"What a lovely little town," Adele remarks to Nadir as she looks through the window of their carriage.
Their journey from Paris to St. Martin de Boscherville…and the house Erik told them he and Christine would be visiting is drawing to a close. The sky is still light this late spring day and an air of activity still present. Vegetable stalls offer colorful produce and other small shops have villagers coming and going.
"I am glad the trip has us arriving at a time of day when people are still awake and not sitting down to their evening meal," Nadir says.
"You did send the message we would be arriving."
"Even so, it would be awkward arriving with everyone in their bedclothes," he chuckles.
"Well, I doubt Erik would be one of them…he does love to prowl about at all hours of the night."
"I was more concerned about Christine and the priest. I am no stranger to Erik's proclivities."
"Christine is quite the night owl herself," Adele replies. "The girl has no sense of time or schedules, likely due to the situation with her father."
Nadir frowns. "How so?"
"For most of her young life, she and her father were vagabonds…living on the road…playing at fairs or wherever he could find work playing his violin."
"I had no idea," Nadir says. "I thought she arrived from Sweden and went directly to the Conservatory."
"Hardly, although the classes did give her some structure," Adele smiles. "She is a bit of a wild one…spirited and independent – if quiet. One only notices her will when trying cross it."
"A good match for Erik then."
"Precisely."
"You like structure, I take it," Nadir says.
"Ballet demands it. Running a theater demands it."
"Voice does not?"
"Her voice is naturally glorious…much like Erik's," Adele says. "I will say, however, his discipline with her may be the one element of his proclivities bringing satisfaction to both of them – and one she has embraced. Music. Both of them come alive with music."
"It makes sense then – her attraction to Erik rather than the very dull and proper, albeit most handsome Raoul."
"I suppose so," Adele says. "Erik has traveled quite a bit himself, although often against his will, so he does share that with her as well."
"I met him in Russia…playing his own violin and practicing his magic…throwing his voice, making things disappear…little card tricks."
"He made his living that way?"
"Not entirely…" Nadir says. The sound of a bird flying over the carriage interrupts his words. "Look, an owl. I do not believe I have ever seen one in daylight."
"The Sun is going down," Adele says. "As I understand it, they are night hunters."
"Thus my comment."
"Must have seen some prey."
At that moment, a fluttering of wings and the screech of fussing owls draws their attention to a field filled with the fascinating birds.
"…one…two…four…twenty – the wing-span is so wide," Adele exclaims. "They are literally filling the sky."
"Erik never spoke of where he came from except to speak of the owls that lived in the trees surrounding his house."
"Hibou des marais…short-eared owl My mother once accused me of being some sort of owl changeling. These are not terribly large, but she said what disturbed her were the yellow irises embedded in the black area of a large whitish facial disc. The expression they wear was, to her mind, disturbing and strange – like me in my mask. And, of course, the hooting."
"She thought your voice sounded like an owl hooting?"
"They have a number of vocal inflections – one sounds like a child begging for food – she was very sensitive to sound," he smirked.
"That would almost be funny if I did not know of your mother's cruelty."
"In all fairness, the comments about the owl were actually spoken in humor – such as she was willing to expend on me – her idea of a joke."
"They are common here?" Adele asks.
"Apparently. Now I recall he told me these particular owls are not nocturnal," Nadir says with a smile. "He said many times his mother would come running into the house after having one of them swoop over her when she was in the garden."
"Pity they did not gather her up and make a meal of her, tearing her into little pieces feeding themselves and their babies," Adele mutters.
"Madame Giry! What a horrible thing to say."
"I suspect your umbrage is insincere." An arched brow emphasizing her doubt.
"You are correct," he laughs, "the words coming from your mouth are what took me aback."
"I was raised by a mother who demanded much from me as well," Adele says.
"I am sorry."
"Dance was her dream, but a meeting with a young man who had the temerity to die as a soldier, left her with a young daughter, forcing her to work as a cleaner in the theater."
"So you lived out her dream?"
"I suppose so," Adele says, staring out the window, the field now empty of the birds. "I loved dancing, so much so it destroyed my feet – thus the cane."
"Some might say art is worth the sacrifice."
"Some might."
"In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen." After completing the sign of the cross, Pere Charles can only stare at the crucifix above the chapel altar. What sort of prayer does one offer about murder, if it was murder. Both of them. How can that be? The girl, I can understand. Protecting her father.
Erik's killing his captor a similar circumstance, but what did he mean about participating in acts of cruelty? Was he under duress? His own life at stake? All these things put together would explain his rigidity – physical and mental. An effort to keep from falling apart if touched or spoken to in the wrong way. What a temper he must have. Mlle. Daae must be helping him contain whatever seethes inside him.
His capture upon running away from his mother likely haunts him more than the others. Being captured immediately after – the building of a wall around himself is not surprising. Was he himself any different? Creating a blind spot about his brother's wife?
You thought the child was dead.
"The mother was still alive. Where was my compassion for Edward's wife? What sort of priest was I then? What sort of priest does that make me now?"
You are a sinner just like every other human. Did you think wearing the collar made you immediately pure and free from sin?
"One visit to her house might have made all the difference in the child's life. One act of compassion toward the mother instead of being happy I did not have to deal with her."
A choked cry overwhelms him. "Oh, Lord, forgive me."
"What are you doing here at this hour?" Mme. Marchand says from the chapel door.
Wiping his eyes with the back of his hand, Pere Charles, rises from the prie-dieu. Clearing his throat, he says, "Estelle, did you need something from me?"
"No," the housekeeper replies squinting at him. "This is when I usually clean the chapel…it is the one time of day you do not seem to be praying your Office."
"I am sorry," he says, walking past her toward the door. "I should have considered you."
"It is not a mortal sin, you know, not being perfect."
"What?" he says, turning back around to look at her.
"I heard you talking to yourself and chose to listen instead of leave," she says with a shrug. "I would apologize, but I am not sorry."
Pere Charles grunts a bitter laugh.
"What is so terrible about not visiting M. Edward's wife?" Estelle continues. "The lady never wanted to spend time with us when he was alive. Quite haughty as I recall. Beautiful to be sure, but other than that I wondered what he saw in her."
"He loved her. The emotion is often blind."
"Deaf and dumb as well," she smirks. "I still see nothing wrong with not engaging with her."
"She lied about the baby."
"You did not know that until a week or so ago."
"I should have gone to her…spent time with her after Edward's death. She may not have liked us, but she loved him and he was dead. I could have helped…the boy would not have been made to suffer for something he had no control over."
"The only way to change the past is by living in the present in a better way," she says. "Sitting here feeling sorry for yourself is not going to help either of them."
"I take it you were listening to our conversation in the kitchen."
"I am who I am," she laughs. "Now, I need to clean the chapel. Go be a good uncle."
The chill enveloping her earlier is now replaced by a cloying warmth. Both Erik and Pere Charles torn about what to say or how to react to her admission. Pere Charles made a discreet exit after she revealed the old night of horror. Odd behavior for a priest who must hear such things all the time. Perhaps, not. How many people who kill others take their sin to the confessional?
Dear Erik, true to his own words about himself is helpless. The time spent with him here has shown how truly vulnerable he feels.
"I feel such a fool…you carrying the weight of such a thing."
"I should have told you," she said. "Perhaps it might have helped you with your pain. You might have told me about your life."
"I was afraid you would leave me."
"As if you never gave me other causes to leave you," she laughed, lifting his head to see his face. "As for not knowing how to love – you showed your love just now…worrying about me."
"I think should like to sing," Christine says. "I need to be doing something. Just sitting here is making me anxious."
"Are you certain? How does your throat feel?" he says, getting to his feet.
"You mean the chocolate? I suppose a drink of lemon water would clear any phlegm."
A pitcher of lemonade sits on the countertop. Erik smiles. "The honey has settled on the bottom, but I think if I stir it, a drink of this might serve to clear your pallet."
"Mme. Marchand is like a fairy godmother. When did she have the chance to prepare this?"
"Since she is a fairy godmother, perhaps she just waved a magic wand." Pouring each of them a glass, he nods toward the door. "Pere Charles told me there is a music room…if you wanted to practice."
"Can we sing a duet?"
Erik raises an eyebrow. "What did you have in mind?"
"Oui, c'est toi que j'aime."
"Faust."
"Yes."
"Well, best drink the lemonade, then we shall run some scales to warm up. I hope I can remember the words."
"I have no doubt you recall the entire opera and can sing all the roles. Finishing her drink, she takes Erik's glass, rinses both of them in the sink leaving them on the drying rack. "Shall we?"
An ebony grand piano dominates the study taking up perhaps a third of the room. There is a deliberate closeness to the décor – wallpaper the color of champagne, three plush divans in a slightly darker cream color surround the magnificent instrument. End tables of rosewood each holds an oil lamp with a fringed shade. Next to the fireplace stands a parsons table holding a selection of cut glass bottles filled with amber-colored liquid. Two long windows draped with deep brown brocade drapes look out on the street.
"Oh, my, what a lovely room," Christine says. "I feel as though I am being hugged…and look at the piano."
"I wonder who played," Erik mutters.
"We shall have to ask," Christine says, walking to the instrument, running her hand along the length of the lid. "I must hear you play."
Lifting the lid, Erik props it up, then sits down on the bench and opens the fallboard. Resting his hands in his lap, he takes a deep breath. After a long moment, he plays a series of chords running from one end of the keyboard to the other.
"It is in tune."
"Are you surprised?"
"Yes. Pianos, if not used…or even if they are used, often need tuning."
"Pere Charles?"
Erik nods.
"He is a good, kind man."
Erik swallows hard. "So it seems. Now let us run some scales."
After a few minutes, Christine stops. "I want to sing."
"Very well. But if I hear any sort of strain, I will stop you."
Christine sings:
Sa main, sa douce main m'attire!
Je suis libre! Il est là!
Je suis libre! Il est là!
Je l'entends, je le vois!
Oui, c'est toi, je t'aime,
oui, c'est toi, je t'aime,
Les fers, la mort même
ne me font plus peur!
Tu m'as retrouvé; tu m'as retrouvé,
Me voilà sauvée, Me voilà sauvée!
C'est toi, je suis sur ton coeur!
Erik sings:
Oui, c'est moi, je t'aime,
Oui, c'est moi, je t'aime,
Malgré l'effort même du démon moqueur,
Je t'ai retrouvée; je t'ai retrouvée,
Te voilà sauvée; te voilà sauvée,
C'est moi! Viens, viens, sur mon coeur!*
Nadir helps Adele from the coach, making certain Isis' carrier is with their suitcases. Satisfied all their belongings are intact, he pays the driver. "Thank you for a speedy and relatively comfortable ride."
"My pleasure, Monsieur, I travel this route quite often and know where the worst potholes are." Tossing his head back in laughter, the driver snaps the reins and the black horse whinnies and moves away from the couple.
"He certainly forgot one or two," Adele sniffs, straightening her black gabardine dress, brushing off the road dust acquired during the journey.
"If we happen to secure him for the return trip, he will likely recall my kind words and the extra francs I gave him."
"Or he will think you are a fool and simply retrace the route that brought us here."
Nadir laughs.
"What is so funny?"
"You. I do not recall having such enjoyable conversations in many years," Nadir says. "Yours and Erik's contempt for life is so amusing."
"You are mad." Picking up the carrier, she says to Isis, "He is mad, but charming. I think we should keep him around."
"I do hope the cat agrees," he says lifting up their suitcases. "I never thought I should need the approval of a cat, but I also never thought I would want it."
Stopping on the path, Adele says, "Somehow I was expecting a cottage, this is more of a manor."
"Erik is an architect and I believe his father was a well…it would seem the entire family was skilled."
Both of them take in the two-story brick structure covered in vines. With the exception of a pair of windows on the lower level, the other windows show no lighting.
"I wonder if anyone is watching us," Nadir says, starting to walk again.
"You mean Erik?"
"He does have exceptional hearing. I would expect him to jump out at us from behind a tree rather than passively watch."
Nearing the end of the curved walkway, Adele stops once more.
"What?"
"Listen. They are singing."
Before he makes it through the door of the chapel, Pere Charles stops, and touches Estelle lightly on the arm. "Do you hear it? Whatever their sins, the Lord has certainly blessed them. I do not recall ever hearing anything so beautiful."
Cocking her head, the housekeeper, walks into the foyer. A bright smile fills her face. "Angels singing. Oh, Pere, they are truly angels."
*Translation:
Christine
His hand, his sweet hand attracts me!
I am free! He is here!
I am free! He is here!
I hear him, I see him!
Yes, it is you; I love you,
Yes, it is you; I love you,
The irons, death itself
No longer make me afraid.
You have found me; you have found me,
See, I am saved; see, I am saved!
It is you, I am next to your heart!
Erik:
Yes, it is I, I love you,
Yes, it is I, I love you,
Despite the effort of even the demon mocker
I have found you again, I have found you,
See, you are saved, you are saved,
It is I! Come, come, next to my heart!
NOTE: This is a portion of the duet from Gounod's Faust Erik and Christine sing in the Phantom of the Opera television mini-series with Charles Dance and Teri Polo, based on Arthur Kopit's book.