah, but the pleasure is mine! It is so nice to see Monsieur Utkin come in with someone for a change," she remarked with a sly glance his way. "Now, what can I start you off with for supper? Perhaps something to take the chill off? I know Monsieur Utkin will have his customary piping hot tea with lemon."
"Tea sounds nice, actually," Christine replied with a smile. "She is quite sociable, oui, Erik?" she murmured after the dark-haired woman had scurried back to the kitchen. "She is not from around around here, though, is she?"
"Good ear, my dear. Madame Fournier is from Ireland. She married Monsieur Fournier and moved here to help him run this café; it's been in his family for many generations. They occasionally run errands for me, such as grocery shopping and fetching my suits from the tailor," he explained.
Christine didn't have a chance to reply to that as Madame Fournier brought the tea and a plate of cheeses and bread.
"We shall have the tartiflette tonight, madame," Erik informed the rosy-cheeked woman. "And a kouign-amman with chocolat chaud for dessert."
"Mais bien sur, monsieur."
There were few tables in the small dining area of the café, and Erik and Christine were the only two patrons there, so they were able to speak fairly freely without worry of who might overhear. Erik apparently trusted the Fournier couple enough not to remain silent the entire time they were there, but he was careful not to mention that Christine was a member of the opera company. He saw no point in taking the chance that the wrong person might walk in at an inopportune moment and overhear something they should not have.
Not that they spoke of anything of great import, but one could never be too careful. That was something Erik had learned when he was quite young. They ate their supper and made pleasant chit-chat, then lingered over dessert.
'It is so good that he has found someone who loves him so. He's seemed so lonely the past few years. I am sure they will be quite happy together,' Mme. Fournier thought to herself. 'I'll just box up some brioche for them, along with some petits fours. The young miss certainly looks like she enjoys her pastry! Maybe she will encourage her monsieur to eat more, as well. She will be good for him; I can see that already.'
"Erik? I was wondering . . ." Christine began.
"Yes, mon ange?"
"I was wondering if we might pay a visit to Maman? Even just a short one?"
"We could stop by her flat now, if you wish."
"Really? Oh, that would be wonderful! The two most important people in my life will finally meet!" she whispered excitedly.
There was that smile again, the smile he would do anything to see. The smile that made him forget all the anger he'd felt for cruel humanity, lo, his entire miserable existence. She made him want to forget about all the horrid things he'd done in his tortured past and begin his life anew, with her by his side . . .
After Erik had paid Madame Fournier and collected the box she'd prepared, he and Christine made their way to the flat that had, for so long, been home for her.
"Ah, so you are Christine's good genius! It is a pleasure to finally meet you, monsieur!" Mme. Valerius gushed when they were all seated in the parlour.
Erik sat stiffly in his chair, his ungloved hands clutching at the armrests. "Oui, madame." He was terribly nervous about how to properly act in the company of a woman who could very easily persuade his dear Christine to abandon him forever.
"And . . . how are your singing lessons coming along, my dear boy?"
'My dear boy?' he thought, bemused. "Christine is progressing beautifully," he remarked, causing Christine to blush modestly.
"Erik is a - a wonderful teacher, Maman. He has been very good to me, very patient," she glanced at him and gave him a reassuring smile, which he returned as best he could.
"Now, my dear boy, the only thing that concerns me about your relationship with my sweet little Christine is that you treat her well and that she is happy. I can see for myself that she is, but . . . just how long do you intend to keep her with you, monsieur?" Maman Valerius with mock sternness.
Erik did not hesitate in his answer. "Three weeks, madame, if mademoiselle is willing to tolerate me for that long," he returned playfully. "I am afraid, though, that she may tire of me before then."
"Oh, Erik! I could never tire of you!" Christine cried with a melodramatic fluttering of her eyelashes. "You are my angel of music!" Her time on the stage in opera bouffe served her well, and she enjoyed their silly banter. 'Three weeks? He wants me to stay with him that much longer? I thought, surely, he would have grown weary of me and my naivete by now. He truly is a wonderful man!'
With those pressing matters settled, the trio could savour the tiny bits of pastry and discuss the events that had transpired over the past week since Christine had gone to Erik's below-ground home.
Mme. Valerius had one more thing to tell them. "You were right, my dear girl, to worry about that vicomte coming around to inquire about you. But, don't you worry, I told him it would not do for him to interfere with your time with your teacher or your career."
Erik tried to hide his elation at this bit of news, but wound up emitting a hearty chortle nonetheless. Neither woman could fault him for it, and soon joined in. The very idea of a nobleman courting an opera singer? Ludicrous!
Once their laughter subsided, Erik noticed how late it was getting and remarked that perhaps Maman would like to get some rest.
"Oh, I dare say I should. I do have a rather busy morning tomorrow. Oh! Before you go, you should fetch your muff. You were not wearing your gloves when you arrived, Christine, and it is turning colder," Maman chided gently.
"Yes, of course, Maman." She went off to fetch the item from her bedroom.
Maman leaned forward slightly, her voice lowered so Christine would not hear their conversation. "Now we can talk, just the two of us. What are your intentions, really, towards Christine?"
Erik cleared his throat nervously under her scrutinising gaze. "The truth, madame, is that I care deeply for her. I want only what is best for Christine."
"Yes, I can see that," she murmured. "What I wish to know is . . . Do you intend to court her?"
Christine returned before Erik could answer, though he did manage to give the slightest inclination of his head. He could only hope that the elder woman had seen the movement and understood that he did, indeed, intend to court her adopted daughter, if that was acceptable. They bid their farewells and promised to visit again in a few days' time.
The sun was setting, sending ribbons of colour across the sky. When Christine shivered from a particularly cold gust, Erik instinctively wrapped an arm around her to shield her from the wind. She leaned into him comfortably, a small grin upon her lips.
Erik didn't know what to think. Here he was, the orchestrator of so many tortures and deaths, with a sweet girl like Christine, and she showed no fear of him! How was this even possible? He knew he would have to show her his face - his hideous, corpse-like visage - eventually, but perhaps . . . perhaps she would learn to love him first? Was it so wrong to want to be loved for himself?
A/N: Ack! Evil of me to leave it at that, I know! *hides in the fifth cellar*
Utkin is a Russian surname from the word utka, which means duck. Yes, as in the birds that go "quack!" Hehehe.
Tartiflette is a French dish from the Haute Savoie region of France. It is made with potatoes, reblochon cheese, cream, and lardons.
Kouign-amann is a round crusty cake, made with a dough akin to bread dough with sugar sprinkled between layers. The resulting cake is slowly baked until the butter puffs up the dough (resulting in the layered aspect of it) and the sugar caramelises. It is a Breton dessert.