A/N: Thank you so much for the reviews - and welcome to my new readers! :) To my Russian guest reader - Thank you! - благодарю вас - (I hope this is right - I used google translate) ... And now - onward and upward!

Chapter XI

Christine hesitated a stunned breath, never having expected the mysterious, nighttime violinist to invite her into his room! She had thought they would have this conversation, as they had all others, outside on his doorstep. Those with a shred of sanity would consider it unwise for a lone, young woman to enter a man's domain – a stranger's domain - and they would be correct in that caution. But in light of her request, such restraint seemed foolish, and she was more than a little curious as she walked past him and into his attic room…

A cave might be a more apt description, and for a brief flicker of unease, her mind took her back to a true cave made into a home, far beneath the earth.

The heavy black velvet that stretched across the single window had no partition to pull aside and allow daylight to shine into the room. It was no true drapery at all, but a permanent barrier nailed to the wall to shut out the outside. The room was larger than her own and contained a ceiling that sloped sharply. Beneath its lowest part stood an iron bedstead covered in pillows he would need to stoop to lie upon. Crates, trunks, baskets and boxes cluttered the room lit only by a small gas lamp that sat on a small round table near one wall. To say the room was cozily lit was charitable; she could barely see as she walked a short few steps further into the dim chamber.

She turned to look at him once he closed the door, a bit startled that he would, and she wondered if he could read her apprehensive curiosity behind the opaque blue lenses he wore.

"Pardon the lighting, or lack thereof," he said, his voice low and deep with the hint of an accent she couldn't place. It sent shivers down her spine.

"It is rather dark," she agreed, hoping he would rectify the situation.

"The light, it is not kind to my eyes."

"I see. Is that why you wear those indoors?" Only after she questioned did she realize he might mistake her innocent query as rude.

He inclined his head in solemn affirmation. "A condition I suffer does not allow me to enjoy the daylight as I would wish."

"Forgive me." She looked away from him, feeling a little flustered by his curt and concise reply. "I had no wish to be rude."

He sighed, and she sensed a strange sort of despondency in the sound. "Why are you here, mademoiselle?"

"I…" Christine fidgeted in place, glancing toward the sole chair available in the room, its twin holding various baskets of knickknacks and bolts of cloth, likely the landlady's possessions, as most of the clutter here was surely the woman's, attics being a receptacle for storage. But he made no offer for her to sit and she remained standing. Of one thing, she must know and must know now –

"What is your name?"

Taken aback by her abrupt question, hinging on desperation, those impenetrable blue lenses looked her way a moment before he replied, "I am Monsieur de Ranier."

She nodded at the small disclosure into his life; for now, it was enough. Still, she hesitated, struggling to find words that had slipped off her tongue so easily the few times she rehearsed them alone in her room. The inspiration that sent her flying up the staircase to meet with him had not dimmed; but now that they'd come face to face and in his private quarters, no less, her dose of courage needed that same emphatic boost.

"I heard your music again last night," she began. "You play wonderfully well."

His lips flickered at the corners. "So you have said."

He expressed no humility, but in her experience, few performers did. Entertainers expected and welcomed praise from their audience – they thrived on it as a form of remuneration in their livelihood. Even her own dear papa expressed a knowing sort of pride when complimented on his playing. And Christine had fairly glowed with delight when congratulated on her performances. Knowing all that, this shouldn't be so difficult. Still, at the exhibition of this man's unshakeable confidence that bordered on artistic arrogance she wavered with what she would now say.

She knew well that such otherwise egotistical traits aided in producing the best teacher, in addition to commitment and dedication to the craft – and Monsieur de Ranier appeared to possess all that was required. As gifted as he was, would he agree?

"I wish for you to give me lessons," she softy blurted before she lost her nerve.

She wished, too, that she could see his eyes, for surely they would hint at his reaction. His facial expression gave nothing away; indeed, he seemed turned to stone.

"Lessons?" he said at last. "What lessons?"

"On the violin, of course."

He nodded once, curtly, as if to show he now understood, then shook his head in refusal. "I am no instructor of the violin."

"Perhaps not, but it is evident that you are highly accomplished."

"I am. But the answer is still no, mademoiselle."

"I can pay you," she said quickly. "I confess, I have no idea what the cost would be for such instruction, but perhaps…twenty-five francs per lesson?" She tried to settle on an amount that sounded fair.

"I cannot possibly teach you –"

"Fifty!" she cut him off, almost ready to beg if necessary.

"I require no payment."

"Oh, but – I cannot possibly receive lessons without paying for them."

Never had she met anyone willing to extend their services without receiving anything in return, other than one person. Her phantom teacher had never asked one centime of her; of course, for most of her life, she believed him to inhabit a celestial realm and an angel did not require material possessions. Since that startling day she came to know him as no more than a man, she soon realized how she'd taken advantage of his invaluable instruction – how she had taken him for granted. Forever near when she needed him…always ignored when she did not. What had she given him in return for his tireless efforts but endless amounts of grief?

As they had a habit of doing, day and night, thoughts of him surfaced in her mind followed by questions. Was he well? Was he still angry? Had he returned to his lair and found her letter? Had he been found…? She shook her head a little, hoping to dislodge the past and a distant situation she could do nothing about and concentrate on the more personal issue of the present, which was at least somewhat under her control…

If she could get this man to reconsider.

"Please, monsieur, name whatever price you deem suitable. I don't know much about these things."

"I recommend that you locate a shop specializing in musical paraphernalia and ask the management there if they can refer you to any worthy instructors in the area."

"Oh but –"

"I haven't the patience or the resources to teach you, mademoiselle." He moved to the door as he spoke and opened it. "I have no wish to be rude, but I have business to which I must attend."

"Oh…" Flustered to be put into the obvious position of unwelcome guest, Christine searched for words, but finding no appropriate phrase in the looming shadow of his formidable stance, she awkwardly approached the open door, squinting slightly at the gaslight flooding the corridor. She hadn't realized it was that bright; not until spending these last minutes in his dim abode. "Well then. Thank you for your time, Monsieur de Ranier. I'm sorry to have intruded."

He took a slight step back into shadow and stiffly nodded as she came abreast of him. "I wish you all the best in your endeavors, mademoiselle."

With little else to do, Christine nodded, keeping her head held high while attempting to numb herself to the sting of his rejection. Twice rejected by two men in a matter of weeks; never before that had she known such an experience. Though the first had ripped through her heart and torn into her soul...

Not wishing to return to her silent, empty room and dwell in pain-filled memories, she continued down the remaining flights of stairs to the cozy parlor in search of pleasant company.

x

Inside the spacious room that contained a horsehair sofa and three chairs near a cheery hearth dancing with flames, Mademoiselle Ledoux sat next to a dapper young gentleman with sleek black hair and trim mustache. The girl's aunt sat closer to the fire with her knitting. It was a simple room, with its bronze and gold pinstriped walls, the olive green furnishings not as grand or as comfortable as the rose-velvet scrolled sofas offered in the public chambers of the opera house, but the room emitted a certain charm and drew boarders to congregate there.

"Mademoiselle Daaé," the young woman beamed her way, "Please, come join us. We were just speaking of Paris."

Not for the first time, Christine regretted the slip of giving her real surname on her first day of arriving in Marseilles. If ever she found a need to relocate, she would be sure never to make the same mistake twice...

Tentatively, she approached, noting the newspaper that sat on the side table beside the man and recognizing it as one of the few in the city that related news outside its borders.

"Monsieur Laurent, Mademoiselle Daaé," the girl made introductions. "He has just moved to Marseille for the season."

"Please, call me Christine," she said to the girl. The man raised his brows and the aunt gave a disapproving huff. Christine's request, given only so the name Daaé wasn't used so frequently and possibly stir some recognition had a negative connotation she hadn't counted on. All three mistakenly thought her ill-timed remark addressed to him, a brazen move for an unwed young woman to be sure, perhaps for any woman. If Mademoiselle Ledoux's aunt thought her a hussy before, the elder woman's evaluation of Christine had just dipped to the level of streetwalker, not that Christine truly cared. Being a chorus girl had brought its own brand of undeserved censure from certain classes.

"Mademoiselle," the stranger said in a pleasant voice, his grey eyes kind. "It is a pleasure. Please, do join us."

Christine smiled her thanks that he hadn't called her by her given name and made matters worse. She took a seat in the chair cattycorner to the sofa where Monsieur Laurent and Mademoiselle Ledoux sat at each end, with two feet of distance between them.

"We were just discussing the museums in Paris," Mademoiselle Ledoux explained. "Alas, it is the epitome of all I have engaged in for social affairs. I always wanted to visit the Opera, as you have," she added wistfully to Christine.

Prickles of alarm raised the hair on her arms beneath her sleeves at the unfortunate turn of the conversation. While she definitely wanted news of what had happened there since she left, she had no desire to discuss it with others.

The man chuckled. "Opera never was in my range of interest," he said. "But give me a good burlesque show any night of the week and you'll see me there."

Christine smiled in her relief that he, too, was oblivious to the workings of the Paris Opera House, while the aunt gave another huffing snort of disapproval coupled with a stern glare over her knitting needles toward him. If Mademoiselle Ledoux hoped to receive this guest as a potential beau, Christine had a feeling the young woman was going to be sadly disappointed.

The conversation went on for several more minutes involving other Parisian points of interest and circling back to the Louvre.

"The latest exhibit did leave something to be desired – rather pedestrian, in my opinion," Monsieur Laurent criticized. "But it did bring in the crowds, which I suppose is the point of it all. Give me a good Renoir any day…Mademoiselle, if you wish to take the paper, feel free to do so."

Christine snapped her fixed attention from distractedly gazing at the tiny, angled newsprint she couldn't read from this distance. "I'm sorry – what?"

"I noticed your interest in the newspaper. I have finished with it. You may take it, if you wish. There is an article on news from Paris you may find interesting. I do believe they even mention the opera."

Christine felt her face flush with self-conscious warmth. "Yes, please, thank you."

He plucked it from the table, reaching over to hand the newspaper to her. She could scarcely wait to hurry to her room and scavenge through its pages.

"I think I should retire. I must hunt through the city for a music shoppe tomorrow."

"You're not partaking of supper then?" Mademoiselle Ledoux asked.

"Not tonight, no. I had a rather filling lunch at the café." Besides the eclair, she had invested in a small round loaf of bread. She could not live on sweets, after all, and the meals at the boarding house left much to be desired.

"I happen to know of a music store a short distance from here," Monsieur Laurent spoke. I can take you there tomorrow morning, if you like. This is not my first visit to Marseille; I am well acquainted with the city."

Surprised by his offer, but wary to accept it from a perfect stranger, Christine fumbled with a response. "I'm not sure, but…" She looked toward Mademoiselle Ledoux. "Would you like to come as well? It might be fun to get out in the fresh air and see something of the city."

The girl's eyes sparkled with delight at the prospect. "It does sound lovely."

"After you conduct your business at the music store, we could take luncheon at a delightful café I know of in the vicinity," Monsieur Laurent added gallantly.

Madame Ledoux turned to her aunt. "Oh, may I, Aunt Agatha?"

The woman frowned, seeming about to refuse but nodded. "I believe I feel well enough to take an hour away for the proceedings."

"Yes - of course," the man stumbled over his words, clearly not expecting a chaperone, but the idea of Aunt Agatha along relieved Christine. And Mademoiselle Ledoux had proven to be pleasant company.

"Splendid," Christine enthused. "Then I shall see all of you tomorrow."

"Until tomorrow," Monsieur Laurent agreed, and Mademoiselle Ledoux nodded her approval.

Christine again thanked him for the paper and hurried to her room to scan through its contents. On page four, she found what she'd been seeking:

The city-wide hunt for the villain known as the Phantom of the Opera continues…

Her heart lurched in a strange mix of anxiety that they were still searching and relief that he had not yet been caught.

A short recap of that tragic night followed, along with the assumption that he drowned in the Seine when the gendarmes found a body there two days later. Christine held her breath as she nervously read, letting the trapped air out softly as the article went on to state that the victim had been identified as S. Todd, a barber from London whose throat had been cut - not the alleged Opera Ghost that haunted the theatre in Paris.

According to the article, the hunt for the Phantom was still on.

Not for the first time, she offered a prayer heavenward that those who sought his death would never find him.

Christine lowered the paper, her melancholy eyes going to the window and what she could see of the horizon beyond and the span of sea that traveled so far, its end could not be realized. Perhaps, even now, he was traveling its incalculable distance to the other side…far, far away from her.

xXx

"Maman! Maman!"

Madame Giry nearly dropped the tea kettle at her daughter's rambunctious entrance into their flat. Seconds later, the door to the small kitchen swung open.

"Madame Salinger gave these to me as I came in – she said they were delivered this morning. Two letters addressed to you! And one I'm sure must be from Christine!"

Madame Giry quickly wiped her hands on a dishtowel and took the letters from Meg's hand, first breaking open the one with the flowery script.

Relief made her shoulders slightly droop from their usual rigid stance. "Christine is well," she reported to her excited daughter, "and living in Marseille. She has secured work at one of many shoppes there and bids us not to worry. She left a message for you."

"For me?" Meg squealed like she had as a child the first time she was picked for the chorus. Madame delivered the missive into Meg's eager hands and slipped into the parlor to open the next letter.

Madame Giry,

I write to inform you that I have found Christine in Marseille. Cease to worry about the girl; the Angel of Music has her under his wing, though she has no knowledge of it, nor will she. I will not repeat past mistakes; on this you have my word. If you must reach me, I have enclosed an address where you may send a note.

Erik de Ranier

Short, pithy and to the point – but a consideration offered that he had freely given and never would have done in the past.

So, they were both in Marseille. What puzzled her was that he wrote of not repeating past mistakes, and though she hoped that meant to tell Christine how he truly felt about her, by his words, he planned another escapade as the Ghost. Surely his greatest mistake - to so deceive the girl and masquerade as no more than a phantom!

Quickly closing the letter, she stuffed it in between the pages of a book on her desk, not wishing to rouse Meg's curiosity should she enter the room. A twinge of remorse made Madame Giry consider her next course of action. She never agreed to Nadir Kahn's ploy to keep Erik and Christine separated; neither had she told Christine Erik's whereabouts when the girl asked if she knew them. In her own meddlesome way, she had aided to keep the two apart. Perhaps had she spoken the truth then, when it mattered, Christine would be here now, and she could have met with her erstwhile teacher under Madame's supervision. All the misunderstandings of their bizarre past could have been excavated to salvage what good remained, then permanently laid to rest, and let the chips of the future fall where they may.

But no, instead, Christine struggled to make a living in another city, with her Ghost again lurking unseen to shadow her... Madame worried that history might repeat itself and all because of her decision to remain silent.

Silence brought no more than pain; she had learned that lesson well. In confiding to the Vicomte Christine's whereabouts, when deep down she'd known her Angel would never harm her, Madame bore her own share of guilt for what led to the disaster of that night. She would not bear the blame for this as well.

Resolved to correct her mistake, she sat down at her desk and began to write.

xXx

Once the Phantom had let his Angel go – told her to go – he struggled with the desire to call her back to him. Daily, he wrestled with the need, convincing himself that after the carnage he unleashed on Paris, destroying both his and her dreams as a result, this forced absence was the only way to co-exist. To watch over her from afar and under the cloak of invisibility, to do all he could to establish what aspiration for this new life she struggled to whittle out of what flotsam remained...

Though that she no longer wished to sing disturbed him.

He told himself that this mode of keeping distance was for the greater good, when the following day he shadowed her and three boarders who accompanied her to the music store, and watched her through the plate glass window from his position across the street.

He told himself this mode of invisibility was the best way, the only way, when he lingered outside the dining room, in the shadows, as the little party took supper, the detestable meal in no way infringing on their lighthearted rapport.

He told himself the same when the pesky Laurent sat near Christine on the sofa in the parlor on the third evening and engaged in droll conversation that made Christine giggle in a heart-tugging way that Erik once dreamed of doing. No, his specialty was in making her weep, and clenching his hands into tight fists repeatedly in spasmodic frustration, he forced himself to cease shadowing the merrymakers and took the stairs to his dark and empty attic room.

The fourth afternoon while he paced the floor from wall to cluttered wall, wincing at every random misplaced chord and scowling at the planks beneath his feet with how woefully substandard the untalented buffoon was at the craft, he gritted the words in his mind – it's for the damned best. But the moment the ratchety music at last blessedly ceased to whine across victimized strings, he found himself lurking on the outside stoop of his door, glaring at the landing below and what he could see of the door she had left ajar, waiting what seemed an interminable amount of time for it to swing fully open and reveal the pair. When it did, his heart lurched upon sight of her. She seemed flustered and uneasy, attempting to keep distance from her guest as he exited. She actually retreated a step when the ill-kempt man with graying hair grabbed up her hand and kissed the back of it.

How dare he!

"Next time, perhaps, Mademoiselle, you would care to take your lesson at my shop? I have a room upstairs that is more private. We will not be disturbed, nor risk disturbing others."

The fiend's eyes rested at her cleavage as he straightened from bowing over her hand, and though the Phantom could not hear Christine's meek response, he had endured enough.

The dastardly caller turned at the slow pound of each approaching step Erik made no attempt to muffle. He glimpsed a glint of welcome relief in Christine's eyes before she cast them to the floor.

"I...er – yes." The pitiful excuse for an instructor set his hat upon his head. "Until your next lesson, Mademoiselle, I bid you adieu."

He awkwardly scampered down the stairs on slightly bowed legs, reminding Erik of a frightened toad, and he couldn't refrain from a sardonic twist of a satisfied smile. He stepped down the remaining stairs with purpose and walked directly to her door. She lifted her eyes to his in shocked question.

He studied her head to hem in a swift, sweeping glance, then, careful to speak in a low tone with a flair of the accent of Persia, he curtly announced, "Come to my room at noon tomorrow. Bring your violin with you." He had retraced his steps to the first stair when he heard her voice uncertainly call out behind him.

"Monsieur?"

He turned slightly aside, looking over his shoulder. Noting her curious surprise, he addressed her unasked question, "I assume it is still your wish to be taught to play the violin? Unless you prefer to take instruction from a fool unworthy to classify himself as a musician. My ears are still bleeding from the raucous noise he made."

"Yes, of course. I mean no." She cleared her throat. "I'll be there."

He nodded once, never having doubted it for a moment.

For the best? Hardly. Yet Erik was resolved to help her, as only he could. This time would be different, as he had vowed to Madame Giry in his letter. He would guard against this becoming another monstrous mistake…

Never would he divulge his true identity. Never would Christine see his true face. And never would he bare his soul to her again.

A/N: Well, at least he's got good intentions where her well-being is concerned – yes? ;-) Hope you guys liked the chapter!