Christine leans out of the window of the cab. "This is fine," she shouts out to the driver. The force of reining in the horses has her fall back onto her bench.
Before Darius can get up to keep her from slipping onto the floor she is back on her feet, the door halfway open.
"Mademoiselle, please be careful, the streets are wet," he says following her onto the sidewalk. "Where are we going, I do not see any gates."
"We shall walk the rest of the way."
"Very well," he says.
"Excuse me," the cabby calls down to them. "The fare. Five francs."
Arms folded, Christine cocks her head at Darius. "I was planning to walk. You insisted on the cab."
"Of course. Of course, I completely expected to pay," he says, finding the coin purse in his pocket. Retrieving two, he hands them up to the driver. "Thank you for the excellent service."
The driver tips his hat, sniggering as he drives his coach away.
"You have no money?"
"Not with me…No," she retorts, turning toward the gate leading to Erik's apartment.
"You were going to walk?"
"It is not that far."
"The night…"
"I have walked the Paris streets at night."
"I suspect someone was following you," he says, jogging to keep pace with her determined pace.
Stopping short, she turns to face him. "Erik?"
"Of course, Erik, who else?" Darius starts walking again. "If he is only half as protective of you as you are of him, I would expect nothing less."
Quirking the corner of her upper lip, she gives him a half smile. "That is true."
"Why are you wearing his ring?"
"Protection – from the patrons. They tend not to solicit the married dancers."
"I am a patron."
"You are my friend."
"I want to marry you."
"I shall never marry."
"That is insane. We love each other."
"I shall wear your ring on a chain around my neck and we can pretend we are to be married. Will that do?"
"Until when?"
"Does it matter?"
"Of course – you wear a false ring on your finger but will not acknowledge our love."
"You do not understand."
"I believe I do – it is him. I am right."
"Do not make me choose."
"And if I do?"
"You will lose."
"Here we are," she says, arriving at the gate seeming more part of the fence than an actual entry.
"Mademoiselle!"
Christine and Darius both frown as they turn toward a cab parked only a few feet from the gate.
"Your friend, the tall man with the…um…scar, asked me to wait here for him," the cabby says. "I dropped him off in the alley – same as the other man – the one with the odd hat, but he told me to meet him here."
"So both Erik and M. Khan are inside," Christine says to Darius. "What happened to the guards?"
"A couple of men were walking down the alley when we arrived," the cabby offers.
Christine says. "Please continue to wait here, please."
Darius pulls out his purse again.
The driver waves his hand away. "Both the gentlemen have been very generous. I shall stay as long as necessary."
"Thank you," Christine fishes in her pocket for the key to the gate.
"Madame?" The cabby says.
"Yes?"
There is a carriage coming down the street. I cannot be certain, but I believe it to be the same coach that was here earlier when the driver confronted you and your…husband. There is crest of some sort on the door, I could not make it out."
"Much activity around the opera house tonight…and this gate in particular, it would seem," Darius says.
"Thank you again, um…I do not know your name," Christine says.
"Albert du Champs," he smiles. "At your service. Allow me to move the horses to block you from sight before you enter. Best you not be seen."
"Thank you, Monsieur du Champs."
"Madame."
The lock clicks under the pressure of the key and Christine pushes the gate open. "Quickly. Our friend Albert was wise to suggest keeping our arrival secret."
"The more I think about this situation, the more I believe we should have just left the fool suffer the results of his bad decision," Erik says, stopping on the final landing before reaching the lake.
"You would have left him." Nadir disengages himself from Erik, pressing his body against the wall.
"I should have included you in that statement…fools. You are correct, however, the only reason I am here at the moment is you," Erik replies. "I was concerned you might come to harm and I was correct, as usual."
"Could we sit for a moment?"
Erik helps Nadir slide onto a step, then sits down next to him. "How is the pain?"
"Better, the drug helps, I must admit," the daroga says. "I only wish it helped with my feelings of stupidity."
"If you consume enough of it, you will not be concerned about much of anything."
"Is that how you make use of the morphine?"
"I did that once, after I believed I was far enough from Persia to feel somewhat safe."
Where had he read or heard if you create a greater pain in one part of the body, you cannot feel pain in another? China? India? When they were beating him with the scourges, he would dig his nails into his palms, or bite his lower lip, or twist his ankle. Sometimes the effort worked, most often it did not.
The thought occurred to him he might cry, crying used to help when he was a child…but only afterward…when he was back in his tent. Crying in front of them only brought ridicule and more lashing. The offer of a drug to ease the pain was something he knew would ultimately damage him in ways more dangerous than physical, but he was only a man.
When she offered him the hookah for the first time, he was careful not to take too much. Stay conscious. Stay in control. He wished he was stronger, but the pain of what he conjured up in his narcotic stupors, the deaths he caused, was soon greater than anything physical pain he experienced.
There was no part of him without pain, no distraction sufficient to ease the suffering – intellectually, physically or spiritually. Many times he asked god: why? Never did he receive an answer. Only more punishment…for his face.
The desire to return home was strong, maybe things would be different. Ultimately, he did not have the courage to face his mother but instead found refuge at the Monastery of the Immaculée Conception at Rouen. The room he was offered was small and clean. The nuns were kind – living a life of contemplation – silence and solitude.
The journey had been long, he wondered at how he survived. No longer the magician, the storyteller, playing his violin – arrogant and finally free from the captors of his youth. Now, only a few years older, his body, unhealthy from a level of torture his carnival master might envy, threatened to fail him daily. Still, he had to return home.
Stay as long as you need, they told him. Was it a week or a month, he could not recall. Food and water were left – not that he was interested – but he was left alone to his own kind of contemplation.
One night or was it morning, he was aroused from his stupor by the sound of chanting: "Lord, how are they increased that trouble me! many are they that rise up against me."* The words touched him through his fog and he decided to stop taking the drug.
First, he shivered, never had he felt so cold. Then the fever returned. Alternately, without warning. Whatever pain being dulled in his body returned. All the demons returned en masse determined to drive him mad or so it seemed. Time had no meaning, but at some point, his cries roused the good sisters, disturbing their peace because soon he was aware of being tended to.
Then one morning, he heard another prayer, this one accompanied by the sweet sound of a violin. "Hear me when I call, O God of my righteousness: thou hast enlarged me when I was in distress."**
The sister sitting next to him, bathing his brow with a damp cloth, smiled. "The devil has left you, it would seem, Monsieur."
"I am the devil."
"No, no, you were possessed by evil – prayer and music set you free."
"I still use the laudanum when the physical pain returns."
"Tonight?"
"You are a wise man," Erik says softly. "Let us just say, the events of these past days have been particularly trying, despite some elements bringing me incredible happiness."
"Christine?"
"I heard her sing and, sadly, by assuming the role of an angel, the devil returned – for a while," he says. "Her father spoke to her about an Angel of Music and I assumed that role."
"I see."
"Do you?"
"I believe so, yes," Nadir says. "You still think you are evil, despite the beauty you have created and I include in that the love of a young woman."
"I still want him dead."
"That is because you are human – neither angel nor devil," Nadir chuckles. "Now, help me up, so we can rescue the young man and we can all get on with our lives."
"One thing I failed to consider when choosing this route."
"The lake?"
"The lake," Erik says. "The boat is on the other side. Assuming Raoul chose not to swim as he did the first time he paid me a visit."
"Actually, he had the choice of two additional skiffs brought down here to accommodate the men working in the tunnel. Frankly, I was surprised there were no other boats besides the one I assume was yours – pillows included," Nadir smirks.
"When accommodating a lady, one must consider comfort."
"So she knows the route down here."
"The way we just came? Yes, but she most often used the Rue Scribe gate when visiting."
"I see." All humor in his tone gone.
"What? Why are you so tense?" Erik says, stopping, holding up the lantern to the Persian's face. "I left her with Darius."
The brow above his green eyes is furrowed. "Darius is a wonderful man, like a son to me and treated as such…but he was trained to be a servant."
"And Christine is a strong-willed woman as I have come to discover."
"Knee be damned. Your drug is working…I can walk on my own to the boat." Taking a few steps, his grimace puts a lie to his declaration.
"At least hold onto my arm."
"The perfect gentleman."
"Always, except when I am not."
"Quite a route," Darius says, keeping up with Christine's pace as best he can. "This reminds me of the passages in the palace. You seem to know the way quite well."
"I visited Erik quite frequently, thus the key," she replies.
At the time, she was not aware of how much those visits meant to her. Not just the music, although music was certainly a strong bond between them. Erik was a part of her. When he sang about the darkness and the music of the night, she understood completely. Naïve in many ways but living on the road with her father was no easy thing. Survival was a constant concern. When night was falling, there was always the question of where they would sleep? Would she be safe? Often they had to find a barn if there was no inn nearby. More than one night was spent in the open air in a copse of trees providing cover and protection from the elements.
Daytime was deceptive in a way – you assume by being able to see things clearly, you will know what is dangerous and what is not. The robber who attempted to assault her grabbed her when she was shopping for some fruit at a greengrocer. Pappa saw him before he was able to do any physical harm, but because of the bright sunshine, she let her guard down. Over time, she preferred the night time.
Pappa told her their primal selves took over then – smell, hearing, touch became more important than vision, but even sight was sharper. Although Erik's anger terrified her upon removing his mask – this place was a comfort to her. More home than any other place she lived since leaving Sweden.
"Here we are," she says, holding up her lantern to display the door built into the macadam, turning the lock, she opens the door for them.
"If one did not know this was here, you would walk right past."
"Into a trap," Christine chuckles. "Erik disarmed the traps along the way. At any other time, no one would make it this far and if they did, their fate was negligible."
"Much like Persia."
"So the palace was a model for this?"
"In a way," he says, closing the heavy door behind them, leaving the coolness of the basement behind them. The small entryway was warm and dry.
"Wait a moment while I turn on a lamp."
"Electric light?"
"Yes, drawn from the streets above." Turning off her lantern, she nods for him to do the same. "We will still need them in order to return to the street."
Darius laughs. Looking around him, he says, "A kitchen?"
"With all the niceties," she says, continuing into the sitting room, turning on another wall lamp.
"Oh," Darius says, catching his breath. "This was his home. I can see what might have been here." He walks over to an armchair and sets it upright.
"This room was really lovely. You would never know this was not a real house, perhaps somewhere in the country – not a city house. The furniture was too comfortable." The blue eyes brighten with tears. In an effort to prevent the tears, her face screws up, swallowing deeply. "I hate them," the soft voice almost a growl. Bending over, she picks up a book.
"What is it?" Darius asks.
"The Rubáiyát."
"Omar Khayyám," Darius says.
"Yes, he would read from it, she says, pocketing the treasure:
Herewith a Loaf of Bread beneath the Bough,
A Flask of Wine, a Book of Verse—and Thou
Beside me singing in the Wilderness—
And Wilderness is Paradise enow."
"I am happy he escaped. Only animals would do this – I am very familiar with this sort of punishment."
Studying his face, she says softly, "I am sorry."
"That was the past," he says. "I am only sorry Erik was still forced to deal with this sort of evil behavior. I am only happy he was not here…or at least not found."
"Look," she says, crossing the room to pick up Raoul's lantern. "He made it this far before the oil ran out. He was able to see the wreckage he wrought with his desire to kill Erik."
"Where do you suppose he is?"
"Likely tried to find his way back to where he came in…the music room."
"How – matches?"
"Most likely," she replies. "If he made it this far, he likely had some memory of the way out and could feel his way along the walls. Come." Moving into the hallway, they pass first Erik's then her bedroom, before reaching the music room.
"There," Darius says, pointing at an area deeper into the room. "A mound of some sort…looks like clothing…something in the pile is reflecting light.
"The brass buttons on the Hussar jacket I was wearing earlier. I left it behind." Turning yet another lamp, she moves toward the object, sidestepping the debris from the destroyed organ. "This is not a mound of clothing…it is Raoul."
*Psalm 3, recited during Monastic Matins at two in the morning, is one of a series of seven times of daily prayer. The Psalm concerns a specific time of crisis in David's life. Having fled Absalom because of a series of events that followed from David being under discipline for his own sins regarding Bathsheba and Uriah. In that light, the prayer is a model for looking to God for help even in the midst of God's chastisement. Other rites may use different Psalms or prayers for daily Matins.
**Psalm 4, recited during Complin at around seven in the evening before going to bed. This is the first Psalm set to music.