Gift Five
"The Vow"
(Part III)
CHRISTINE DAAÉ'S JOURNAL
(entry cont.)
"My heart to you is given:
Oh, do give yours to me;
We'll lock them up together
And throw away the key."
It is that one simple poem that keeps repeating like a music box's tinny melody in my mind. I chanced to read it once in a book in Erik's study some few weeks, or maybe months, ago. It seemed so romantic back then, painting an idyllic picture of fairy-tale love; now I can only shudder as I realize how apt it would be as a replacement for my actual wedding vows.
At present, Erik is asleep on the chaise in the parlor, curled up like a big dark guard dog on the pressed velvet cushion. His knees do in fact jut off the side of it, and he looks very uncomfortable in his repose. For my part, I have developed a terrible headache – probably from indulgence of that sweet-smelling chemical – and have consequently locked myself in my bedroom in the hopes of clearing my head. Erik has never minded what doors I lock down here, just as long as he can keep locked the main front door, my only portal of escape…
Erik had every right to call me naïve.
I should have known how this all would end. I am furious with myself, furious with him, furious with the world. Perhaps if I put my pen to paper, and recount the past hours, I can find a way to make sense of the madness that has at last unhinged its horrible jaw and swallowed me whole…
This morning's air was dark and frigid; frozen with the type of inky blackness that you cannot see or feel through, but only taste. Stepping into it from the depths of the opera house had been like opening my eyes to find that a blindfold had been tied securely around my head the whole time. It had been at least a year since I had been outside; I had been looking forward to seeing the familiar view of the Parisian streets… and already I was sorely disappointed by the bleak and black darkness that had greeted me instead.
"We must make haste," Erik whispered, ushering me up into the shadowy cabriolet that awaited us, "before the light of dawn arrives."
He held me close as the carriage tumbled over the cobbled avenues, barreling towards our solemn destination. Cold leather hands gripped my upper arms with a vice-like strength, a reminder to that terrible thought of which I didn't like to think, had been trying not to think especially in these hours before what was supposed to be the happiest occasion of my life...
I am still Erik's prisoner.
Oh, but we were so much more to each other than merely captor and prisoner in that moment! It was truly wicked for me to think about our situation in that way. Our hearts were in love, even if the circumstances were not ideal. We were connected through pain and misfortune, through fear and fright; and no soul knew me quite as Erik's did.
In mere moments, he would see for himself. He would give me the choice between staying and fleeing, and he would see that I would stay! Oh, a million times over would I choose Erik!
Was it a choice, though? I was pretending like it was, for Erik's sake, but there was really no choice at all. Raoul was hardly a thought in my mind these days. I had arranged for him to be there only to prove the point fully to Erik, as I knew Raoul made him feel insecure and jealous. But I would never pick Raoul! He was now like any other man to me.
And yet – I knew what he meant to Erik, even if he did not mean the same to me. Erik saw my love as split between two suitors, with one far behind the other in the race for my heart. It was true, once, that I loved Raoul… but now things had changed. Raoul was a part of the chase no longer. Yet - if I could show this to Erik, that I would pick him over even Raoul, whom he thought I still loved, without batting an eye, how happy he would be! And how loved he would feel…
I wanted him to feel loved. I wanted this so, so desperately. It is such a beautiful feeling to feel loved, and even more so to be loved…
The carriage lurched to a stop before the little white chapel of Montmartre. My stomach was aflutter with butterflies, but they were of the sweetest variety…
I made to disembark from the carriage, but Erik held my arm fast. "Christine."
I looked to him. "Yes, dear?"
"Please – we don't have to do this," Erik said softly. Humorously I wondered if he had gotten cold feet. "We can just go home and forget all about this."
"But this is the only way you will know for sure," I reminded him. "Please, Erik, just trust me – and let me go."
His eyes searched mine. "I want to believe -"
"I want you to know," I said. "I want you to know that my heart beats with yours, exactly in rhythm. Don't you want to know, and not just believe?"
His mouth parted to refute me, but no response came. Desperation filled his eyes.
I knew the conflict. He was afraid to lose me. That in the few minutes we were separated in the chapel - while he spoke with the priest and I readied myself in the bridal suite – I would disappear into the mist and he'd lose me forever.
But even still – with so much to lose, there was so much still to gain. At the risk of losing me forever, there was the chance that he'd finally see my heart as belonging to him completely. What a fantastically tempting bliss that was…
I kissed him, quick, and drew back before he could protest further. "I will see you in a few minutes, dear. I love you."
His reply was like the whisper of the dead, floating mournfully through the space that grew between us, as my satin heels clattered against the stone steps up to the church.
"Don't go…"
It was customary for the bride-to-be to use the bridal suite to prepare herself before the ceremony, and to hide herself from the peeping, spying eyes of the congregation and the bride-groom. Of course, there was nothing customary about our situation or about the ceremony that was about to begin. There was no crowd to hide from. There was only Erik.
The bridal suite was small, just as the little chapel was small – little more than a broom closet with a settee, table, and mirror, and a tiny stained-glass window poking out the side of the wall. It faced mainly into the brick wall of the neighboring building, but if you stood in the right position, beside the mirror, you could view a small sliver of the street outside.
I chanced a look at myself in the mirror. I was never a vain girl, but I had lost my fondness for my reflection in the past year spent below the Opera with Erik. What was there to gain by staring vapidly into the looking glass? There were always faults to see. I had no reason anymore to care about my appearance – for Erik, being as ugly as he is, didn't care if my cheeks grew a blemish or if my nose's little bump accentuated itself too strongly. He showered me in praise regardless of how I looked or felt. The words meant little to me, in terms of my appearance – and instead they served as a reminder that looks mean very little. Erik's compliments were never simply skin-deep.
And yet I was floored by the face that greeted me in the mirror, regardless! It was mine, surely, for there were my two pale blue eyes, and my parted lips - my hand raising up in shock…
I was radiant! How had this happened? I looked more beautiful than I had ever looked before! I had donned no special frock, had done nothing special with my hair, had applied no special make-up to my face, and yet there I stood, positively ephemeral and glowing!
I recalled my first period of living with Erik – I had sallowed out, with dark circles folding themselves under my haunted eyes, my bones popping out of my taut, sickly skin. It was with that appearance I had met with Raoul at the Masquerade Ball, and had warned him of the tragedy he was unknowingly encroaching upon. I had been full of unhappiness then, scared of Erik and scared for Raoul.
I was happier now. How could I not be? I was about to marry the man whose heart was linked with mine for ever and a day. Had this happiness caused this radiant light? Or was it something else…? Something much more sudden, much more recent…?
The relief, perhaps, of being unchained at last from…?
A knock sounded, and the door cracked open.
"Mademoiselle?"
It was Père Myriel, the sole priest of the chapel. He was a gaunt, shuffling man, old even beyond his years, with a cane clutched wobbily in his arthritic hand and a pair of silver spectacles upon his nose.
"Is it time?" I asked.
"Nearly," he said. "There are a few minutes yet. I come now, though, to ask you something."
No doubt questions about the clandestine ceremony he had been paid to perform, I thought. I couldn't blame the man for being apprehensive.
"Yes, Père Myriel?"
He laced his hands together thoughtfully. "This wedding has happened upon you very quickly, as I understand it. I cannot help but be concerned for the circumstances."
I bristled defensively. "That is not a question."
"It is not meant to be," he said delicately. "I just mean to say that I have seen a great many things in my years."
"I am certain."
"Marriage is a sacred act, Mademoiselle Daaé. Allow me to be upfront with you for a moment. Under normal circumstances, I prefer to meet the intended couple before the day of the wedding, to ascertain their intentions towards each other, and to ascertain their understandings of the Law of the Church." The man sighed wearily. "I cannot pretend this is the first time a wedding of this nature has occurred, nor that this is the first time I have served as the officiant of one. The world of the Church is not perfect, and even God can be made to turn a blind eye in some cases. I do not want to know what is it that demands such secrecy and such immediacy… it is not my right to know… but, for the sake of your soul – and mine as well - I would like to offer you the opportunity for redemption. Would you like to make your last confession before…?"
He trailed off and gestured vaguely to the door, where it stood, ajar. Just past this door was a lifetime commitment to Erik, and all the beautiful sorrows and hideous joys that came with him.
"Do we have time?"
Père Myriel nodded. "It was your fiance's request. He, himself, just finished giving to me a most thorough, most pious confession."
I peered through the crack in the door to find Erik in the pews, head bowed in prayer.
It was a sight I had always thought unimaginable. After all, Erik had scoffed at me when the first request I had made, in those original two weeks, was for him to procure for me a rosary. He had laughed when I asked to go to church on that following Sunday – and he had sneered in disgust when I further suggested that he could accompany me. Erik was not religious. Or was he?
Who was I marrying?
"No," I said with a hesitant shake of my head. "Thank you, Père Myriel. I have nothing to confess."
The priest's sad eyes met mine. "Your will be done, then, Mademoiselle Daaé. I will let your fiancé know you are ready." He made to leave, but paused, just before closing the door. "Though, I urge you to take just a few moments more to be alone in your prayers."
And then he was gone.
I suddenly felt very tiny, even within that small bridal suite. I sat down upon the settee and placed my hands in my lap, my skirts spilling out on either side.
A few moments more, and then Erik and I would at last be wed. And when we were wed, we would become one. All my burdens would become his, and all his would become mine. We would share them as one united heart – or two chained together, locked without a key, forced to beat together for fear of –
No! It was wrong of me to think such thoughts, especially right before I was to be wed!
And yet I couldn't help it! All the fears of the last year that I had kept securely below the surface at last demanded themselves to be known. I held my head between my hands, gripping my hair so tightly my scalp screamed out in pain.
What was I about to subject myself to? An eternity of Erik's intense, adoring gaze? And for what? I loved him, as normal people love, and he was absolutely mad with love for me – but that passionate madness was not the slightest bit romantic! It was overpowering and terrifying, in ways I had already born witness to! Stupid girl, had I really thought I could simply forget about everything he had done? The torture chamber, the chandelier, the scorpion, the grasshopper, even my poor dead father's violin! And all the murders he had committed, on these lands as upon others… all the murders that he had had confessed to me without a single tear… in that moment it was all absolutely repulsive! All of it!
(Though - not once, in the midst of all that repulsion, did I even think about his face...)
In the midst of my fretting, I had failed to notice that I had begun to pace the small length of the room. Suddenly aware of where I stood, and who stood just outside the door, I found myself compelled to turn, slowly, and stare out the small stained glass window. There I saw a figure, nearly unrecognizable and obscured by the treatment of the glass, but my heart knew him too well.
Raoul.
All at once my heart burst into flames, and I into tears. Raoul! My fearless knight, who had once run straight into a violently raging sea with but one thought on his mind: to rescue my scarf! And here he was again, standing at attention, told absolutely nothing but ready for anything. Oh, I had said I no longer loved Raoul...
But I had said many things.
How could I go through with this wedding when Raoul was standing right there? I could deny it no more - I loved him, oh, I did! And I loved Erik, too… but what person in their sane mind would choose to live out the rest of their days in a dark hole in the ground, with a dangerous and unpredictable fiend? Even if that fiend was a man whom they loved? When another man – a perfectly good man she has always loved so deeply – was standing right there, waiting for her?
When there is love in death, and love in life - when there is love either way - who can blame someone for choosing life?
There was no choice to be made; I threw open the bridal suite door and ran as fast as I could out of the chapel. I pushed forward with all of my strength, as I knew Erik would pursue me immediately. Both he and Père Myriel had been waiting at the altar for me and had set their waiting eyes upon the bridal suite door for my entrance; and yet it was my exit that they were given instead.
I could not hear Erik running after me, but I knew he was there regardless. His footsteps have always been silent. He has a way of moving that produces no sound; he mentioned once that it was a talent he perfected when performing assassinations for the Persian shah, but that now it has become his nature. And so I could not hear him approach, or tell how far he was behind me; I could only trust that he was there.
With his impossibly long legs, Erik was faster than me - but I had the benefit of a head-start. He had to run the length of the chapel – from the altar, down the aisle, and through the vestibule – until he even reached the point I had started at. By some miracle of luck, I made it out of the chapel without being caught by Erik's iron grasp. I shouted out as I ran down the steps:
"Raoul!"
My fair-headed knight only had time to look in my direction before I grabbed his arm and pulled him into a run. He asked no questions, demanded no answers – only ran, because I ran! It was good that he did so, because any hesitation or pause would have doomed me to Erik's undoubtedly impending clutches.
The carriage was there, just as I had planned, and the moment we sprang into it we began to move. I told myself not to look back, at penalty of salt... and yet something I cannot express compelled me, once again, to turn my head and look.
I had indeed escaped him, and for as long as I live I will never forget the pain that struck my heart at the sight of him kneeling in the street, beating his chest and striking the ground with his terrible fists as he cried out the most miserable, wretched wails I'd ever heard.
Erik, if you are reading this… forgive me.