A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews - and welcome to my new followers! Enjoy this long chapter! :)
Chapter LXII
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"Can you believe it?" Meg enthused as she accompanied Christine down the forgotten corridor to the chapel. "A Bal Masque on Saint Valentine's Day – night." Meg giggled. "Maman says the managers hope the gala will boost the morale of the company – and of course potential investors and other important people will be invited, as is always the case with these affairs. Everyone has been so upset, what with the fatal accident occurring during a performance. Many are on edge and worried something more will happen, though I doubt anything of magnitude will occur."
Christine nodded vaguely, her mind on a different track, her heart hoping that something of great magnitude would occur this evening, within the next few minutes…
Early in the week she had left her note for Erik to meet with her – tonight. The dress rehearsal with the implemented changes had just concluded, and two hours remained before she was due on stage. Raoul had allowed her to remain at the opera house the entire day, due to tonight's performance, though he did not revoke his tiresome command that she remain guarded.
According to Meg, both Madame and Erik used the secret compartment in Box Five on a regular basis to keep in touch with operatic matters. Christine was sure Erik must have found and read her note by now and barely kept herself in check not to run ahead, eager for the sight of him. She had been quite disappointed to return to the hotel that first night of her return to the opera and see no sign of his rose or note in the street, having hoped to secretly ask one of the hotel workers to retrieve it and bring it to her without Raoul's knowledge.
Tonight, Meg had agreed to wait outside the chapel, out of hearing, much to Christine's relief. But as they approached the corridor that led there, butterflies fluttered madly about in her midsection. He must have found her note by now; she had scheduled the meeting six days after she left it in the hidden cubbyhole to ensure he would. He had not visited her since then – not once – but then, she'd never been left alone for him to take the opportunity.
"Have you decided on a costume?" Meg asked eagerly.
"What…?" Christine looked sideways at Meg. "Oh, for the ball."
"Of course for the ball, silly!" Meg giggled again then anxiously grabbed her shoulder. "You are coming?"
"I suppose. Since the managers require the full cast to be there, and the Vicomte's cousin is to come with her gentleman friend, I should think the Vicomte will allow it."
"I should think so! We have only a week to prepare, but thankfully there are hundreds of costumes at our fingertips and it will take no time at all to find one." Her tone light, Meg lifted her hand and snapped her thumb against her finger. "I shall go as a white swan, I think, and you… you should be a fairy princess!"
"A fairy princess?"
"Of course! What other costume better suits the fairytale of your existence with the Phantom? Secret notes, magical journeys beneath the earth to an enchanted existence with your masked lover – surely, he has fashioned your very own fairy tale, where you are the coveted princess of his kingdom …!"
And I am the monstrous ogre, his words came back to haunt Christine. She did not correct Meg's dreamy assumptions of her life as his captive, letting the girl live within her romantic conclusions. Amid the torments, there had been magical moments of bliss, especially during their last night together. And had he been honest with her from the start, when she first confronted him with the truth of his identity, surely there would have been many more wonderful memories created.
Once they turned into the corridor leading to the chapel Christine clutched Meg's hand for support. "I have yearned for this moment for more than a fortnight. Now that the time is upon me, I fear it as well."
"Why? From what I interrupted weeks ago in your dressing room, he clearly adores you." Meg smiled in coy amusement.
"Does he?" Christine wished she could be so sure.
He still blamed her for failings, real and imagined, much of which she did not yet understand and was determined to learn within the next minutes …
"Trust me, mon ami – we Parisians recognize the art of love, and he appears to be a master craftsman."
Meg arched her eyebrows in insinuation, alleviating the tense moment and causing Christine to laugh, though her cheeks warmed with the memory of Erik's hands on her body and how apt the girl's words were.
"You are incorrigible," she said, shaking her head.
"So Maman frequently tells me."
They came to the entrance and descended the circular stairs. Christine's heart lurched a beat to see the glow of candlelight flicker in a far corner of the chamber. Meg squeezed her hand.
"Do you wish me to go inside with you?"
"I can manage from here." Christine gave a weak smile, attempting to smooth her unruly curls with an anxious hand, and entered the dimly lit room.
A man knelt before three tiers of candles. Christine caught her breath and took a few hurried steps forward, unable to rein in her excitement.
"Erik…"
As she drew close, she realized her mistake. The robed and hooded figure was too small in stature to be her elusive beloved, and disappointment slowed her movements. He had not come to meet her. She had so dearly wished it, but he had not come … unless he was hiding due to the stranger in the room?
Now wary, she wondered if she should turn and leave. This area of the opera house was supposed to be abandoned except for storage. Remembering her awful encounter in this forgotten wing – the attack on her person that led to her and Erik again being driven apart – she backed up, ready to flee.
The figure turned and pulled the cowled hood from his head. His short hair glowed silver and sparked a memory that stalled her retreat. He spoke, and she shook her head.
"I'm sorry, I don't know much French."
"I asked if you were in danger, my child," he explained in heavily accented English, and she realized where she had seen him.
"You're the priest who conducted the wedding ceremony for me and my husband! In the church, in the woods."
"Oui, I recall the night well. We were never introduced. I am Father Dominic." He began to stand to his feet, with no little difficulty. Her fear instantly evaporated and she approached, wrapping her hands around his arm to give aid. "Merci, my child. These knees are old and make kneeling difficult. If you would help me to the window seat?"
She did as asked then curiously took a seat beside him. "You know my language, but that night you spoke only in yours."
"I conduct all religious ceremonies in French and Latin. It is the custom."
Christine nodded but sensed her sly Phantom had told the priest to keep his tongue well guarded and speak only his native language, so that Christine would not understand the ceremony in order to question and learn the truth of Erik's cruel charade – should names have been uttered during the vows, as usually was the case. In the onslaught of fluid and rapid French she'd heard, Christine would have missed his name mentioned. Yet she did not express her suspicions to the priest, there being no point. Erik had lied, again and again; she had uncovered a number of his deceptions. She had no wish to be told of yet another deceit.
"You seem troubled, my child."
Christine briefly looked away to the tiers of candles nearest them, unsure how to respond. "I'm surprised to see a man of the cloth, here, at the opera house. I would never have expected it."
The minister from her village denounced theatrical entertainment as immoral, more precisely the thespians who daily performed onstage. He would never step foot inside an opera house.
"I came because Madame Giry asked it of me," Father Dominic explained. "She is an old and dear friend, we knew one another as children, and she asked that I provide what comfort I could to those poor souls of the chorus who still suffer from the tragedy of weeks past."
Christine blinked in amazement, having difficulty imagining the stern ballet instructor as a small girl, much less the playmate of a boy who was now a priest! Madame kept her share of secrets and had brushed the whole ordeal with Carlotta under the carpet, advising Christine never to speak of it to anyone. Christine complied, relieved that Raoul also had no knowledge of the fracas that occurred. Meg told Christine that Carlotta had been issued a warning never to create havoc again, or she would be discharged. Christine almost hoped for the disturbance, wishing the theatre was once and for all rid of the deposed diva. The haughty woman had the nerve to call Christine a slut – when Carlotta herself was the mistress of a married man.
Recognizing the impropriety of such dark, hateful thoughts when in present company, she gathered her justifiable anger in a tight bundle and attempted to calm herself.
"Such conflict and sadness clouds your eyes," Father Dominic observed gently. When she remained silent, he urged, "Do you wish me to hear your confession?"
"Confession?" Surprised, she looked about the room empty of all but candles.
"Oui. A confessional stands next door, put there at a time when this chapel was in frequent habitation."
Christine had learned that the vast opera house was a world unto itself. It should not surprise her that a confessional was located inside, since the chapel also existed.
"I'm sorry. I cannot speak of what happened." Even to a priest she could not reveal Erik's secrets.
The last time she had gone to confession was shortly after Papa died. Recalling his strong faith, she reasoned that it might alleviate some of the heaviness burdening her soul if she admitted her own guilt to a man of God who could then give her absolution. He even reminded her of Papa, with the kind way he spoke, making his faith a quality to be coveted rather than a crutch to be reviled.
"If you do not wish to speak, that is your choice. But be assured that anything you tell me outside of the confessional will also go no further than these sacred walls."
"Anything?"
He nodded, but still she hesitated.
"Perhaps you fear your husband and the events that took place in this opera house a short time ago?" he asked, laying his hand over hers that she held clasped in her lap.
She looked at him in surprised dismay. "I – I'm not sure what you mean."
"I hear many things. Some are truths, some are lies; it is not always easy to tell. I condone no form of gossip, and I laugh at the absurdities of a living ghost – however, I must know this, my child: are you in danger?"
"No." At the repeat of his greeting, she shook her head more forcefully. "No, Father. No matter what he's done or what he's accused of doing, my husband would never harm me. He has protected me on numerous occasions, even saved my life. I do not fear Erik – I fear for him. I love him…"
No longer evasive, she wished only to defend her dark Angel.
"Yet you choose to live separately from the man you claim to love and to whom you are wed?" His tone remained peaceful, though he looked at her in grave question.
Even now, speaking in confidence with a priest she felt she could trust, her loyalty would not allow her to reveal the truth of Erik's dark deeds. His confession was not hers to share, but his own to relate if he ever chose to do so.
Christine released a tense sigh of frustration, again shaking her head. "It is complicated."
First, Erik had chosen to keep distance, for whatever reason, then she had, but only for a time. What little she tried in order to breach the lengthy impasse had failed, but perhaps this man of God could help …
"No one else can know," she began in a whisper.
He nodded in reassurance. "No one else will."
With no wish to betray Erik, Christine spoke only of their childhood together and the misunderstanding that broke them apart. Briefly she told of killing her cousin in self defense, without admitting she was a fugitive, then revealed a scant portion of what happened between her and Erik in past months, without revealing the Phantom's scheme for vengeance against others.
"I feel so lost without him, now that I know he's truly alive," she finished sadly. "And I don't understand why he's still so angry with me or exactly what I did to make him feel betrayed. Surely those foolish things I spoke to my nursemaid could not have fostered such resentment?"
"Do not be so quick to believe that, child. Words spoken in cruelty are sharp and can wound viciously, the scars never healed. I have known families torn apart for years, due to the folly of rash words that never should have been uttered. What your husband did was wicked, make no mistake. Vengeance belongs to the Almighty and is a dangerous weapon in the hands of mortal men. You must be cautious that you do not fall into the same trap, for a trap is all it can be. And you must abstain from being prideful; it is often the bait that sets the trap."
"I will," she agreed, cursing her spurned pride that had led her into such a horrid mess of wasted years. "I'll try. I promise. But Father, please believe me when I say that Erik never once hurt me and never would. His type of reprisal toward me wasn't dangerous. It was more a – a war of feelings – but he saw to my constant care, always."
Father Dominic nodded pensively. "Then I have no recourse but to instruct that you return to your husband. The Holy Scriptures state that a man and his wife should not be separated, nor should any man part them."
"If only it were so simple, Father!" She sighed in frustration, though his quiet admonition cheered her that her tumultuous union with Erik still had approval from this man of God who sanctioned it. "I have tried to reach out to him again and again. But I fear yet another misunderstanding has torn us apart. I think he saw and believed something that wasn't true. I have yet to speak with him or hear from him to explain."
He squeezed her hand in reassurance. "Do all you can to mend these differences between you. Only then will you find peace. Your task may prove difficult, but if you do not surrender your resolve, you will be rewarded. I will not cease to offer up my petitions for both of you."
"Thank you, Father Dominic. It's strange but in speaking with you, like this, I feel I have been absolved." She spoke hopefully, her heart lighter.
He raised his eyebrows in amusement. "The manner is most unorthodox, my superiors would be mortified that I abstained from tradition," he chuckled, "but I believe a pure confession of the soul does not have to be spoken in the secrecy of a confessional to be acceptable to our Lord. The penance you suffered these long years far outweighs any multitude of Hail Marys and Our Fathers I could assign you to recite, though I strongly advise you to continue in your prayers – and do not waver in your upright course once you have set upon it."
"No, I won't give up." She smiled in relief. "Your words inspire me. You remind me of my Papa. He died when I was a child."
"Ah yes." He nodded once. "Gustave Daaé. He was a talented violinist."
"You heard him play?" She wasn't shocked that he knew her maiden name, thinking Erik must have told it to the priest before they were wed, only that he knew her father.
"Madame Giry spoke of him. He played in the orchestra here over three decades ago, when he was a beginning musician. It was she who knew him." The priest motioned to the three tiers of candles in the far corner of the room, a duplicate of the ones nearest them where she had knelt weeks before. "I think you will be interested to see what is there. But now, I must leave you." He stood to his feet.
Christine tore her curious gaze away from the candles, wondering why Madame never spoke of knowing Papa. "Forgive me for taking so much of your time."
"There is no need for pardon, child; I was exactly where I needed to be." He smiled and nodded in farewell before leaving her alone to her thoughts.
Christine walked to the area where the kind priest had knelt. Small medallions of portraits the size of her palm hung below each of the three tiers of candles. She had noticed them in the past, when she took lessons from her teacher, on both sets of tiers, but never took the time to study the images. On the bottom tier, she inhaled a swift breath to see the face of her dear Papa, with his name engraved below – a much younger version than she had known. And his dark gentle eyes were just as lively as she remembered them.
She fingered the oval frame with a wistful smile. She should have known. Papa told her that he performed all over Europe, so it should come as no surprise that he once worked in the same theatre she now did. Seeing the medallion made her feel close to him again, encouraging her – as if a sign from above that all would be well.
She knew better than to trust in omens, and had long ago dispensed with superstitions, but decided this once to cling to old dreams.
With the priest having departed, Christine waited as long as she dared, hoping her Phantom would come out of hiding …
But he never appeared.
Discouraged, but not without all hope, she bent to kiss Papa's small portrait then hurried from the chamber to join Meg.
.
xXx
.
With a frown of concentration, the Phantom put the finishing touches to his costume mask, applying a thin coat of lacquer to the molded plaster.
He had caged all fickle hope, forcing it to surrender to his control ... but as always, it had turned the tables on him and seeped through the bars of his resolve, leaving him fettered in manacles of grave suspicion.
Almost a fortnight had passed since Christine's return to the theatre.
He had gone above to hear her sing at each performance, three times, and twice that number had spied her through the looking glass – always smiling and laughing, always in the company of others. And so, he waited and he schemed, with only a few loose threads to tie before his imminent return. For now, he would refrain from giving in to the frustrating and constant desire to be with her, since clearly she did not share the same aspiration to be with him, but more than that –
He wanted no interference.
"Monsieur Erik?"
He tensed to hear his true name spoken from the girl's lips, the first time the maid had used the familiar form of address since she learned his identity. Turning, he frowned down the stone stairs at her. Jolene stood at the foot of the opposite staircase that led up to the bedchamber and regarded him with nervous expectation.
He decided to ignore her brashness this once. "You wish to speak with me?"
"Oui. I wish to know if you will be here to eat supper or if I should put some aside for you."
The thought of food held no appeal when his nerves were so strained. "Feed Jacques. Do not concern yourself with me."
"Then you are going above, to hear her sing again?"
"Of course. She is the epitome of all I once dreamed, the perfect instrument for my music. Hearing her sing my arias has been the purest light in the darkness of my emptiness."
"Your life doesn't need to be empty."
He gave no heed to her hopeful remark and returned to his task.
"You still plan to bring her back?"
Carefully he applied the last of the lacquer to cover his mask. "What is it to you?"
"I told you what she said," the girl insisted. "She will only try to escape again and make all of us miserable and you angry. Can you not just leave things as they are?"
He recalled Jolene's admission from the previous week, of Christine's regrets, did not doubt the veracity of her words. But he was not such a blind fool to realize what motive spurred the little maid's futile attempts to keep him from his objective. Once, perhaps. But no longer.
It was time to put a stop to this. Even if the consequence of doing so tore through his soul.
"Why have you never asked what lies beneath my mask?" he asked quietly, setting down his tapered brush.
"What -what do you mean?" she gasped, taken off guard.
"Exactly what I said."
"The night I first came here," she began after a short hesitation, "I- I touched it when we, when I shared your bed, and – and you slapped my hand away. You grabbed my wrist and held it to the mattress, warning me never to touch it again. I swore I wouldn't, and then you kissed me …."
His eyes fell shut at her soft, eager reference to the dreadful night he swore to forget.
"Never, in the near three years since you've been here, have you once asked."
"I- I was afraid to."
"Afraid, yes, that I can believe. Afraid of what I would tell you." He turned in his chair to look at her. "In your mind, ever since that night I brought you and your brother to my lair, you have built me up into some quintessence of desirability. But I am no masked hero like in those foolish tales of romance silly girls fill their minds with. I am a villain, but more than that I am a monster."
"I don't – you don't need to tell me…"
"You have never asked," he repeated, "but it is time you know the terrible secret of the beast that dwells with you below the earth." He said the words in disgust and slowly stood to his feet to tower above where she stood at the bottom of the landing.
"No, please, monsieur…" she took a step back, taking her up the first stair of the opposite staircase and matching the step he took forward as he descended to the next stair from his.
"Beyond this mask lies a nightmare, the visage of which instills horror in the most daring of souls. Something so revolting that once the mind is seared with the image it can never be scoured from the memory. It can never forget."
"Please …" She brought her fingers up to cover her mouth, tears shining in her blue eyes. "No more…"
"Twisted. Deformed. A blight upon the earth. The face I was born with strikes fear into the meek and pure of heart and disgust into all other mortals." His voice came in bleak monotone. Stark emotion clenched the muscles of his throat, as echoes of cruel voices from the past taunted, his words a mirror to their reality.
He slowly resumed his descent down the staircase.
"But my curse was not enough, no …" He laughed darkly. "In Persia, when first they found me beside the body of a man they presumed I had killed - the same who brought me there, but died of natural causes - they bound me in chains in the palace dungeon. Torture is an art to them. Sharp gravel was my bed, pressing into already scarred flesh. Shards of heated metal were used to cut and burn what already was a matter of revulsion. They were intrigued as much as they were revolted and sought diverse methods to torment."
Before he had regained enough strength to use his knowledge of magic against them, frightening the shah's jailers into thinking he was a god, they broke him in body, a match to the heart Christine had severed. But they were unable to break his spirit, empowered by his mounting hatred and lust for revenge. It had been all that kept him alive.
"There – there was a-a-a man my uncle forced me to-to cater to," Jolene said, her voice trembling violently. "He had a peg leg h-he made me remove –"
"I don't think you understand," he waved a careless hand, cutting her off brutally in his persistence to force her to acknowledge the truth.
Taking the last steps down he swallowed hard, unable to quench the dread for what he knew would follow. He approached, lifting his hands to the black leather covering.
She stared with wide eyes, barely breathing. Bracing her hand against the wall, she backed up another nervous step, inadvertently putting her on a level with his face.
"The time has come for you to witness the curse of the beast," he said -
...and pulled away his mask.
The blood drained from Jolene's features, every freckle coming into prominence. Her horrified eyes grew impossibly wider. She choked, as if unable to restrain the bile that surely filled her throat. Stumbling back, tears streamed down her snow-white cheeks and she slowly shook her head, trying to deny what she could no longer pretend untrue. With a harsh sob, she whirled and fled up the steps and through the bedchamber.
"Yes, run little maid. Run far and fast from the creature who will now forever haunt your mind," he whispered shakily. "The curse of this face you can never escape..."
Emotion surged through him in heated torrents of rage and sorrow and hopelessness. His legs suddenly weak, he pressed his palm to the cave wall. No matter that he expected her reaction, it did not fail to rip new furrows of the old pain and rejection through his soul.
Why? Why could he not have been made like other men?
Without any real thought to where he was going, the Phantom quit the main lake chamber, moving through the dank corridor until he staggered into what was once Christine's cell of confinement disguised as a bedroom. It was the first he allowed himself to enter since he returned her above – his feelings then too raw though they were no better now – and he stared in grim acknowledgement to find the room just as she'd left it.
The small pocket watch he had used as an excuse to see her sat on the vanity table next to the silver hairbrush still tangled with strands of her hair. The shift he'd torn from her body in passion lay discarded on the ground in a forgotten puddle of white muslin. The bed stood untouched by the maid's hand, the blue velvet coverlet in wild disarray and bunched around pillows, a testimony to remind him of what had taken place there between himself and his bride.
A monster did not deserve a maiden. In no tale was it so. She may want nothing more to do with him after his confession of innumerable slayings – but by God, he ached for her and could not live without her in his life again!
Swallowing hard over the pain, he looked around the abandoned room that still held a hint of her sweet rose scent. He had abducted, manipulated, and seduced his deceptive little Angel, forcing her to become his bride – and in threatening to take the fool boy's life, she had at last relented to his demand, offering herself as a sacrifice to the beast.
Falling prey to disgust and self loathing he questioned if his new plan was doomed to failure before it could commence. Could a woman so beautiful endure being chained to a demon so ugly? To make her home here, in the depths of this icy hell? Did a monster deserve any morsel of happiness?
His tortured eyes found his image in the mirror. He flinched in abhorrence at the grisly sight that looked back at him, a truth he could never escape no matter how hard he wished it. She could never love this – this excuse for a man, no more than a beast and a devil in gentleman's disguise…
"NOOO!"
With a cry of wounded rage, he picked up the faceless wooden angel he had crafted and threw it hard at the mirror, shattering the cruel beacon of glass that revealed his most excruciating torment. The mask only covered what could not be erased. For a time in wearing it, he had tricked himself to forget that truth, the truth of why no woman could ever truly love him. And she was the only woman he wanted, the only woman that mattered …
He was a fool to yearn for what could never be. Was it any wonder that she preferred the company of the handsome bloody storybook prince of a Vicomte, night after infernal night?
Sobbing, the Phantom swept the vanity table free of its trinkets. He picked up the chair and slammed it against the two intact mirrors, splintering and spraying their glass - then again he swung against the cave wall, breaking the chair in two. He ripped the coverlet from the princess bed, tearing it from the high mattress – the sight of the sheet stained with her virgin blood condemning him as the beast he was and putting a halt to his fit of outraged despair.
Scalding tears burned his eyes as once more he faced the terrible wrong he had done to her. His plan of revenge against Christine had been built on the lies he'd been told and believed for years. And in that mire of falsehood, he, the monster, had unjustly ripped her innocence away. The shield of matrimony was a poor excuse for sullying the purity of an angel.
Shaking from a multitude of emotions that rushed through his veins like lava then ice, striking him hot then cold, he dropped to his knees on the ground and lowered his accursed face to the sanctity of her bed. With his arms outstretched, he clutched the covers on both sides, giving vent to his sorrow and self hatred, unable to stem the onslaught of angry tears.
His fingers brushed against something silken, unlike the bedding, and instinctively he gathered the material into his palm and opened bleary eyes to see. His mind did not at first grasp what the object was that he held and then his focus cleared ...
In stunned recognition he stared at an aged scrap of black silk - ragged and stained with his blood.
.
xXx
.
Christine took a deep breath to calm herself and crossed her arms over her chest. Tapping her fingers above her elbow, she rolled her eyes to the high rafters, wondering if he stood there watching.
"I never noticed before, but it really is uncanny how your mannerisms are just like Aminta's," Meg quietly pointed out as they stood in the stage wing and waited for their cues.
"Yes, uncanny." Christine managed a smile, though inside she scowled to recognize another of the Phantom's little deceptions – now that she knew who he was. Nothing could convince her that Erik had not written the horrid, faithless Aminta into a duplicate of Christine, and he considered himself the betrayed, passionate Don Juan. She suppressed a little snort of disgust when she recalled how arrogantly he convinced her that those mannerisms were common and her suspicions lived only in her mind.
One entire week had elapsed since her talk with Father Dominic, and each day increased her frustration when Erik made no attempt to see her. She had again engineered a way to sneak up to Box Five, where she found the secret compartment empty, her letter missing.
So he had seen it and read it and still chose to remain absent.
The fiend.
Hurt uncertainty waged a war with angry frustration and troubled her soul. At the next turn a strange sort of desperation laced with the fear that she would lose everything overwhelmed her heart.
What excuse did he have for not coming to her this time? Did he mean to hide for interminable days and nights and remain in his shadows of silence to punish her? She would rather be trussed and thrown into a dark pit before she would ever again allow that to happen!
A rush of nervousness for what she was about to do made her tremble. She had thought long and hard on the matter of his absence, her discussion with the good Father Dominic influencing her decision, and she would not surrender. Since her Ghost of a husband refused to make an appearance to see her –
She had no choice but to force his hand.
Christine fought off the icy terror that threatened to freeze her to the spot, and at her cue walked onstage with a basket of roses, in this prelude to the final scene.
In the story, Aminta pretended to be an innocent, capturing Don Juan's fancy to lure and entrap him, so as to help the handsome merchant, whose naive young sister had been a victim of Don Juan's and took her life when he left her, as he left all women with whom he dallied. The merchant promised Aminta great riches if she would help him gain revenge. Don Juan had learned of Aminta's close liaison with the merchant in the previous act, and his vengeful plan to bed and defile her, shaming her as an outcast to her tribe, was a constant and dismal struggle, due to his having fallen in love with the beautiful gypsy, an emotion foreign to him. In the final scene, they came to the bridge where they met, each intent on following through with dark plans, hers – to lure Don Juan to the middle of the bridge, a supporting plank having been sawed earlier by the merchant to weaken it. But Don Juan prevented her from leaving, holding her trapped against him and giving into his heart. With his last words, he vowed his love and wish for eternity together. She also experienced a change of heart to aid the merchant but too late – as the bridge cracked beneath them and they clung to one another, falling to their deaths.
Christine scoffed. Aminta had expressed no iota of love at any time during the play to make her change of heart believable in the finale. Christine had closely studied the libretto and learned the choreography she'd been taught in all gestures used, showing Aminta as a heartless, vindictive woman, duplicitous in every word and action. But she had come up with a different way to express her character, while still matching the lyrics. A more sympathetic way that was sure to gain the approval of the audience – but more importantly, the complete attention of her Phantom.
God help her.
A tingle of fear shot down her spine to imagine his outrage when he finally came to her, but she would do anything – anything she must to achieve that goal. And with Father Dominic's blessing, she felt twice vindicated to pursue this course.
She and Piangi, in the role of Don Juan, sang the first refrain of the Point of No Return, before moving into another aria.
Instead of showing shy interest to his face and the indifference Aminta displayed when her or Don Juan's back was turned, as in previous performances, she made a few alterations …
"The moon casts no light, cease to turn from what must be … darling, come to me," Piangi sang, lifting his hand to beckon her to his side.
"Together, you and I, in this life most bizarre," she sang with a wistful smile, "You across the sea, and I near its shore. We two, the keepers of this mystery…" She approached, her hand held out as if to take his, and he looked at her in confusion when she did not remain in her blocked position. "Who can reason the course of what must be?"
Suddenly she dropped her hand away and turned from him – not showing tedium as in former operas, but instead bowing her head in sad regret.
"Will you not come to me?" Piangi sounded uncertain, clearly taken aback by her unexpected change to the choreography. She lifted her lashes to peer into the wings. The chorus who stood there stared at her, their mouths parted in shock.
"Make haste, my love! Speak of what I long to hear," Piangi sang with a robust burst of life, his performance renewed.
"You have but to turn the key ... and bare all secrets to the stars," Christine sang in reply, turning to him with longing. "Watch them fall, one by one, and let us bleed no more…"
He stumbled back a step, staring at her as if she'd grown two heads, as she again unexpectedly approached. With her eyes she tried to tell him to keep calm, continue with the song, and assist her with her plan. She lifted her hand to cup his face, noting his eyes go comically wide at the unscripted gesture.
"Together – should we die? So that forever we might live…" she sang softly, sadly, putting her heart into words and hoping to make the audience believe Aminta's struggle with his passionate avowals, her harrowing guilt, and the realization of her love – yes, love for Don Juan. As she sang and expressed her heart, her thoughts remained with the true hidden audience of one whom she sang for, and of all they had been denied. True tears glazed her eyes.
"Do not turn astray," Piangi sang, a new hoarseness to his tone, as she again turned and took a step away in indecision – "Abandon what we were taught…"
They moved toward the dual stairs that flanked the bridge, one set of them on each side, as they sang of hope and uncertainty. During the aria Christine looked down and caught glimpses of the cast – all of them standing in stupefied horror. One dancer fanned her face, her kohl-lined eyes turned up in expectant fear toward the rafters, as if waiting for lightning to strike down from the heavens. Madame Giry had paled and looked grim, her hand clutching the inside curtain. Meg was the only one who stared in approval, her lips parted in an astonished smile, as though she understood Christine's motive – and the audience …? She turned her head slightly to see.
Now that she climbed the steps above bright stage lights she could discern two ladies in a theatre box use their handkerchiefs to blot tears from their eyes.
"Take my hand in this darkest of all nights and thoughts and dreams," they sang together as Piangi took her hand and brought her close, "My darling, only come to me … past the point of no return, the final threshold – the bridge is crossed so stand and watch it burn – we've passed the point of no return …"
He kissed her then, more passionately than in past performances, and Christine dug her fingernails into his shoulder in warning. Thinking of Erik and the pain she had caused him without intention, as well as in willful anger, she changed the script one last time:
"Forgive me, my darling," she cried out, "please forgive me!"
Throwing her arms around Don Juan's neck and holding to him tightly, she timed Aminta's tearful plea just before the bridge cracked and the trapdoor gave way, sending them through the second trapdoor in the stage floor and to the plump mattresses that protectively broke their fall.
Piangi reached for her hands and helped her to stand. "Bella Donna! I did not know how you feel…" He tried to wrap his arms around her.
Placing her palms against his chest Christine grimaced and pushed him away. "That wasn't for you."
Hurrying to the stairs that would take her backstage, her heart turned over at the thunderous applause from above – was it her imagination, or was it louder than she'd ever heard it?
Meg met her as she emerged through the backstage door and grabbed her hands in glee. "You were amazing, and so brave! But I don't envy you your next meeting with the Phantom. No one defies the Opera Ghost – no one has dared."
"Well, now someone has. And at least now there will be a next meeting."
Christine told herself she'd had no choice, not if she ever wanted to see her stubborn husband again. But now that the rebellious deed was concluded, she felt the first stirrings of dread mixed with a strong attack of nerves that made her question her judgment.
Erik's music was sacred to him, his compositions the sole source of pride – many of their former arguments stemmed from her mere suggestions that he change small portions of the opera – and she had actually done so to an entire scene in a live performance against his wishes and without his prior knowledge.
Dear God…
She clutched her hand to her heart as she hurried to the stage to take her bows. Ovation after ovation proved the production a success, yet as her arms were filled with roses, she couldn't help but notice every member of the cast look at her as if she'd broken all Ten Commandments in one fell swoop. And for this theatre, she had – his commands.
Once the final curtain closed, she hurried off stage. Madame Giry grabbed her arm before she could get far.
"Do you realize what you've done?" she asked sharply.
"I had to," Christine said firmly, though inside she shook like a lone leaf on a branch losing the battle to a winter storm.
She broke away but was soon surrounded by other cast members and fans. Their faces beamed with admiration, their words full of praise, but many of those who worked in the theatre continued to stare at her with nervous disbelief and expectant dread, as if they waited for the notorious Phantom to suddenly swoop down on her from above. Chilled, she rubbed her arms, beginning to realize the full extent of what she'd done.
She was no coward, but perhaps it would be wise to give time for his fury to cool. For them to speak now might tear the rift between them even wider.
Raoul appeared, offering his praises. Before she could change her mind, she clutched his arm. "Please, take me to the hotel. I'm exhausted and wish to rest so that I may feel well enough to attend tomorrow night's ball."
He nodded, looking relieved by her request. "As you wish."
They moved toward the back stage door to avoid the hordes of theatre goers outside. Christine caught Madame's stare of grim disapproval and quickly looked away. Yes, alright, perhaps she was acting a tad spineless to flee so soon, but to delay their long coveted meeting one more night truly was for the best. Her goal had at last been realized…
She had no doubt now that he would come to her.
.
xXx
.
Madame Giry dropped her wine glass as the secret door inside her office was whipped violently aside.
She whirled around, placing her hands behind her to the rim of the desk for support. "M-monsieur? Twice in two weeks you visit me in my office. Perhaps there is no longer a need for notes?" Her greeting was foolish, out of place, but it was all she could think of to say when so suddenly faced with the Phantom's dark rage.
Like an advancing wraith he swept toward her, his eyes blazing golden within the sockets of the black mask.
"What the hell have you done to my opera?" He snatched up the papers with his drawings for costumes and shook them in her face, then threw them to the floor with a sideways sweep of his arm. "You have destroyed all I worked so hard to achieve, making my most prized composition into a farce! Piangi was a doddering clown, Aminta behaved completely out of character! What gave you the idea that you had the right to make those changes?!"
"I did no such thing!"
Snarling, he moved in, his hand circling her throat. She recoiled, placing both her hands over his glove and his wrist, pulling against his strength to prevent him from choking her.
"I swear to you I had no hand in this," she gasped. "I made none of those changes – I never do so without your approval. Please, monsieur, you're hurting me!"
"I should kill you for what you've done," he grated but released her with a vicious little shove.
She wrapped a trembling hand around her throat. "I wouldn't dare go against your orders. I know what you are capable of when angered."
"If not you – then who?" he bit out. "Reyer?"
"No monsieur, the fault does not lie with the orchestra leader either. We had no warning this would occur …"
"Then tell me how this damn well bloody happened –"
"Your wife!" she shot back. "She did this without telling anyone her plans."
His eyes grew wide and he flinched, retreating a step as if he'd been struck.
"Christine…?" he whispered.
"Oui, Christine. She alone changed the opera."
He blinked rapidly, his wrath falling away like a violent windstorm that instantly died out. His eyes searched her face and the room as if he could not yet grasp what she told him. Unsteadily he turned away.
"Christine did this," he whispered again, and if Madame had never known it before, she now saw how deeply the girl affected him. Never had she seen the Phantom so shaken, so human.
"It was not a total loss," she offered in tentative encouragement. "The audience response was outstanding. They loved the play."
"Christine did this," he said again in a daze, as if he'd not heard a word she said. "I must, I must speak to her."
"She has already left."
He slightly looked over his shoulder. "She's gone?"
"Oui, she left with the Vicomte and his cousin directly after the performance."
"I see." He looked before him again, slowly lifting his head as he stood taller. "Then there is nothing more to say." He moved toward the secret corridor.
"Monsieur – about tomorrow night, at the ball."
He stopped at the entrance before going through it. "Yes?"
"Do you still wish to proceed with your plan, as you have ordained it?"
"Yes, Madame. Be prepared. Now more than ever, I am resolved to carry out every act to the letter."
She shivered at the steely tone to his quiet words, his manner suggesting that something more sinister may occur of which she was unaware – and Christine may not be the only one guilty of altering preconceived plans.
Madame's anxious gaze fell to her desk and the sealed note she had found earlier in the week. Only after she returned to her office did she realize her mistake and that the missive was not meant for her. Though she had never learned his name, his wife would know, and the flowery script addressed to "Erik", must have come from Christine. The girl had discovered the secret box, likely with her inquisitive daughter's help.
"Monsieur…" She plucked up the envelope and turned to give it to him, but too late.
The secret door clicked shut behind the Phantom, and again she stood alone.
xXx
A/N: (borrowed some from ALW's lyrics of PONR, the ones made up are my own attempt, to fit my story. :)) - Things are about to come to a head. Can you feel the oncoming storm prickle in the air…? ;-)