Adele pushes her chair away from the table at the pounding on the door. "Now what?"
"I shall answer, Maman," Meg says, pressing a hand on her mother's shoulder.
"No," Nadir says, getting up from his chair, motioning both women to keep their places. "Whatever fool believes it is appropriate to knock in such a way on someone's door will find his rudeness tempered when he sees my face."
"He?"
"Do you suppose one of your female acquaintances would be so discourteous?"
"If she was in trouble – one of the rats," Meg replies. "It could be Christine."
"I assure you it is not Mlle. Daae," Nadir says. "My guess would be the Vicomte. The way to find out would be for me to open the door, which is what I plan to do."
The rage flaming on the puffed up face of the young man, pales when faced with the Persian. Blinking hard, he struggles to regain his composure if not his dignity. "M. Khan," he says, "I was not expecting you to be here."
"I wish you were, it would show to be less of an arrogant cad," Nadir says, opening the door wide enough for him to enter. "Is this your usual behavior when calling on women?"
"No. Absolutely not."
"I would not be so sure, Monsieur, you were not the most cordial gentleman when you visited here earlier," Adele says. "I believed we had concluded any discussions about Christine. Why are you back?"
"She is staying at the opera house…in that old dressing room," he replies. "I thought you might like to know.
"So that should give you some comfort…knowing where she is and that she is safe," Adele says. "Mr. Khan was kind enough to advise us of her circumstances as well – without waking the entire building."
"Of her safety, I am not so certain. I believe I just saw her on the street with him."
"Him?" Nadir asks.
"The Opera Ghost. The Phantom of the Opera. Erik. Him."
"She was walking down the street with a ghost?" Meg giggles, flopping down on the sofa. "Christine said you liked to imbibe a whiskey occasionally. Erik is dead. Did you not see the newspaper?"
"I have not been drinking. I saw two people outside the opera house, one quite small, wearing a jacket similar to the one I wore for the Masquerade, the other tallish and thin, I thought at first they must be beggars. When I tried to follow them, they disappeared."
"You saw two beggars on the Rue Scribe and became alarmed when they disappeared in the darkness and fog. Why?" Nadir says, cocking his head.
"He thought they were Erik and Christine," Adele says, covering her smile by taking a sip of tea.
"The fog did not obstruct my view. Somehow they got into the building. I had my driver continue along the street and there was no sign of any similar couples." Raoul says. "You can joke about this, but I know it was them."
"Then why come here, if you are so certain?" Adele sneers. "Call the gendarmes; you are quite adept at that."
"They will have nothing to do with me. They say he is dead."
"And you do not believe them."
"You know he is not dead."
"That is quite enough, Vicomte," Adele snaps. "You insist on disturbing my peace over some whim. I have had quite enough of your presence in my life – none of this would have happened were it not for your interference. Please leave…now."
Nadir takes the young man by the shoulder, directing him back to the door. "Ladies, I will contact you tomorrow about our plans. I shall accompany the Vicomte to his carriage, so you may have your home to yourselves again."
Raoul breaks away from the Persian's hold. "I do not need help. I am not drunk, nor am I imagining things."
"You are, however, disturbing these women with your unwelcome claims."
"They are his friend and I suspect you must be as well."
"The man you knew as the Phantom of the Opera is dead," Nadir states firmly. "I suggest you deal with that fact."
"Christine?"
"She is quite safe and is looking at a bright future," Nadir says. "Whether she wishes to see you or not is up to her – not her friends. Now wish Madame and Mademoiselle Giry a good night."
Frustrated once again, Raoul's nostrils flare, but he nods agreement. "A bientot, Adele…Meg. I only ask if you hear from her, you let her know I still care deeply and beg an audience with her."
"I suppose we can do that," Adele concedes.
"Now, we go," the Persian, assets a bit more force to assist Raoul's departure. "Ladies. A demain."
"Here we are," Erik says, opening the door from the anteroom to what was once the parlor. "Wait a moment, while I see if there is still a functioning lamp. I would not wish you tripping over any debris."
"Erik?" Christine says, grabbing on to his arm.
"Yes? What is it?"
"Are you going to be alright?"
"I suppose that is yet to be discovered," he says, squeezing her hand. "I am not certain how attached I was to anything here – except perhaps my organ, a few mementoes – my fondest memories are of your visits and here you are standing next to me."
"Even so – I know how bad memories can be refreshed causing the same pain."
"Do you?" A slight smile curves his lips. "Well then, I am especially pleased you are here with me." Removing her hand from his arm, he says, "Now let me find that lamp and we can examine the place together."
Who was this man? What sort of man could be so calm when preparing to face the indignities done to the home he created? How long had he lived here in the belly of the opera house? Long enough it would seem to build a house – much like the one she and Pappa left behind in Sweden. Odd it never occurred to her to ask him. That her angel should have built a home for himself in the bowels of the Palais was no stranger than the lake, such as it was, flowing there as well.
That first week after he brought her down here only dealt with her talking about Pappa and music, easing much of the sorrow she still felt. There was no talk about the mask or the face she saw after tearing it off. Why would he not shield himself? There are people who walk the streets of Paris badly injured from the recent war damaged as badly, if not worse, using all manner of coverings and disguises. How hard must it have been to be born with such a face – he said so himself: The world showed no compassion to me. No. She imagined they did not. Shunned through no fault of his own.
Despite the natural darkness, the little house was bright with color – red taking precedence over the blues and gold also represented – and so much light. The bedroom she used was quite simply the prettiest room she ever slept in. The Louis-Phillippe room, he called it. Furnished with his mother's belongings, freshened with pale blue silk brocade draperies creating the canopy of the four-poster bed and hanging from a false window. Lit from the behind with what, she did not know, to give the illusion of sunlight pouring in. A small vanity and a private bathroom – an entire suite.
Then there was the armoire of dresses and other accessories – chemises, stockings, shoes and a lovely deep blue velvet cape. During their time together, he would encourage her to try on the dresses – a pale green morning dress for breakfast, lavender for dejeuner and a deeper blue for supper.
"It will not do to wear them when you return home."
"You are going to allow me to leave?"
"If you promise to return…to visit…to have your lessons."
"I promise."
"Then you may leave whenever you choose," he said, his amber eyes sad, his mouth curved down. "You must sing for the world, Christine Daae. They will not hear you if I keep you here against your will."
"I quite like it here," she replied. "After living on the road with Pappa and just recently with Madame and Meg, this is pure luxury."
"That is a shame indeed, you deserve better." Rising from the organ's bench, he says, "Best change back into the clothing you wore when you arrived. I must take you back, they will be missing you and I should not like their curiosity to lead them here."
Reluctantly, she returned the deep blue she favored to the armoire, making note of the beautiful stitchery so she could recreate the gown to wear above ground.
"How will I let you know when I want to return?"
"You have only to ask," Erik said, "I will hear you."
The initial comfort from his words turned to uneasiness. Was he always watching her? The clothing suggested as much. Raoul repeatedly commented on his influence over her.
"Now you are learning to play chess? Women do not play chess. I think you spend too much time with him. If he was not as ugly as you say, I would suspect you might be in love with him."
"He teaches me to sing and well…I enjoy our time together."
Raoul's admission of his jealousy should have warned her. That jealousy set the tides against Erik, preying on her own concerns about the accidents, he convinced her to turn against her angel. Shaking off the memory of the chandelier falling, she calls after him, "I do hope things are not terribly bad."
"Come see for yourself, but be careful where you walk," he says, turning on yet another electric lamp. "Primarily, furniture has been turned over, some broken pieces…the dining chairs and table…the crystal fruit bowl survived, surprisingly, although the apples appear to be badly bruised."
After allowing her eyes to become accustomed to the light, she takes in the room. "Oh, dear. How dreadful. All your books…"
"Mostly needs straightening up." Brushing aside her concern with a wave of his fingers. "The music room is likely to be where the most destruction occurred – where they first entered." Holding his hand out to her, he says, "I could perhaps use your support in there."
Nodding, she takes the hand he offers, following him down a short hallway, past the Louis-Phillippe room. Holding her breath, she avoids looking to see if the door is open – wondering if the mob destroyed the lovely room. Her own sense of loss is surprising, this was Erik's home after all, not hers.
The lantern casts strange shadows in the room where they spent most of their time together. Seldom lit to any great extent, Erik preferred using candelabra, so she never really saw the entire area.
"Stay here," he says, as he leaves her by the heavy mahogany chair.
More electric lamps. Even the opera house above did not seem to have as much lighting as this place. Only the streets outside were as well lit. Another feat, comparable to the wiring of his alarm box. What would she have done with herself living such a solitary life? One can only sew so many garments and where did one wear the clothing? Of course, she could sell her wares. Mamma taught her to knit as well. Singing, of course, was her great joy, but if her face was disfigured, would anyone care to listen to her sing? Building a home? The thought caused her to laugh. What a ridiculous idea – she could never accomplish such a feat.
"What does the young lady find amusing," Erik asks, his tone now wary…colder than the way he has been speaking to her until just now.
"I was wondering what I would have done if I had been in your situation," she says slowly, taking time to carefully choose her words. So much trust might be lost if he felt she was mocking him. "I thought I could sew or knit and sell my wares, but you built a home. I realized how lacking I was and I laughed at myself."
"You would have done what was necessary," Erik assures her, his tone matter of fact, but with a return of the earlier warmth. "That you even considered using your sewing skills as a way to earn money is more than many would consider. You are certainly more adept than Monsieur de Chagny, I doubt he has ever lifted a finger to earn his keep yet looks down on you."
"I never considered that," she says. How had she ever believed she loved Raoul…of course she would never marry him…told him as much…and yet, the temptation was there. Working in the theater was risky and the pay was negligible, even for the most talented. She doubted she had the gumption to work as a seamstress. When talking to the other girls, the idea of marrying a nobleman was the stuff of their daydreams.
"Being rootless does force one to be creative. Survival demands that. I can teach you some practical building skills if you wish."
"Perhaps we could rebuild your home here."
"I am not certain that is an option," he says, turning on another lamp, illuminating the chamber where she first came to know him.
"Oh, dear," she gasps.
"Now who is there?" Adele throws her linen napkin on the table, grabs her cane and gets up.
"I will answer the door, you do not have to walk there," Meg says, sliding off the sofa, running past her mother.
"I want to answer the door so I can smack whoever it is over the head," she retorts, returning to her chair. "This day has been quite tiresome."
Walking through the door Meg holds open for him, Nadir says, "Surely you would not attack your new partner."
"Is that what we are?" Adele says, flopping back into her chair.
"In a manner of speaking," Nadir says. "May I sit down…or kneel at your feet so you can smack me properly on the head?"
"Oh, just sit down," Adele says with a chuckle.
Meg returns to her seat on the sofa, putting her feet up on the coffee table. "Where is Raoul?"
"Safely back in his carriage on the way home…or at least I hope so. Although it would not surprise me if he insisted his poor driver continue circling the opera house all night," Nadir says, reaching for the sugar bowl. "May I?"
"You paid for them, help yourself," Adele says. "Would you care for a cup of tea to go with the sweets? Meg, make a fresh pot."
"I would not want you to go to any trouble."
"The tea is as much for us as for you."
"Quite so." The Persian's deep green eyes sparkle.
"There are still some macarons," Meg says, holding up a paper bag.
"I am fine with the sugar. Perhaps your mother."
"Pour me a small glass of that Sherry Erik bought for us," she says. "I take it you do not imbibe."
"Correct, but thank you," Nadir says. "Erik bought you Sherry?"
"He was most generous."
Nadir raises an eyebrow.
"Erik never spoke much to us," Meg says. "Mostly he communicated with notes, but every so often, a gift would be left with the money he paid us for running errands."
"I see," he says. "That sounds like him. My son was quite fond of him."
"Your son?" Meg says, placing a wine glass with amber liquid in front of her mother and a fresh pot of tea on the table.
"A story for another day," Nadir says. "I really did not wish to take up any more of your time than necessary."
"But?"
"Raoul's remark about believing he saw Erik and Christine alarmed me," he says, refreshing his tea.
"Why? As far as the world is concerned, Erik is dead."
"But M. DeChagny is quite determined he is not," Nadir says. "I must ask: could the couple he saw be Erik and Christine?"
Meg and Adele exchange a look of concern.
Meg nods slowly. "There is another entrance on the Rue Scribe. It is well hidden. Erik used it so there was no need to go through all five levels inside."
"Why do you suppose he would risk going out, even with the belief of his passing?" Adele asks.
"Maybe he wanted to see his house," Meg offers.
"His house?"
"Where do you think he lived?" she says, shaking her head.
"In the Palais somewhere, I assumed," Nadir replies. "But not a house – although it does make sense he would find some way to create one within a building the size of the Palais."
"It was quite nice," Meg says. "Maman never saw it because even using the Rue Scribe entrance, the path was rough."
"But you did?"
"Every few weeks or so, to bring groceries," she says. "Those were the times he gave us gifts."
"Christine would visit him there," Adele says. "She never said much about where he lived, but after the first kidnapping, she would go there occasionally, mostly for her lessons."
Nadir frowns. "You were with the mob when they found this house?
Meg nods.
"What happened?"
Meg's dark eyes grow large. "It was terrible. The music room was destroyed. They were so angry when they could not find him."
"Do you suppose he was taking Christine there?" Adele asks, her brow furrowed.
"So it would seem."
"I, for one, am happy if he did," Meg says. "I think if I came home to find this place wrecked, I would want someone to be with me."
"I had intended to return to the opera house to speak with them again, after talking to you, but I suppose I shall just wait until the morning. If it is as you say, Mademoiselle Meg, and as well as I know Erik, if I attempted to find them, I would be in dire need of medical care, if I survived at all. He did like his traps."
"Your organ. Your beautiful organ," she cries, running to the now battered instrument, only the frame still standing. The ivory and ebony keys were scattered in every direction. The pipes torn from the console, now joined the once finely carved wood in a pile of rubble on the wool Turkish carpet. "How terribly cruel."
"I suppose I should be grateful they did not find me. Still, to destroy a musical instrument…ignorant heathens."
The sound of his cry is deep and heart-rending, taking her unawares. Turning away from destroyed organ, she watches as his always correct posture fails him…as he appears to melt before her eyes. Running to break his fall, she collapses to the floor with him as the sobs wrack his body and the tears flow.
"I am so sorry, my dearest one. So sorry."
"Why, Christine? Why?"