Despite expecting her visitors, the knock on the door startles Adele. "A moment, please!"
When Nadir left earlier, she cleaned up the tea things and prepared a fresh pot. Now, she pushes herself to her feet with the help of her cane to survey the room. After one final act of putting her work diary in the top drawer of her desk, she feels comfortable in opening the door.
Despite her almost daily interactions with the elite men who insert their presence at rehearsals and after performances to meet with the troupe, a private meeting with Comte Phillippe was unsettling.
Of course, she knew of him, but his relationship with La Sorelli distanced him from those who were less interested in long term alliances. As such, their paths seldom crossed, except to nod if passing in the hallway as he made his way to the prima ballerina's dressing room. There was always an air of embarrassment about him. Waiting until most of the others were gone, rushing past, keeping his head down. Did he think Veronique would not brag about him to anyone who would listen?
Such a difference from the brother, who wanted everyone aware of his presence and his title. Raoul always reminded her of a rebellious child, suggesting the elder de Chagny was somewhat of an authoritarian who lost control of his ward. Gossip from the ballerina informed her that the mother died in childbirth and father became a recluse leaving Phillippe to parent the boy.
In that regard, he had her sympathy. Louis' death, leaving her to tend to Meg on her own was difficult. Even with means and all their physical needs addressed, an eleven year old boy could not be equipped to deal with the needs of an infant and toddler and later a developing young man.
Raoul's behavior was evidence of his failures. Guilt more than anything else might be driving his need for a better answer than Raoul being assaulted by a complete stranger because he was drunk and obviously wealthy. How much more guilt might he feel knowing the truth?
A spark of anger flares at the now-dead father of both these men. Would the powers that be on the other side find him responsible for the havoc his youngest son wreaked on the opera house – essentially causing the death of one man and now threatening the life of another?
His own death driving the man made to grow up too soon to seek vengeance on someone who was essentially blameless. Whatever sins Erik may carry in his soul, being accused, even indirectly, of Raoul's death was not one of them.
Unable to stall any longer, she opens the door to Nadir's smiling face and the pinched-lip frown of Comte Phillippe de Chagny. Definitely unhappy at being made to wait. Feeling his eyes examines her from head to foot, her breathing stops when they settles on the cane. His frown softens and she relaxes.
"Veronique told me you were once a star ballerina," he says. "Your love for the dance is obvious in the work of the troupe. M. Khan said you were most happy to speak to me for a brief time about my brother…and Mlle. Daae."
Nodding her head, she says, "I am not certain what I can tell you, but, please come in and take a seat. There is tea if you like."
"Allow me, Mme. Giry," Nadir says. "Please take a seat yourself. Black tea, M. Le Comte?"
"Cream…or milk if you have it and sugar," the tall man, answers as he sits on the chaise longue, his knees seeming to reach his chin as he settles into the down cushion. "My mother used to joke that I reminded her of the cranes one sees in the marshland – all legs…a trait from her side of the family that bypassed Raoul. There were times when I envied his more compact frame, but we are what we are. My sisters always found me useful in getting this or that from shelves too high for them to reach."
La Sorelli…Veronique often told her about Phillippe's sweetness, but Adele could not believe someone of noble birth…however modest, could be gentle, but the man looking at her, an erstwhile look in his pale blue eyes seemed to be just that.
And yet, too much trust in this gentle man could bring a great deal of trouble not only to Erik all of them, particularly Nadir. One may be born to wealth, but it took a certain amount of will and grit to keep it. Even so, she is relieved the first look of annoyance has been replaced by someone who is actually likable.
The fire is dying down to embers.
"My word, I have not been paying attention," Pere Charles says. "Erik, would you mind putting another log on…that is, unless you wish to retire."
The ice broken between the two men was a relief to Christine. When Erik began eating, she knew whatever arose from any future discussions, the end result would be satisfactory to all concerned.
The old priest showed a sense of relief as well. When he got up to fix himself a plate and ate with a hardy appetite, she smiled and did not feel a bit guilty about taking the other macarons from the serving platter.
"I make no excuse for my greed," she laughed.
"Christine and her father were vagabonds during her youth," Erik explains, looking fondly at her as he tends to the fire. "I have discovered her love for sweets and try to keep some in the cupboard for her pleasure."
"She visits often, I take it."
"You could say that."
"I live with Erik in his apartment beneath the opera house," Christine says, putting down a half-eaten cookie. "Our cohabiting is completely innocent."
"My dear, I am going to cast any aspersions at either of you."
"Nor should you." Erik steps into the conversation, rejoining her on the sofa. "Our living arrangements are purely for convenience."
"Of course. Of course."
"No, really," Christine insists. "I sing in the opera and living so close…and Erik being my music instructor…well, life is much simpler."
The priest raises an eyebrow.
"Perhaps we should remind my…um…uncle, we are betrothed and plan to be married by the magistrate next week...once the banns period has been satisfied."
"What of a church wedding?"
"The state does not recognize a church wedding," Erik says. "She will be my lawful wife in due time."
"What of God?" Pere Charles asks, directing his question to Christine.
"I should like a marriage blessed by God."
"I could marry you." A melodious laugh escapes his lips. "The chapel is sanctified, I say Mass every morning…the abbot at St. George's Abbey has been very supportive since my retirement from parish duties."
"Erik?" Grabbing his arm, she tries to contain her joy. Oh, if he would only agree. The civil service would be fine…it was a business contract more than a romantic agreement. She knew in her heart of hearts a large affair at St. Madeleine's was out of the question, but the chapel would be lovely.
"Is this what you want?" Erik asks, taking her hand.
"Yes, please."
"Well, I did not expect a wedding to be a part of this journey, but, if the lady wishes it. I am most willing to accommodate her."
"You will still have to be married by the magistrate, but in the eyes of God, this is the ceremony to bind your souls."
"Then so be it," Erik says. "Whatever Christine wants."
Christine throws her arms around his neck and kisses him on the cheek.
"It is settled then," Pere Charles says. "Tomorrow we shall have a wedding."
"There are no banns needed?" Christine's excitement dims. "I recall when I was a girl, posting of banns was required."
"As a family member, I can waive the banns."
Frowning, she reaches back in memory as to the papers she found in the Bible. Shaking her head, she swallows hard before speaking. "There was no certificate of baptism in the papers I found…and you said his mother did not speak of him being baptized." The words come out in a rush, her eyes focusing on the priest in a plea.
The silence in the room is broken only by the crackling of the flames in the fireplace.
Erik breaks the impasse. "What is required of me?"
"In most circumstances, someone not of the faith takes lessons over a period of weeks, then commits to follow the precepts of the Catholic Church – baptism is preferred, of course, but not required."
"What about Baptism?" Christine asks. "If he was in danger of dying, he could be baptized. He could be Catholic and all his sins would be forgiven."
Erik chuckles, "Whatever the rules are, my dear, I do not believe that one applies. In the past perhaps there were times, but not here and now."
"Do you wish to become a Catholic?"
"I cannot honestly say I do," Erik replies.
"You need to tell him about your life."
Erik releases her hand and moves ever so slightly away from her.
"Mlle. Daae, if I may intercede here," Pere Charles says, his voice gentle and calm. "Perhaps Erik has been baptized, if so, there may be a record at the parish office."
"My mother did not keep the certificate," Erik says. "What makes you think she cared enough about my immortal soul to have me baptized?"
The priest looks long and hard at him. "You did not die. Whatever your memories of her. However cruel she may have been, she kept you alive. Did she attend church?"
Turning away from Pere Charles' glare, Erik nods slowly. "She went to Mass every day. When I was old enough to understand where she was going, I asked to join her."
"And?"
"And she just told me to study my Catechism in my room and recite the Lord's Prayer. That I should beg God's forgiveness for whatever it was I did to be such a horrid being." Erik's tone is cold, reciting the words as if they are an oft repeated litany. "What had she done to be so cursed by such a child."
"Oh, Erik," Christine says, tears flooding her blue eyes. Ignoring the stiffening at her touch, she rests her head against his shoulder, stroking his arm. "She was a foolish, mean woman."
"I am not certain all those Masses would excuse her from a prolonged stay in Purgatory," Pere Charles says. "Excuse my bit of Catholic humor. Her sins were not in her past but in her daily actions with you. I am so very sorry for your pain."
"Yes, you said that."
"She is in God's hands now."
"Or the devil's," Christine says with a smirk curving her lips.
"Now you are much loved," the priest says. "Whatever the past, grace has found you. Let us focus on the present. How long has it been since you posted banns at the Mairie?"
"A week. Why?" Erik replies. "I arranged for our marriage to take place at the end of next week."
"Yes, that makes sense then."
"What makes sense?"
Getting up from his chair, Pere Charles walks once again to the credenza where the box of pictures was kept. This time he retrieves an envelope of fine parchment with a seal on a deep blue wax. He hands the letter to Erik before returning to his seat.
Erik cocks his head.
"Go ahead open it…read it."
"What is it, Erik?" Christine asks.
Removing a single sheet of the same quality paper as the envelope, he reads:
My dear Pere Saint-Rien,
Please excuse this manner of communication, were it my choice, I should have introduced myself in person, but since this matter may not affect you at all, I thought a letter would be more appropriate.
My name is Phillippe Comte de Chagny and I have a question to ask of you. Depending upon your reply I may request a personal interview or never contact you again.
My brother informed me he was betrothed to a young woman named Christine Daae. Sadly, he was accosted by a robber or robbers and was killed. Imagine my surprise when I learned quite by happenstance banns were posted with the magistrate regarding her upcoming marriage to one Erik Saint-Rien.
The name seemed vaguely familiar and I recalled a Francois Saint-Rien built a home for my family in Perros. My inquiries found M. Francois Saint-Rien passed away a number of years ago, but there was a son named Charles, a priest, now retired in St. Martin-de-Boscherville. Another son, Edward died. I did learn of a birth record of a son born to Edward Saint-Rien, but the child's name was Emile, not Erik.
Do you know an Erik Saint-Rien?
"How did this reach you?"
"A messenger…who waited for a reply."
"What did you respond?"
"I said no."
"But we had been in touch."
"Ah, but I did not know you then, did I?"
Erik manages a small smile. "I see now we might be cut from the same cloth."
"What does this mean, though?" Christine asks. "If Phillippe went so far as to pay a messenger to deliver a letter like this…well, he is serious about believing you had something to do with Raoul's death."
"And did you?" Pere Charles asks walking to the sideboard holding a carafe of amber liquid and several snifters. Pouring a finger in three of the glasses, he places them on a tray, delivering one each to Erik and Christine, then taking one for himself back to his chair.
After swirling the brandy under his nose he takes a sip. "Armagnac…my favorite." Looking up at the priest he says, "Yes and no."