CHAPTER FOUR

"Well," said Erik quietly. "I'm overwhelmed."

Christine was flushed and excited. She was hopping from one foot to the other. She was so dazzled, she did not know what to say.

Ron Nangle, the theatre manager, faced them. "You two help this place survive. I'm very grateful about that. But it's a sin to keep your own talent under wraps! You simply cannot do that anymore. And you are both such old veterans."

"My wife is," said Erik, "but I'm not. I'm just her staid teacher, and I've done soirees for friends. I don't perform on a stage, to hundreds of people I don't know! That's just not me."

They were at Hopetoun Lane Theatre. This was their favourite place to go. Reg had a private parlour for the group, where they all loved to congregate after the shows.

Tonight they'd been enjoying supper in that cosy, plush room. They'd been just about to leave. But then Ron had ambushed them, and delivered this heart-stopping proposition.

Christine was extremely flattered. She knew Erik did not know which way to swing. But she was hoping, against hope, that he would say yes!

"I hear you sing in this room, regularly, when I walk past," said Ron, drawing on his cigar. "I don't know why you're not on my stage. And now… we are having this variety concert."

Ron took another sip of wine. Everyone was agog. They were hanging onto Ron's words, while glancing covertly at Erik and Christine.

"I do believe," he laughed, "I have a spot reserved for you two. I didn't ask you. But I am asking you now."

Everybody gasped.

"It will bring me great pleasure to present you both. Before you know it, you'll be the very toast of London."

Christine glanced at Erik. His eyelids were lowered. He was turning away, and his expression was of weary resignation.

"I could try," said Erik finally.

"And you are, I understand, a composer?"

"Yes!" said Erik brightly. He seemed more enthusiastic now. "I am."

"When other patrons go home, I do like to listen to you." Ron smiled. "If it's your songs you've been singing in here… I would like you to get them on stage. They should be heard by the whole world!"

Erik bowed. "Thank you. I will not exactly grace the stage, but I will do my best. For my wife, and for you."

Ron smiled ingratiatingly. "Is the answer yes?" he asked.

"It is," sighed Erik. "All right."

He and Ron shook hands. Everyone started crowding around Erik and Christine, delighted. They were all offering helpful advice.

"I don't know why it's taken so long," said Nettie. "We'll be so proud!"

"I can hardly wait!" squealed Patricia.

"This calls for a huge celebration," said Reg. "Especially since, Erik… I consider I discovered you."

Christine smiled. It was true Reg had heard him singing at a hotel, and invited him to sing at a party. But this was another matter altogether.

Reg began to open his most expensive whiskey. The whole room was aflutter.

"We'd better start picking a dress for you," said Madge to Christine. "Rose pink? Do you think that is your best colour?"

"Do you have your songs ready, Erik?" asked Iggy. "Or are you going to write something new?"

"Yes, something new. I'll write some songs that ask, why am I being stuck out here? Ah, bugger it!"

Everyone laughed.

"Better throw in some cheerful ones as well!" said Madge stalwartly. "Romantic ones about Christine. The two of you strolling in a peaceful meadow… very much in love…"

"Write a song," said Max, "that shows how excited you are. Because you are, aren't you, old boy?"

Erik smiled. He looked away. "I won't deny it," he said. "I am."

Later, at home, both Erik and Christine began to have reservations.

They had company. Nettie and Patricia had come round. Erik was in the workroom with Iggy. The boy was assisting him with his latest automatons.

Some people said he should sell those toys. But Erik was happy to do them for charity. As he polished and sanded them off, he got a satisfaction he never would have gotten if they were sold. Charity was the way.

Christine and Nettie were enjoying some cakes. Patricia was in the workroom with the boys. She liked to show off, and make out she was better than Iggy. Christine knew it was just her trying to keep pace with her older cousin.

Erik was fond of them both. Christine knew if they argued, he would just smile to himself.

"I know," said Nettie darkly, "why you are a bit concerned."

Christine imagined it. She and Erik on the stage… and a shadow crossing them.

Why couldn't she shake off that feeling?

"Raoul is gone," said Nettie. "I know you're worried about him. But why should he hassle you now? The chaps gave him a huge fright."
Christine smiled tightly. She thought back to those days. "Not enough."

"Do you truly think he will?" asked Nettie, more seriously. "We do have the evidence that he attempted murder, and he knows it. So why would he even set foot in England?"

"I can't help thinking that he'll get us. Yes, I know that Erik, Reg and Max frightened him. But anything could happen."

"Oh… Christine." Nettie grasped her hand. "If you two were charged, don't you think Erik would find a way out?"

"Of course he would. But I don't want to be locked in a prison cell again. What is more, I don't want any more shipwrecks. Or any of the other horrors we had to endure. Erik is clever, but I don't want the poor man to have to go through that all over again."

Nettie sighed.

"You have been through a lot, I know."

"Erik deserves to rest. We don't want to set ourselves up in yet another country," said Christine tearfully. "We've done enough of that."

For a moment, they were both silent. Then, they heard Patricia's high voice.

"Give that back to me, Iggy! Give that back to me right now!"

"Oh, Patricia, you said you were…"

"You're worse than your brother!"

Nettie smiled. "Better go and do something."

Eventually, Erik walked into the kitchen. "I really could do with some coffee. These two have been pretty loud… haven't they?"

"Not me!" said Patricia indignantly.

He giggled, and sat down. Patricia and Iggy queued up for more cakes. Christine served them, then sent them off to amuse themselves with Erik's organ.

She spoke to a quiet audience of two adults. "If we go on stage," she said, "we'll draw attention to ourselves. Raoul would have spread horrid gossip about us. People might know who we are!"

"You think so?" asked Erik. "As we told you, Reg has good friends in the police force… that's why they keep their hands off him, and his comrades. They're not likely to write to France and ask the gendarmes to come and get us."

"But you never know! And let's face it… we're distinctive. A tenor who is tall, masked and has a French accent… his soprano wife who is short and blonde and Swedish. What if the gendarmes come?" she whispered, terrified.

"I realize," said Erik, "that there is a risk. "We'll be up before the public. We will no longer be living in our quiet anonymous corner."

They were all silent, as they drank coffee.

"However," he said, "I don't want to spend the rest of my life hiding. I have thought about this. And the notion of getting out on stage at last… and displaying my talents… and actually having an audience… is too tempting."

Christine was silent. She was almost feeling that way, too.

She watched Nettie get up. Their friend excused herself, going to join the young ones. Christine knew she was doing it out of discretion.

"I never thought I would get the chance," said Erik. "And I don't want this to go by."

"Well, I'll admit something," said Christine. "I do want this for you. It was unfair when I was out there, getting all the glory, and you were in the shadows. You should have been out there years ago."

He heaved a long, lascivious, wistful sigh.

"You're right. No longer will I be watching forlornly from the dark. This time I'll finally get the spotlight. I will almost feel as if I'm normal."

Christine smiled. She felt the glow emanating from him. It was what he had always wanted, after all.

And she could not resist, either. They would do it.

Christine felt as if everything was off balance. Her world tilted crazily.

The night had come. She did not know how she could contain her excitement. In just over an hour, they were due at that theatre.

Erik was shrugging on his frock coat, and fastening his bow tie. He looked so handsome. His silky suit was cut with precise style, and enhanced every contour of his elegant body. His hair was macassared down. He even looked confident.

She put a hand to her breast. Her satin gown felt very nice against her skin. Her cleavage was daringly exposed, and she could feel the cool air intimately.

Erik lifted his mask. "I think it's ready," he said, turning it in and out.

This one was newly made. It was based on his copper beauty, but made of a very fine, thin leather.

The leather adhered neatly to his own face. It moved as he sang. It even fitted perfectly over his own lips. Nobody would know it was not his face moving, and not his lips singing.

This mask was beautifully lifelike. And yes, it was the face he had always wanted to have.

He put on the mask, as his last accoutrement. He held out his arm. She took it, and they promenaded out the door.

The suspense was great. Christine did feel nervous. But she also felt tremulously, overwhelmingly happy. She only wished that this night could last forever.

Erik felt the stage, solid beneath his feet. He could see the elegant cornices.

He could see the graceful sweep of the dress circle. The way the exquisite little theatre was arranged in voluptuous curves, with the dome-shaped ceiling pointing to heaven.

It was not a patch on the Paris Opera House, which he'd helped design. But he loved this place greatly. He'd made so many happy memories here. And now, he hoped to make this place truly his own.

And if it was for just one moment… that was fine.

For a moment he thought the audience would run. He was used to that. People running from him in hatred. But somehow, they didn't.

They sat in their seats, waiting. They were expectant for him to create something beautiful. To set their spirits soaring, and make their night memorable.

And as he sang, everything changed.

The atmosphere was extraordinary. The exultation reached to the rafters. Everyone was seduced.

Women cried. Men gawped in admiration. The audience were so thrilled by his talent.

And then, Christine walked on from the other side of the stage. His lady, who had brought him to this point. And she looked utterly stunning.

She wore a rose-coloured dress that bared her splendid shoulders, and almost her creamy breasts. Her hair was free and flowing. She looked at him with brimming eyes. He could see the delight in her face. And the pride she took in him, her husband.

Her sublime voice reached him. Performing one of his own compositions- heard on a great stage at last.

It was exquisitely private out here. Just the two of them.

It was the most uncanny experience. The stage had always been, to him, the most personal space. It was where he'd always ventured after everyone had gone home. To dream, and mourn for what his life was not.

And somehow, it still was. Still a place to dream. And create his own reality.

There were hundreds of people watching. But it didn't feel that way at all.

He grasped Christine's hands, and their voices rose magnificently. In a way his privacy was being invaded. But he let it be. Every bit of it. He just let it be violated. He just let the audience see every inch of his soul.

By the end of it, he was absolutely ecstatic. The moment was breathtaking.

They took several bows. Christine was shaking with excitement. He felt that as he grasped her hand.

In the wings they embraced. "Oh, Christine, I'm so proud of you, love," he said. "Your pitch, projection, diction, everything… perfect. You couldn't have done any better than that."

Christine beamed. She still liked to get words of praise from her teacher!

They walked, elated, into the green room. Ron Nangle patted them both on the back. "I knew you'd be the stars," he whispered. "I knew you'd bring the house down."

As they settled between admiring cast members, Erik had a great feeling of tranquility. A sense of duty done.

So, he'd realized this dream. Which he'd cherished for so many years, in his heart of hearts… and thought would never happen. Ever.

Christine felt so secure and satisfied. She sat there contentedly, in the arms of her angel, as the show continued.

They'd taken a bow on stage together, and shared the thunderous applause. Out there in the light.

She could rest now. Finally they'd faced the public as lovers. And no matter what happened, she would always treasure this.

A young woman sat about halfway down the stalls. She was very pretty. Lustrous brown hair, dark green eyes, and a petal-soft face.

She had only one escort. Her maid, Esme. Other than that, Beatrice was completely alone in the city. But then, she did tend to keep to herself.

Beatrice had very much enjoyed Erik and Christine's performance. So far, they'd been the best in the concert. She wondered if the next act would be anywhere near as good.

Ah, the girl. With that long, flowing golden hair. And the man… so tall and imposing. Beatrice had found them so romantic.

His features were perfect as if cut from glass. She had admired his strong shoulders, his confident stance, and his elegant movements. He was a lot better than she'd thought he'd be.

She knew the perfection was the result of a mask. But it didn't seem to matter. It would have been very, very easy to fall in love with him.

And she was sure a lot of the ladies here had already.

It didn't matter that his hair was snowy white. It didn't matter that his handsomeness was an illusion. The heart, beneath, was obviously a beautiful one.

Beatrice shook herself. There was only one man she was supposed to be thinking of. And he was the man who had sent her here.

Raoul de Chagny.

All too soon, the concert was over. The whole cast assembled for the curtain call. Beatrice could see that couple on the left.

The soprano gazed at her tenor with adoration. Well they were, after all, husband and wife offstage. They came forward, and took their bows.

They got rapturous applause. Beatrice did believe they got the loudest. This variety concert had proven to be immensely popular, and they were certainly the stars.

Once it was over, Beatrice cuddled her muff around herself. She walked out, lost in the crowd. Esme trotted at her heels.

"All right, ma'am?" asked Esme. She was eager and helpful. Beatrice was glad she'd brought her to England.

"Absolutely. Just get me some coffee with cream, thank you."

Beatrice cooled her heels in the foyer, relaxing. She did not mingle with the crowd. But she was enjoying herself, nevertheless.

She could see that tall singer and his wife. They were surrounded by a gaggle of admirers. "We can't believe you took the stage," said one.

"We needed some persuasion," said the tenor, chuckling. "But Mr Nangle managed to pull my wife out of retirement… and get my old bones on there, somehow."

"It is beautifully obvious," said one lady dreamily, "that you are so, so in love."

The couple smiled quietly. They seemed lost in the spell of the night. Their performance was obviously the ultimate celebration of that love.

They accepted more congratulations. Eventually they headed into a private function room. Shortly thereafter, Esme returned with her coffee. Beatrice sipped it, glad of the boost.

"I heard the gossip about that tenor," said Esme. "Guilliame, isn't it? Guilliame Labrosse?"

"Yes, that's his name." Beatrice nodded, and smiled.

That was his real name. It was listed in the programme. But he had to hide, since he was wanted for a serious crime.

So now, he never publicly used the name he was once known by. To his closest friends, he was Erik. That was a name he'd always preferred over Guilliame, his birth name. What a pity that now he couldn't use his favourite name much.

"He has a great voice," Esme continued. "But under that mask, apparently… he's horribly deformed. Looks like the devil himself."

"Mmm. How tragic."

"Well, he's the toast of Hopetoun Lane Theatre now. He'll reach dizzying heights. And just think, ma'am, you are among the ones who heard him first!"

"He'll go far." Beatrice smirked, and looked into the distance. "Even though he's a late starter. London will be his, before he knows it."

"He might even conquer the stage in Milan," said Esme. "Or Paris."

"Yes, even Paris," said Beatrice. "Who knows?"

The carriage was finally in the driveway. It was horribly late. It was four in the morning.

Christine yawned. She nestled into Erik's shoulder, and pulled her cosy quilt further over them. The carriage bumped as they finally cleared the gate.

"Well," said Erik, smiling, "it's done. Don't know how I chatted to all those people. All that talk about their aunties, their babies, their favourite music, and all that. But I did, somehow or other."

"Oh, you were splendid!" laughed Christine. "You are better at these things than you think."

He smiled glibly. "Thank you, Christine. I felt like a freak, like a fool… but I think I gradually came to warm to it."

As they arrived home, Christine still felt a sense of unreality about the night. Especially in this silence. Their friends, old and new, had kept them partying hard.

There had been a catered function for the cast. That was their chance to enjoy a post-mortem with fellow performers, who had also invited a lot of friends and relatives. Then there were the crew, management, and backers of the theatre. Many had wanted to speak to the Labrosses.

And then there had been the function in their own private parlour. Reg, and the gang, had wined and dined them till the wee hours. They were both dizzy from it.

She gazed out at the new-fallen snow.

Had it really happened?

Well, it had. It was embedded in the memories of hundreds of people now. As extraordinary as it seemed, it had occurred.

She gazed at Erik. He had a secret smile on his face.

There was the chilly walk across the yard. They grasped hands closely. Then finally, they were at the front door.

The servants were off duty now. Erik let her in. Christine stood in the vestibule, gradually feeling her temperature return to normal.

Erik sighed. He put his hat and coat on the hooks. And even his mask. He rubbed his face, glad to be rid of it.

They tramped into the kitchen. "Time for a coffee?" asked Christine.

Erik made coffee with cream and lavish whiskey. Christine sat down, trying to digest all that had transpired.

"Shall we do it again?" she asked.

"I don't know, Christine."

Christine took a sip of the good, strong liquid. She began to feel at home again.

She gazed at Erik and smiled. He had stoked up the fire. It was quite cosy in here.

"Where are those cakes that you made, earlier today?" asked Erik. "I think there were some left."

"Erik!" Christine laughed. "After all those marzipan slices, and pastries, and chocolate truffles, you still want cakes?"

"Why not?" He poked around in the cupboard. "I love your cooking."

After they had their repast, Christine sought to undo her dress. "It is getting hot in here."

"I agree."

It was rather cooler in the corridor. He led her out of the servants' quarters. Their house was not old. All the same, it had a certain ambience about it at night.

Once, Christine had wondered about it being haunted. If so, it was a benevolent presence. One who guided them every day.

As she laid on her smooth pillow, she thought of everything. She closed her eyes. She felt Erik gently breathing on her.

He sang to her, softly and sweetly.

"You light me from within…"

"As you do me," she murmured faintly.

Erik's lips met hers.

She tasted the wine on his lips. And the sweetmeats. And the satisfaction.

Soon, he was curled up next to her. And as she embraced him, she felt the exhilaration all over again.

It became inextricably entwined with her old fantasies. What if there really was a man under the stage? Some strange man, hiding in the opera house?

What if he wasn't an angel, but a man? What if he was a real, live, pulsing man… who might kiss her? And make love? Who would make her feel how she did when she touched herself, when no one could see, at night?

That had seemed dark and sinful at the time. But she'd done it. And there had been a man, of course. It was Erik. Everything was Erik.

His skin was warm on her. So were his lips. She smoothed back his hair. As she held him, she heard him uttering the lyrics he had sung on stage.

"You were forged in warmth and splendour

Just as perfect as the rose

Made for mankind to adore

So illumed in song and prose."

He stroked her hair. As he did, he murmured more of the song.

"When they tried to take your virtue

And they threatened your pure heart

I couldn't let them hurt you

So I went to play my part."

Christine smiled secretly. She reached for his cock, and kissed it. Then, she took it into her mouth.

She drank him, deeply. He howled with pleasure.

Then she kissed his lips, with his taste on them.

She explored his nipples. She buried her nose in him. His skin excited her so much.

Then, she separated his cheeks. Her finger went into his arse. She murmured into his warm skin.

"When evil was pulsating

You heard my silent plea

For there I saw you waiting

To lay down your life for me."

As she sang those lyrics again, she kept up another rhythm… with her finger. As his fluids rose for the second time, he screamed.

Christine put her lips around him, and was just in time to drink. He tasted of genoese fancies. And marzipan. And nougat.

When it was over, he sighed deeply. "You give me a bit of a run round, don't you."

She giggled.

"Only because I am voracious."

"No… come here."

He reached out his arms, and she went to them. She sighed.

"Tonight was so triumphant."

"I wanted you to be queen of the stage. But I never dreamed I would be king next to you."

"And I'm so proud of you," she whispered.

He stroked her soft hair. Then she felt him grabbing her arse. Then his lips were teasing her breasts.

She sighed. She knew what he was going to do.

Sure enough, he got to the soft skin of her tummy. Then he got lower still. And then, he placed a finger inside her.

Christine groaned.

The pleasure was just beginning.

He knew every spot. He was such a master of creating sublimity. And his fingers were so long… and elegant… and strong… and dextrous.

She groaned.

"Oh, my God…"

Then, when he'd got her warmed up, he applied his tongue. His tongue was even better. Strong, and sensitive…

That damn tongue. It made her lose control.

She almost giggled.

She groaned, and pushed. She entirely lost control. Day and night seemed fused. Her dreamland came.

An image rose before her. Of she and Erik on stage. And then, somehow, beginning to ascend.

Soaring. Flying. Rising through the roof. And reaching the heavens and the stars.

"Like that?" Erik murmured.

She laid there, helpless. Then, she wound her arms around his neck.

"I'm a mess," she murmured.

"So am I."

They laughed.

They laid like that for a while, cooling down. Then, they began the slow ritual of brushing hair, washing, and stoking the fire for the night.

Erik laid waiting in the bed for her.

"It is done," he yawned.

"Yes. It is done."

They snuggled up, and quietly went to sleep.

Not far away, Beatrice sat by the window. She could not sleep. She'd returned from the theatre long ago. But after Esme had helped her into bed, her mind had stayed active.

She could not stop thinking of Erik and Christine. No doubt they were celebrating. Those theatre people… they'd stay up till dawn, no doubt.

Beatrice sighed, and gazed around her comfortable room. She must stop thinking about how the couple had moved her. About how Erik wasn't anything like she'd thought.

Raoul had sent her here to do a job. And yes, she would do it. For him.

Don't forget to check out Erik and Christine's backstory /HerVirtue