

Costumes and Filigree

A Novel of the Phantom of the Opera

Dayna Stevenson

Copyright Dayna Stevenson

Smashwords Edition

Cover Art by Kamil Jadczak

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Chapters

Chapitre Un: Le Voix

Chapitre Deux: Le Apparition

Chapitre Trois: Le Enseignement du Ange

Chapitre Quatre: Les Directeurs Nouveaus

Chapitre Cing: Le Vicomte de Chagny

Chapitre Six: Dans Son Vestiaire

Chapitre Sept: La Notoriété

Chapitre Huit: Le Vérité du Ange

Chapitre Neuf: Christine a un Plan Astucieux

Chapitre Dix: Le Masque

Chapitre Onze: Ce qui Se Trouvait Dessous

Chapitre Douze: Les Quelques Jours Suivants

Chapitre Treize: Le Retour á la Surface

Chapitre Quatorze: Christine Renie le Récit du Enlèvement

Chapitre Quinze: Les Fraises et le Filigree

Chapitre Seize: Les Conséquences

Chapitre Dix-Sept: Las Incertitudes

Chapitre Dix-Huit: La Attaque de Buquet

Chapitre Dix-Neuf: La Infidélité du Vicomte

Chapitre Vingt: Le Suicide Manqué de Christine

Chapitre Vingt-et-Un: La Madeleine

Chapitre Vingt-Deux: La Beauté Importe Plus

Chapitre Vingt-Trois: Le Anniversaire Triste

Chapitre Vingt-Quatre: John 11:44

Chapitre Vingt-Cinq: Un Conversion et un Contusion

Chapitre Vingt-Six: Abandonner le Ange

Chapitre Vingt-Sept: Christine Lit la Bible

Chapitre Vingt-Huit: Le Enlèvement

Chapitre Vingt-Neuf: Le Décision de Christine

Chapitre Trente: De des Statues et des Salons

Chapitre Trente-et-Un: Les Fenêtres dans Enfer

Chapitre Trente-Deux: Christine Écrit une Lettre

Chapitre Trente-Trois: La Accalmie avant le Orage

Chapitre Trente-Quatre: Idomeneo

Chapitre Trente-Cing: Le Duel

Chapitre Trente-Six: Ensemble à la Fin

# Chapitre Un: Le Voix

Christine Daaé sat down heavily on the old, creaking stool in front of her dressing table and rested her head in her arms. A sigh escaped her lips as she felt the strained muscles in her limbs shake, as if unable to finally relax after such a trying performance, even though hours had passed since the curtains had closed. Her gypsy costume felt damp against her back, and she thanked the gods that its dark color obscured the appearance of sweat. Even though her part was minor—merely a member of the chorus—the dances accompanying Carlotta's arias in _Carmen_ were exhausting. And since the diva had been throwing more fits than usual, there had not been much chance to practice. But even so, Christine had done much worse than the other chorus girls. She had thoroughly destroyed the song "La Cloche a Sonné," hitting multiple wrong notes, and then she stretched a muscle too far in one of the dances. The ballet mistress, Madame Giry, had not criticized her out loud, but her expression clearly stated that she felt Christine wasn't trying—that she could do much better. But Christine thought she was trying as hard as she could.

She had heard the other chorus girls whispering about her, about how she didn't belong at the Opera Garnier—her voice just wasn't good enough. And a rumor was circling that when the Garnier came under new management in a few weeks, a third of the chorus would be cut to save money—and she was certainly part of the bottom third, both in talent and in popularity with the management. She would never be able to make her father's dream come true. She could feel tears of frustration welling up behind her eyes; no matter how hard she tried to hold them back, they still threatened to spill forth onto her pale cheeks and soak the sleeves of her gown.

She glanced around to make sure that there was no one else in the chorus dressing room. The last thing she needed was for one of the meaner chorus rats to see her crying. But it was late at night, and she was alone.

Forcing the tears back, she reached for her street clothes and proceeded to change out of her costume, regretfully viewing the spots of perspiration on the bodice and tossing it into a corner. When she picked up her own dress, made of ugly brown wool, her heart sank even lower. It was horribly plain in comparison to the sequins and embroidery of her costume; no matter how itchy and abrasive it was, it felt so glamorous to wear such beautiful things and pretend that she was not quite so poor. When she got home, she would tell Mamma that she wanted new dresses. She knew they couldn't afford it, but perhaps she could persuade Mamma to take in a little extra seamstress work. She was sure Mamma would do it; the woman never denied her anything.

She shouldn't be so unhappy, she knew; she had a fairly good situation, for a chorus girl. Her wage was pathetic, but she was paid a little more than the other girls for taking on the duties of both the chorus and the ballet. It was insufferably difficult and time-consuming to hold down both positions, but the extra money was desperately needed. Still, her wage was more than the average Swedish peasant girl could expect; it would almost be enough to get by on if she could control herself enough not to spend it all on trinkets and cheap jewelry that made her feel less poor.

She fingered the edge of one sleeve, studying the pattern of rosemary sewn into the wool. It kept her warm, she supposed. That was all the good that could be said about it. She'd never had a nice dress in her entire life. Even when she'd been little, she'd been forced to wear cheap, ugly things. It wasn't fair—her father had been the most talented violinist in the entire world. They should have been swimming in money, not scrounging for coins on street corners.

It hurt her to remember those days, and she forcefully pushed the memory away. It was painful to think of her poverty, and even more painful to think about her father. How she would sit at his feet for hours, and he would play song after song for her as the waves crashed against the cliffs in the distance....

With a sigh, she pulled the ornaments out of her hair and stared at the picture of her father visible in an open drawer of the vanity. She couldn't stand to look at it often—to realize how much she had disappointed him. What a failure she was. It was better to forget him entirely.

But tonight her eyes sought the faded daguerreotype of their own accord, forcing her to face her shame and guilt. _Oh Father,_ she thought miserably, _how will I ever learn to sing, as you always assured me I could?_ Her father's eyes, a light grey in the colorless photograph, bored into her, cold and condemning. Turning away, she thought to herself, _Why am I not worthy of the Angel's presence? Of his guidance?_

His voice echoed in her ears, from a distant memory, its deep quality unaffected by the hoarseness that reduced it to a mere whisper: "Fear not, child, and do not mourn my passing—whether I go to Heaven or Niflheim, I shall petition the gods to send the Angel of Music to you. I promise." Those were the last words he had ever spoken.

But it had been years, and no Angel had ever appeared. What did it mean? Did her father never reach the Angel? Or did the Angel not deem her worthy of his guidance? She had tried praying to Bragi, god of poetry, and Freya, goddess of love and beauty, but neither had answered her pleas to aid her voice.

She was no longer trying to hold back her tears. Openly sobbing, Christine put her head forward onto the dressing table and wished that she would just die. But even then, she wouldn't ever find her father in the endless abyss of Niflheim. The souls of the Underworld spent eternity wandering through the dreary, never-ending mists, lonely, lost, never seeing their loved ones again.

The only way to avoid such a fate was to die in glorious battle, when the Valkyries would carry your soul to Valhalla—where endless feasting awaited those lucky enough to die in the name of the gods. But Christine didn't have a chance at attaining this highest honor, and neither had her father. She was condemned to exist forever in meaningless torment, without her father ever beside her again. This was perhaps the worst thing about her faith in her father's Scandinavian gods; but somehow she couldn't bring herself to abandon them for the hope of Heaven in Christianity. Many of the memories she had of her father were of his stories of the Norse gods. She wanted to believe that she would rejoice in the clouds, united with her father forever. But it wasn't true. And even if it were, it would break her father's heart if she discarded the beliefs he held so dear!

As she contemplated the terrible eternity that awaited her, she began to shake and cried all the harder. It was so frightening to envisage the endless wandering, the constant sorrow, the torture of an intangible form; and it would last _forever_. The thought of time without end, and such terrible loneliness....

She fell to the floor, sobbing, torn between the two fears, and wished she could just be blotted out of existence.

Erik sat down at the bench of his pipe organ, rubbing his hands together to warm them against the cold, damp air of the cave, and wondered what he should play. He flipped through a thick stack of sheet music, watching the titles go by—Schumann's _Fantasie Op. 17_ ; Beethoven's _Appassionata_ ; Chopin's _Prelude Op. 45_ ; Brahms, Bach, Haydn, Handel, Debussy, Mozart—and felt no inclination toward any of it. He didn't feel like playing. He thought about working on his own opera, _Don Juan Triumphant_ , but that appealed to him even less.

He thought for a moment about blaming it on fatigue or illness and going to bed, but he knew the real cause, and that a night's rest, or even a fortnight's rest, wouldn't make it any better: after a lifetime of complete devotion to music, locked away in the caverns below even the deepest cellars of the opera house, his passion was dwindling. Though his internment was voluntary, his cavern seemed much less like a haven now then it had when he had first sought refuge from the world and its cruelty.

He turned to look at his austere home, consisting of a few old, unwanted pieces of furniture to hold his instruments and books of music, providing no welcoming feeling against the cold, dark setting of the underground lake that marked the boundary of his dwelling, and felt his spirits sink even further. Much as he hated and shunned the world for its intolerance, its persecution, it was almost worse to be alone—no matter how safe it was.

As he was thinking, his hand raised of its own accord to touch the mask that concealed the right half of his face, and he flinched at the feeling of the porcelain under his fingers—an unwelcome reminder of what he was. He forced his hand to move down and rest against the seat of the organ bench, thinking bitterly to himself that even the loneliest hell was better than the torment he had endured at the hands of mankind.

Erik glanced again at the pile of sheet music, trying to force himself to play something, anything, to keep these depressing thoughts at bay, but the idea made him sick. All the musical talent and knowledge in the world didn't make a bit of difference if there was no one to share it with. He wasn't wanted—wasn't needed—by one living soul. _Existence without meaning_ , he thought to himself, _even with the sweetest music to mask its brackish taste, is still a poison._

He shoved the music away and cast his eyes bitterly around the dank hole in which he lived—his cave wasn't a haven anymore. It was a prison.

In the minutes that followed, as he stared despondently at the pages of music, he slowly became aware of a sound—a very faint sound. At first he paid no attention; sounds often drifted down through the pipes and shafts to torment him. But after a moment, he realized that it was a girl crying. The sound resonated with his despair, and he continued to listen, contemplating the world's cruelty. He wondered who the girl was—a seamstress, a chorus girl, perhaps a patron—and what had happened to her to make her cry.

As he sat, the sounds of her sobs deepening his own bitterness about life, a tiny, unsure thought appeared in the back of his mind; it was an absurd impulse, and he pushed it away. He couldn't help her. He couldn't help anyone.

But as he kept listening, the sound of her sobs, so forlorn, so disconsolate, tugged at his heart. The very least he could do was go see if the girl was all right, even if he couldn't help. But if he could... To be able to have helped one person—even if it was over a trivial, insignificant matter—would give his life a meaning that it had never possessed.

The impulse strengthened into a desire, and he stood, secured a candle from a nearby table—for it was dark in the caverns day or night—and made his way up the tunnels towards the sound.

Christine couldn't stop the tears as they coursed down her cheeks, and she curled into a ball to warm herself against the freezing floorboards. She was worthless and a failure. She wished that she could just die. _Please, gods, please, just let me die._

Then, suddenly, like a lifeline in an abysmal gale, a soft voice broke through her torment.

It was singing—singing an aria from an opera she did not know. She could not even recognize the language, but the voice was so beautiful that her fears melted away, and she felt a strange comfort settle within her chest; for the slightest breadth of an instant, she could swear she had seen a glimpse of the eternity that awaited her, and it did not frighten her at all. It was warm, and comforting. An image of her father flashed before her eyes, and she heard his deep, quiet voice:

"Christine."

And suddenly the vision of her father was gone. She felt normal again, and yet strangely not. The touch of Heaven was no longer there, but she still had the inexplicable comfort within the depths of her soul. The voice was still singing its seraphic notes, and after she had calmed down, she began to wonder if it could possibly be—

No, it couldn't. The Angel of Music had never come before; why would he come now? But there was no Norse god of music, so what other divine being did that leave besides the Angel?

It was an aria she could put no name to—far more beautiful and heavenly than any she had ever heard. Slowly standing, so as not to startle the Voice, she searched the closet. There was nothing there, or behind her dresser. Briefly she cursed the chaotic disorder of the dressing room; she had to search behind each and every one of the piles of costumes and music piled on the numerous chairs, and every second was a second longer that the Voice could slip away unseen. She opened the door and peered down the hall—but she could find nothing. But the Voice was still singing, even more beautifully than before. The tears had long since stopped, but a poignant ache pulled at her heart, demanding that she find the source of the music. Surely something so perfect, so divine, had to be an angel!

Christine walked out into the hall and entered the room to the right of hers. It never occurred to her that she could get in trouble for getting caught in other dressing rooms; the power of the Voice was too intoxicating to leave space in her mind for anything else. The room on the right was empty; so was the one on the other side. And what was stranger, she couldn't even hear the Voice from anywhere except from within the chorus' room. She shook her head, trying to clear her mind. Was she hallucinating?

Dismissing this thought, she decided to enjoy the aria and not worry about where it was coming from. After all, if it was an angel, she probably wouldn't be able to see it anyway. She felt the tears start to flow down her cheeks again, but they were warm and unobtrusive, evoked from reverence for the song's beauty, so unlike the burning tears of moments before,.

After the aria came to a close, the Voice beseeched, "Please don't cry."

The beautiful tones were smooth and resonant, as commanding as the bells of Notre Dame, yet sad and sweet as the laments of her father's violin. She dared not even allow herself to hope that it might be her promised Angel.

After an eternity of silence, she gathered up the courage to ask, "Who are you?"

But the Voice was gone.

# Chapitre Deux: Le Apparition

"And so I asked who he was," Christine explained to her adoptive mother, Mamma Valerius, over dinner that night. She had hardly been able to wait to tell her—Mamma had always held on to the hope that the Angel would come. She had an unshakable faith in the supernatural—so much like Christine's mother—which the girl had revered since her childhood.

The kindly woman nodded, enthralled by Christine's story. Her dark Romanian eyes, even under heavy, wrinkled eyelids, were bright with eagerness of hearing the girl's encounter with the divine. Her attire was as simple as Christine's—an unadorned dress and a well-worn apron. The pewter cross hanging from her neck was the only piece of jewelry she owned. "And vot did he say?" she prompted impatiently, passing Christine a bowl of stew. Her worn sleeve whispered sadly as it brushed against the cracked, empty butter dish, and Christine looked away, feeling a hint of her depression return.

"He didn't say anything," she sighed, absentmindedly staring out the dingy window at the early September frost. She had never seen frost in September in France before. Thinking that it was promising an unusually cold winter, she shivered and looked away. "Just silence."

The old woman looked very excited, brushing aside the fact that the strange voice had not identified himself. She ignored the dinner they were supposed to be eating, deeming such a miraculous event much more worthy of her attention. "It must be ze Angel! You can do no harm by asking him!"

"Do you think he'll come again?"

"Oh, child, of course he vill! Ze Angel is here to help you!"

Christine smiled politely and mulled this over, drawing lines in her stew. Of course that's what Mamma would say. The few perfect notes she'd ever hit, the single compliment she'd received from a patron of the opera—to Mamma they had all been signs that the Angel had come. Christine's hopes had been raised numbers of times in the past few years, and the Angel had never come. But could it be? Could the Voice really be the Angel her father had promised her? It was almost too wonderful to imagine.

_Please, Freya,_ she prayed, hoping the goddess would be sympathetic to her plea, _please let it be the Angel!_

After the next night's performance, Christine entered her dressing room with a mixture of fear and excitement whirling in her mind. What if, after all these years of waiting, the Angel finally appeared to her and continued her father's teachings? The more she thought about it, the more it made sense. After all, what else could the Voice be, but an Angel? She confidently strode over to her vanity table and sat down, listening, waiting.

But the Voice never came. After three hours of loitering, pretending to be preoccupied with rearranging the items on her dresser, combing through her hair, and making sure her costume was in perfect condition, she gave up. Sighing, she stared at her reflection in the vanity mirror.

"Perhaps the stress just got to you," Christine told her reflection wearily. "If there _was_ an Angel, surely he would've come by now." Defeated, she threw a patched shawl over her shoulders and started for the door.

Christine barely touched her dinner, far too depressed over the Angel to pretend for Mamma's sake that she enjoyed the cheap, bland food her guardian was able to afford. As if it hadn't been a trying enough day—a terrible rehearsal, a chastisement from Madame Giry concerning her lack of dedication, and the continued nonappearance of the Angel—she still had to come home to a pathetically-tiny tenement and a small plate of beans and some old lettuce to remind her of the pathetic poverty in which she lived.

She shifted her weight slightly, and the stained chair on which she was sitting tottered upon its uneven legs, an unwelcome reinforcement to the extent of her destitution.

"Vot is ze matter, dearest?" asked Mamma Valerius in concern. Christine had been able to sense Mamma's muted excitement for the past few days since Christine's encounter with the mysterious Voice, expecting Christine at any moment to announce that she had spoken with the Voice again and that he was the Angel of Music, come to rescue them from their poverty and elevate Gustave Daaé's talented daughter to the role of opera diva. All through dinner she had waited for Christine to speak, growing impatient with excitement.

Christine knew it was unkind of her to keep Mamma in suspense as she was, but she couldn't bring herself to say that the Voice had never spoken or made his presence known again; it was bad enough wondering within herself if it hadn't been the Angel—if he had abandoned her—if he had even come at all—if the Angel even existed—without making her fears concrete by speaking them aloud. She drew a trail through the tiny mound of beans with her fork, growing more and more depressed as she wondered if the Angel would ever come.

"'As ze Voice still not returned?" Mamma asked, trying to study Christine's expression in the dim light.

Christine sighed and set down her fork. "No."

"But it had to have been ze Angel!"

"Or a stagehand pulling a prank," she said gloomily, plucking wilted petals from the flowers resting in a cheap purple vase on the table. "Or my imagination." She wanted the Angel to appear so badly that it was a depressing possibility that she had just dreamed up the whole thing.

The part of her that needed to believe in the Angel protested at this thought, commanding her to stay strong in her belief of the Angel.

Christine made a derisive sound and yanked a brown petal free with unnecessary force, causing it to disintegrate between her fingers. All her life, she had believed in the Angel so strongly that she had molded her speech, her actions, every comportment to be more pleasing to the Angel's eye. And what had it gotten her? He had never appeared. She was tired of trying so hard, and tired of the ache of constant disappointment.

"But it has to be a sign from God!" declared Mamma. Christine said nothing, and after a moment, Mamma put her hand on Christine's comfortingly. "Ze Angel vill come."

Christine snatched her hand away. "What if he doesn't?" she snapped. "What if he never comes? What if the Angel isn't even real?"

Mamma looked astonished. "But ov course he is real, mine child. Vot are you saying?"

"I've been waiting my whole life for the Angel to appear, and I can't stand to have my hopes quashed again! And if he was real, why hasn't he appeared by now? Aren't I good enough? What if—" She stopped suddenly and shoved her chair away from the table so that she could stand, causing the vase of wilted flowers to totter before Mamma caught it. "I don't want to talk about it anymore," she declared.

Mamma set the vase back in its spot on the tiny, wooden table before replying. "My dear, vhy are you so vorried? It _is_ ze Angel, I'm certain."

Christine stood furiously. "I said I didn't want to talk about it!" she snapped, and stomped off to her room.

She locked the door and slammed the window closed, but thoughts of the Angel, accompanied by pain, bitterness, and disillusionment, plagued her unceasingly through the night, preventing all chance of sleep.

The following day she avoided the dressing room, dreading the terrible silence she would hear from its walls, confirming the nonexistence of the Angel and the end of all her dreams. But after Madame Giry put her foot down, refusing to permit Christine to practice in her street clothes, she was forced to enter the room anyway to fetch her ballet costume.

When she entered the room, a foolish part of her half-expected the Angel to be there. But the room was dark and uninhabited, the only sound coming from the passersby in the hallway.

After she had changed into the silky white tutu and ballet slippers—making as much noise as possible while doing so, to keep the crushing silence at bay—she ran a brush through her hair, out of habit, though it hardly mattered anymore; without the Angel to elevate her to divahood, she would remain a penniless ballet rat until she died.

She moved to throw her dress into the pile overflowing from the shared closet, but then stopped suddenly, contemplating the dull, unadorned cloth, patched in numerous places, boring, ugly, and poor, promising her a future of the same material. She would never live up to her father's dreams by herself. She would be doomed to a pathetic, undistinguished existence in a foreign country, scraping for every penny for the rest of her life.

Tears rolled off her cheeks and stained the dress in her hands, turning it an even darker, more dismal grey. The Angel wasn't coming. No one was coming.

The loneliness and despair pressed in on her, as if the very room were shrinking, until she struggled to breathe. She couldn't bear to believe that the Angel was real—to perpetuate the disappointment that clawed at her heart after so many years of waiting—but even worse was believing that he did not exist. The two sides warred within her, clawing, screaming within her chest, making her heart beat faster and faster and the malicious silence roar in her ears.

"ANGEL!" she cried, falling to her knees. She shrieked his name over and over, so loudly that it made her throat burn, until her voice succumbed to hoarseness and was overpowered by her sobs. Still there was only silence, more deafening than any noise, damning her to poverty and failure....

"Angel," she said one last time, softly, knowing it was hopeless, and buried her red, burning face in the dress she held.

And then, at long last, after she had given up all hope, she heard the Voice speak:

"Christine."

His voice was low and tentative, as if he were unsure of himself. She scrambled to her feet, not bothering to wipe the tears from her eyes, forcing down all the faith and happiness that bubbled in her chest. She had to be in control. If it wasn't the Angel, she would be crushed if she allowed herself to hope again. She had to be calm and practical. Just the same, she couldn't keep a note of desperation from her voice as she asked,

"Are...are you the Angel of Music?"

There was a silence, a thousand times worse than the one moments before, tearing Christine's heart apart with doubt, fear, and despair. Just when she could endure it no longer, the Voice spoke, hesitant,

"Angel of Music?"

His tone gave her the answer she had been dreading. A sob escaped her lips, and she hung her head, unable to bear the weight of such bitter disappointment.

"Christine—"

"Go away!" she cried, as the tears began flooding down her cheeks again, fast and scalding. She collapsed onto the floor, the jarring pain it brought to her knees accentuating her agony. "Go away and leave me to my misery!" The rough, old floorboards were driving splinters into her hands, but the pain was drowned out in her anguish. "Without the Angel I'll never be anything! Just a stupid, penniless chorus rat who can't do anything right and will never live up to her father's dream!" She gasped for air as the sobs wracking her body intensified, pulling her hands away from her eyes and clutching her chest in an attempt to get enough air. "I might as well die here!" she sobbed, and prayed for the gods to strike her down where she knelt.

"Christine, please," cried the Voice desperately, "please don't cry! You're not stupid, or worthless, or anything you just said!"

"Leave me alone!" she wailed. "Without the Angel, there is nothing! No point, no purpose, no chance! Leave me to die!"

"But Christine, I—I am the Angel!"

She sniffed and didn't bother to look up. "Oh, right, sure," she said dully, too worn out from her outburst to yell. "Then why did you sound so confused when I asked if you were him?"

"Because I—wished to test your faith in the Angel," he said, his voice growing stronger and more certain as he continued. "I have come to serve as your instructor, dear Christine, and to help you fulfill your father's dream. Please don't cry anymore."

A small, final tear made its way down her cheek as she, stunned, tried to process this abrupt change in her fortune. "You—you're really the Angel?"

"Yes."

"Why have you not come before?"

"I was aiding another deserving artist, Christine. I came as quickly as I could."

"And...you'll really help me to become a diva?"

"If that is your wish, then I shall work night and day to see it fulfilled," he said, in a voice so strong, so sincere, so devoted, that she was forced to smile as his warmth filled her.

She was silent for a long moment, clasping her hands and thanking the gods for answering her prayers, as her heart's wild, rapid beats slowly calmed. Finally she raised her head and asked, "When do we start?"

"Whenever you wish," he replied.

"Now, Angel—let's start now!" For a moment she heard no reply, and said hurriedly, "Or do you wish me to call you something else? Father also called you the _Skrípi av Songr_ —that's Norse for your title—should I call you that instead?"

"No...no, 'Angel' will do just fine."

"All right." She waited again, then prompted, her excitement making her rather impatient, "Well? Aren't we starting now?"

"Very...very well, Christine...but don't you have ballet practice a few minutes from now?"

Her ecstatic smile turned into a pout. "I don't want to be a ballet rat one moment longer! I want to be a diva right now!"

"That will take time," said the Angel.

"Hmpf." She considered it for a moment. She had waited years for the Angel to come—she supposed, now that he was here, that she could wait a little while longer to be the diva of the Opera Garnier. "I guess you're right."

"Go to practice, then, Christine—we'll begin your lessons tonight."

As Christine skipped out of the dressing room and down the hall, happy and smiling once more, Erik leaned heavily against the wall of passageway, uncaring as the cold bricks sapped the warmth from his body, and covered his face with his hands. How could he have done something so utterly stupid? Now she believed that he was an angel! How could he have lied to her so cruelly?

The porcelain mask chilled his fingers, and he yanked his hand away and cursed as remembrance of his deformity made his situation seem even more awful. He—such a disgusting creature—shouldn't be speaking to anyone as beautiful and pure as Christine Daaé, not even through a wall. If she found out that the so-called angel who had promised to teach her was really a monster....

He sank down to his knees, unable to take the weight of the guilt he had brought upon himself. But he hadn't had a choice. He hadn't been able to stand listening to her cry. Singing to her two days ago had been the only way he had been able to think of to alleviate her despair.

After a few minutes of cursing himself, Erik sighed and stood. There was nothing he could do about it now. And perhaps—just perhaps—he would be able to help her achieve her dreams while he dealt with his mistake.

Readjusting his mask, he started the trek back down to his caverns. If he was going to play the part of an angel, he needed to find a Bible as quickly as possible.

# Chapitre Trois: Le Enseignement du Ange

Weeks passed, and Christine's talent grew vastly under the Angel's instruction. She could never remember being happier. She never saw him—not even a spark of ethereal light—but his voice, so deep, so strong, so beautiful, guided her on to levels of vocal mastery she had never even hoped to achieve. She was dying to know what he looked like and had asked him more than once, even refusing to continue their lesson until he replied satisfactorily, but his answers were always vague and reticent, with some ridiculous statement or another about how appearances didn't matter.

He had somehow used his divine magic to secure her a dressing room of her own (the other chorus girls were insanely jealous), and she had wasted a large number of hours sitting in her own room enjoying the privacy and comfort. It was a small room, poorly lit and sparsely furnished, but to her it felt like a palace. She had her own vanity, her own window (albeit a small one), and her own closet (which she promptly filled with the mass of papers and trinkets that the chorus girls were always complaining about). There was a full-length silver mirror bolted to the wall across from the door, seemly oddly out-of-place in the tiny room. The mirror constituted a sort of mystery to Christine, because when she had asked Monsieur Debienne, one of the managers, why it was taking so long for her to be transferred to her new room, he had replied (looking even more stressed and timorous than usual) that the Phantom had demanded certain specifications concerning her room—specifications that had something to do with the mirror. Though Christine pressed the subject—very interested in these modifications and in the Angel's decision to mask his request as a demand of the dreaded Phantom—she got no further answers. The Angel was even less helpful, refusing to speak about the Phantom, just as he had refused to speak about most everything else she had asked him about himself and his operations.

He was really quite mysterious; every day when she entered her dressing room, she found new sheet music placed neatly in a little box designated for its especial use (procured for her by the Angel after she had lost the first batch of music). No matter how long she waited, hiding in various corners of the room, or whatever absurd hour she burst in, she could never catch him placing the sheet music in the room. It was quite unfair.

Since he so absurdly refused to give her a picture, she felt herself entitled to make up whatever image of him that struck her fancy—the picture she settled on, based solely from his voice, was very close to her picture of the ideal man: tall, thin but muscular, with divinely-beautiful features and eyes so gorgeous and limitless that she could get lost in them. Her ideal man was blonde, of course, but for some reason, she couldn't picture her Angel with anything but dark hair. It was his voice—she couldn't really explain it. She had finally given up on attempts to modify this image; it took too much brainpower.

All she really knew about him was that he was very, very musically talented (vocally and with a variety of instruments) and that his powers were limited to the scope of her dressing room. She'd figured out the latter portion after a rather embarrassing conversation with Mamma and some people from the neighboring tenements, with whom Mamma had been sharing Christine's miraculous interaction with the divine; Christine had laughed at their disbelief, and, arms melodramatically raised to the heavens, had commanded the Angel to appear in her apartment. She had been so humiliated and angered when he did not appear—leaving her to be snickered at and belittled by the neighbors—that she had refused to speak to the Angel for two whole days before telling him why she was so furious. He had explained that he was a rather minor angel with only a small amount of power, and, regrettably, could not manifest anywhere outside of the Garnier as long as he was assigned to her. It was a shame, really—she would have liked to practice at home where she could lounge on her bed and make runs to the kitchen for snacks—but in the end she supposed it really wasn't the Angel's fault, and forgave him.

He seemed to know all of her weak points already, a wondrous prescience that Christine could only marvel at. He didn't seem to know much about her father or the instruction he had given Christine before his death, a point on which Christine questioned her heavenly benefactor.

"I only spoke with him once, mademoiselle, before hastening to your side," was his reply. "You see, I was aiding others during the years he had been residing in Heaven—"

"You mean Niflheim?" she interjected.

There was a long pause. "Yes, it is also called that," he said finally. "But to return to my explanation, which is also the reason for my inexcusable lateness in aiding you, I was helping other aspiring artists. When I returned to Heaven—"

"But don't you live in Asgard with the gods?"

"...Yes," he said again, with a strange reluctance.

"Then you shouldn't use 'Heaven' for both Asgard _and_ Niflheim—it confuses me."

"I apologize, Christine—I am not very familiar with the terms mortals use."

She rolled her eyes impatiently. "Asgard is the golden realm above the clouds where the gods live—Niflheim is where most people go when they die." She shivered at the thought and tried to push it away.

"Very well," he said slowly. He really was acting quite thick today. "When I visited...Niflheim...I was met by your father, who told me about you, I hurried so quickly to make up for lost time that I did not ask him what he had taught you."

"Can't you just fly back up whenever you want?" she queried, fascinated.

"I cannot—my task is to remain with you until you have achieved the success that your beauteous voice deserves."

"And then you'll have to leave?"

There was another pause, and she wondered if he was trying to decide whether he could stay with her after she had become a diva. It would be nice having an Angel by her side, but she supposed she could handle fame and fortune once he had helped her attain it. It was very pleasing to her, however, to think that he wanted to stay with her when he should be attending to his occupation as Angel of Music.

These flattering thoughts were interrupted as he replied, "Only the Lord knows what the future holds, my dear Christine."(She assumed he meant Odin, the most powerful of the gods, when he said "the lord." Odin had many, many names.)

Christine was forced to be satisfied with this cryptic answer, because the Angel refused to speak of it further. She soon forgot about the matter entirely, however, in light of a much more pressing question:

"When can I use the beautiful voice you've given me?" she asked, for about the fiftieth time. "It's unfair that I should have to pretend to sing poorly when I have an Angel of Music helping me—you have no idea how horrible it is to see the—the _smirks_ on their faces!" she cried.

"'They,' Christine?"

"The chorus girls and the ballet rats—they think I'm a terrible singer," she said sourly, crushing a sheet of music in a petulant, shaking fist. It was unbearable to even contemplate seeing those vicious, contemptuous smiles again. "And that Carlotta—! When I left the stage today, she said, 'Zat girl—vat's her name? _Die-_ ay,'" she mimicked, tossing her head and affecting the Spanish diva's high, pathetic excuse for French, "'She sings like—like a dying bull as ze mataflor strikes ze final blow!'"

"That's 'matador,'" the Angel corrected gently.

"I want them to hear my voice now!" Christine snarled. "I want to see the looks on their faces when they hear how much better I am than them!"

"That's a rather unchristian thought."

"I'm not a Christian," she snapped.

"Very well," he relented. "You will be given a chance to show the world your heavenly voice—soon. You can wait a few days, can you not, for such a gratification?"

"Well, fine, but hurry it up," she demanded, gesturing with an emphatically imperious hand. "I can't take much more of this!"

"Don't worry, Christine—we'll soon astonish all of Paris."

It annoyed Christine, of course, that she could not show everyone that she was not the worthless singer that they all thought she was. Once or twice she couldn't help herself and let her new voice sound forth during rehearsals. Fortunately, as she was only a member of the chorus, no one noticed. One time she hadn't caught herself fast enough, and Meg Giry gave her a strange look; but thankfully, she said nothing. The Angel seemed to know about all these occurrences, somehow. "Soon," he reminded her. And she would have to be content with that.

Erik closed his eyes, leaving his fingers to play out Beethoven's Sonata No. 8, and allowed his mind to wander. Normally he had to concentrate hard to lose himself in the music, to forget about who and what he was, but the act of forgetting didn't seem so pressing to him now as it had a month ago. It was wonderful to allow his mind to relax and dwell on what it would—usually lesson plans for Christine—without it constantly returning to dwell on his own worthlessness and ugliness. Helping Christine Daaé to divahood had given him a purpose in life, and he had been surprised to discover that, in improving her life, he was improving his own as well. No matter how hideous he was, as long as she never saw his face, he was wanted—he was needed.

Though she was very impatient, and often quite demanding, she was coming along very well. Her father, Gustave Daaé, had left her with a strange and incomplete musical education, having taught her up to a level of mastery to recognize notes based on pitch, and to remember melodies after hearing them only once, but the man had completely neglected to teach her how to read sheet music or anything about music theory. Instead of dismaying him, however, each gap in her education drove him on to greater determination to teach her everything he knew—finally, after a lifetime devoted to the study of music, his knowledge would be worth something.

As he neared the end of the first movement of the sonata, he paused his contemplation to enjoy the crescendo of notes that marked its end, and savored their beauty as they echoed throughout his caverns. For a moment, he sat in silence before beginning the second movement.

Christine's father had also seen fit to leave her with a jumble of mismatched stories and rituals, confusion, and despair instead of a religion—apparently, the man had grown up in the small village of Upsala in Sweden, isolated from the rest of the world by impassable mountains and forests. When the rest of Scandinavia converted to Christianity, his ancestors had been overlooked. He was probably one of only a handful of nineteenth century men to be raised in the Norse tradition, believing in Odin, Thor, and numerous other Scandinavian gods, and in the existence of nine worlds and in fanciful creatures like giants and trolls. When Gustave married Christine's mother, a devout Christian, he tried to give up his faith, but he had not been able to make the transition and instead mixed the two irreconcilable religions—and it was this that Christine had grown up believing in. She seemed to think that the Christian god was just a form of Odin, chief of the gods, and that Jesus Christ was possibly a version of Baldr, one of Odin's sons, whose death had left the entire world in tears. The Angel of Music was, really, the only Christian-like thing in which she strongly believed (although Erik had never heard of such an angel. But then, he didn't know very much about Christianity; he had always had a difficult time believing in God—how could any god have cursed him with such a face, such a miserable, hated existence?). Because of his own uncertainty concerning the divine, he had no intention of altering Christine's beliefs, but he could see every day that she suffered greatly from the influence of her father's stories, especially that of Niflheim, a sort of cold, desolate Hell in which the dead would wander alone forever. It was a cruel paradox that she clung to the broken fragments of those lost tales, though they condemned her to an eternity of loneliness.

Dwelling on Christine's dual-religion, he came to think about the Angel again. He tried to push away the guilt that plagued him, but it was no use. It would destroy the poor girl if she found out what he really was. But he was in too deep now—it would crush her just as much if her promised Angel disappeared (a possibility he had also considered and discarded).

_Her voice has improved so much under my instruction_ , he tried to tell himself. With the Phantom of the Opera Garnier behind her, she would be able to live her dream as diva.

But his lies were still unforgivable.

He sighed and rested his hands on the top of the piano, thinking. "I just want to help her," he said aloud, listening with a pang of loneliness as his voice echoed through the empty caverns. If he told her who he was—if she saw his face—she would never agree to let him near her again.

With a resigned expression, he let his hands drop back to the keys, and as the sonata picked up where it had left off, hesitant and full of emotion, he closed his eyes and hoped that he knew what he was doing.

Christine stood on the stage, tapping her foot impatiently as she waited in line for her new copy of the script for _Faust._ The scripts had been distributed quite some time ago, back when preparations for the opera had started, but some problems the managers were encountering had lead to a recasting, the cutting of a few songs, and other such changes, so a new script was being distributed. It was causing quite a commotion—after all, the opening of the opera was only two weeks away!—but the managers were so overwhelmed with problems that they felt it was necessary. Christine was the only one who knew that the recasting must be the result of divine intervention.

Unlike the rest of the chorus girls, who were laughing and chattering and making nuisances of themselves, she was trying to calculate her chances of landing the lead soprano's part, Marguerite. Carlotta had been giving the managers a lot more trouble than usual lately, after all.

Christine had, because of the Angel's reassurances, kept her divine tutelage a secret, but the closer she got to the front of the line, the more she regretted listening to him. If no one knew how fabulous and extraordinary her voice was (and about her heavenly backing), she wouldn't even be considered for the position. On the other hand, she hadn't managed to keep herself from showing off a little bit in the vocal practices of the chorus, and she was certain that at least a few people had taken notice. And the Angel had insisted that she learn all the lines and arias of Marguerite's part—he refused to say that it was anything more than vocal practice, but the unspoken promise still rang in her ears.

Meg touched Christine's arm, and the would-be diva jumped. "What?" she snapped, annoyed at having her thoughts interrupted.

"I just wanted to know if something was wrong," said Meg softly. "You look anxious."

Christine felt immediately sorry for being rude and patted Meg's hand. "It's nothing."

"You've been being so secretive lately, always locking yourself in your dressing room—are you sure there isn't anything wrong?"

"There's nothing wrong," said Christine, annoyed again. She and Meg had been fairly good friends in the years that they had trained in the opera house, and while Christine appreciated Meg's kindness and concern, it got very irritating at times.

"Well?" demanded the irate chorus girl who was handing out the scripts. "Do you want one or don't you?"

Christine realized that she was at the head of the line and took a script with a haughty scowl at the girl to prove that she wasn't embarrassed. Meg followed her as she walked towards the back of the stage, flipping to the cast list near the front. It read:

Doctor Faust, tenor: Carolus Fanto.

Méphistophélès, bass: Emile Balanqué.

Marguerite, soprano: Carlotta Torres.

Christine, heart sinking, didn't bother to read the rest of it. She knew that she hadn't gotten a part. Her script was too thin to include anything but the songs sung by the chorus. She had hardly dared to dream that she would get a starring role, but she had secretly been harboring the hope that the Angel would work his magic before the cast for _Faust_ was set.

Meg was asking her what was wrong again, but Christine ignored her. She couldn't allow herself to be downtrodden like this—if she wanted to be a star, then she had to protest the casting of Marguerite. She was afraid to go to the managers; Debienne was nice enough, but Poligny didn't like her. She'd ask Madame Giry.

"Do you know where your mother is?" she asked Meg, rolling up her script and clutching it decisively.

"She was here just a minute ago." Meg looked around, then pointed to the hallway past the wings. "There she is."

Christine ran after the ballet mistress, filled with determination. "Madame Giry, wait!" she cried, struggling to catch up.

The woman turned, somewhat surprised. "Christine, is something wrong?" she asked as Christine came to a halt next to her.

"No—no," Christine panted, a bit out of breath.

"You'd be in better condition if you would attend more practices," she admonished.

"I—I'm fine." She forced a smile. "Can I ask you something?"

"Certainly."

"Please," she began, not sure of exactly what she would say. "Please, Madame Giry, why can't I play Marguerite?"

The woman studied her thoughtfully, the only indication of her surprise being the ephemeral spark lighting her dark brown eyes. She was a few inches taller than Christine, and her rigid posture hinted at her stern, commanding temperament; it made her a very effective ballet mistress, however, because she could keep the lazier ballet rats in line. She was wearing her customary mourning dress; it had been years since her husband had died, and she had discarded only her mourning veil and not the black dress and equally unadorned black shoes that accompanied it. Somehow, her presence made its plain muslin form seem like the regal gown of a comtess.

"The opera opens in two weeks, dear."

"That's not a problem—I've been studying the lines. I can pull it off."

Madame Giry was silent for a moment, an odd expression on her face. It hurt Christine to realize what she must be thinking: _Why on earth would anyone let a worthless ballet rat like you play the lead role?_ But Madame Giry merely said, "You have been improving greatly, Christine, but I'm afraid it's too late for this opera."

"But I'm being taught by the Angel of Music," she said desperately, hoping that she would be believed. She hadn't met anyone in France who had even heard of the Angel, let alone believed in him.

The ensuing silence was even longer than the first. Christine shifted her weight uncomfortably under the woman's gaze, praying fervently that the ballet mistress would believe her. Finally, Madame Giry spoke. "And...did this... _angel_...tell you that you are ready to play Marguerite?"

At least she wasn't dismissing Christine's claim out of hand, though she gave no sign that she believed it. But her question left Christine with another problem. The Angel would undoubtedly be angry if she violated his mandate. "Well, not exactly," she admitted. "But _I_ think I'm ready."

Madame Giry patted her shoulder. "Yes, well, I'm certain the angel knows best, my dear. Perhaps the next opera."

As Christine watched her walk down the hall, anger welled up inside her. It didn't have to be this way—she _was_ ready. It was the Angel's fault that she wasn't playing Marguerite.

After a few hours of fuming, Christine marched to her dressing room. She had decided to tell the Angel how things were going to be—if _she_ thought she was ready, then she most certainly was!

She waited a few moments for him to speak, but there was only silence. It only served to incense her further—if this Angel had been sent to serve her, then he should be here! "Angel!" she yelled furiously, stomping her foot into the floor.

His voice responded almost instantly. "Hello, Christine," he greeted her. "I was hoping we could review the treble clef; and you still seem to be having trouble with the concept of ledger lines—"

"I'm tired of this," she interrupted haughtily. "My father didn't send you to me so that I could go on being a pathetic chorus girl. _He_ would have made me a diva by now! I _deserve_ to be a diva— my voice is much better than Carlotta's and I'm a hundred times more beautiful than she is!"

The Angel was silent for a long moment. "Your father is not your teacher anymore, Christine—I am. Don't you trust me to arrange the proper time for the unveiling of your voice?"

"No! You've waited entirely too long! You're my servant—you're supposed to do as I say!"

His voice was suddenly clipped and cold. "Well then, Christine, go ahead—reveal your talent to the world." Christine shivered, unexpectedly afraid; he had become powerful and full of divine wrath. He was always so gentle and submissive—she hadn't thought him capable of anger. "You obviously don't think you need me any longer."

"Th-then you'll leave me?" asked Christine, realizing how foolish her words had been.

"Unless you've changed your mind."

She couldn't admit defeat. The Angel was supposed to be here to help her, to serve her—if she confessed that she needed him, then _he_ would be the one in control. "No," she declared. "I _will_ be Marguerite!"

Two days after this occurrence, Christine was on the stage. Though it was filled almost to capacity with chorus girls and other members of the cast, no rehearsal was going on. Some people were chatting, and some were laughing at the vulgar jokes a stagehand was relating (at least, she assumed they were vulgar; their laughter was quite raucous). The remainder of the stage's inhabitants were listening to the argument between Madame Giry and Monsieur Mercier, the conductor. Christine was part of this last group, though she was listening out of more than idle interest. This could be her chance to prove to everyone that she could be as good a diva as Carlotta.

She hadn't heard the Angel's voice since she'd yelled at him, and she felt terrible because of it—but if she didn't go through with her plan, she'd certainly feel worse. If she got the part of Marguerite, then she could apologize without any loss of pride, and the Angel would accept, and things could go back to the way they'd been. If he didn't accept her apology, well, it wasn't a tragedy, because she'd already be a diva.

Mercier pointedly set down his conductor's baton, his thin, curled moustache twitching in irritation. "There is no point in practicing if La Carlotta is not here."

Christine edged forward, hesitant to interrupt their argument.

"But the opera opens in two weeks!" Madame Giry snapped. "Surely we can do _something_ without her!"

"No, madame, we—"

"I could sing for her!" Christine offered loudly.

The entire stage went silent. Christine fidgeted nervously, unhappy to have them all staring at her. But when she was a diva, she reasoned, people would stare at her all the time; she'd just have to get used to it.

"What did you say, my dear?" Madame Giry asked, though Christine could tell she had heard perfectly.

"I said I could sing Marguerite's part."

Mercier looked stricken. "But—"

"I _can,_ " she pressed.

Madame Giry and Monsieur Mercier glanced at each other, their quarrel forgotten. "It can't hurt," Madame Giry said slowly.

Mercier, looking more resigned than interested, picked up his baton. "Very well then, mademoiselle. Which aria do you feel the most comfortable singing?"

"'Je Ris,'" she replied immediately. The Angel had been teaching it to her, before—well, before she'd yelled at him.

As the orchestra struck the first chords and the chorus girls took their places, she tried to remember everything he had told her: the gasp at the beginning when Marguerite discovers the jewels and flowers left by Faust should be clearly heard, but not overdone; though the aria starts fairly loud, it crescendos all the way until the end; the especially high note in the chorus is a D, not a C—

"Mademoiselle," moaned Mercier, breaking through her thoughts, "you missed the opening line!"

"Oh—oh yes," she stammered, blushing. "I'm sorry."

"Start over, everyone," Mercier commanded the orchestra. This time she paid attention and began singing on cue. She performed the first verse without a single flaw, and her confidence swelled. Mercier's face was full of enchanted surprise, and he nodded to her enthusiastically. Christine decided it was time that everyone heard her new, heavenly voice. Throwing her arms open dramatically, she hit the first note of the second stanza with a magnitude intended to shake the very foundations of the opera house, and—

She hit the wrong note.

The dissonance was amplified a hundred-fold by her foolish decision to sing louder than she could control. Violin bows jerked in surprise across the strings, producing a harsh cacophony of squeals. Several of the chorus girls faltered in their pirouettes, and some clapped hands over their ears.

As the music died, an embarrassed silence overcame the stage. Everyone stared at Christine, their expressions all showing the same, solitary thought: she wasn't fit to sing. "Could—could I try it again?" she pleaded. "I'm sure that won't happen—"

"No, mademoiselle," Mercier said firmly, "that won't be necessary. We'll just have to wait until Carlotta returns."

# Chapitre Quatre: Les Directeurs Nouveaus

Christine dipped and weaved, in perfect sync with the rest of the ballet girls, forming a vast semi-circle behind Carlotta, who was singing at the front of the stage. The diva's voice was loud and powerful, echoing down to the very bowels of the opera house with such brute force that those standing close to her wore pained expressions. Her exaggerated vibrato and heavy Spanish accent clashed with the sweet, innocent character she was supposed to be portraying—but no one dared complain. She was a diva, and to speak out against her was to get oneself fired within a fortnight.

_But at least she's hitting the right notes_ , Christine thought miserably. _Not like me._ Nothing had been more painful than having to tell the Angel of Music that he had been right—she just hadn't been ready. He had accepted her reluctant apology and assured her that she would be ready soon. That had been two weeks ago. The memory of all those disgusted faces, the hands clapped over tortured ears, hurt her terribly, and she didn't want to hear _Faust_ performed ever again. The Angel had tactfully suggested that she learn a different song—but he said it was imperative that she learned an aria from _Faust_. She couldn't fathom his reasoning, but she accepted it without question. She had no intention of ever disobeying him again.

Carlotta, as Marguerite, sang even louder as the song reached its crescendo, and the sorrowful words were forgotten amidst the volume of her commanding voice. The chorus girls fell to their feet, playing their part as prisoners within the dank cell; their prop chains hindered their movements, and several girls tripped. Christine herself tripped several times, and she hoped fervently that, when they performed for an audience tonight, they would think it was on purpose—to add to the aura of sorrow and agony of the prison scene, or something like that.

Suddenly the music stopped, and everyone faltered. Carlotta screeched at the conductor, "What are you doing?!" Receiving no answer, she whirled on the members of the chorus. "Who was it is being doing something wrong?"

"Calm down, señorita," pleaded Monsieur Mercier, pointing to the back of the stage with his conductor's baton. "The managers are here."

Everyone turned to see Messieurs Debienne and Poligny leading two distinguished-looking gentlemen onto the stage. It wasn't any great mystery what they were going to say; the managers had been looking for someone to take over the Garnier for quite some time now. They acted as if it were just a business decision, but Christine had heard some of the chorus girls speculating that dealing with the Phantom had proved to be too much strain. It seemed to Christine that the Phantom's notes (though she had only heard about a few of them) were more helpful than threatening, suggesting improvements to the performances, and the like. But she wasn't regularly included in the employee gossip circle—in fact, most of the other girls blatantly ignored her—so she didn't have the best information.

"Ladies and gentlemen," began Poligny, the taller and more commanding of the two, "please, if I could have your attention?"

After a few moments of continued conversation, mostly on the part of the disrespectful stage hands, everyone quieted to listen. Christine considered starting a conversation with Meg, just to defy the man—Poligny had chastised her on more than one occasion for the problems the other chorus girls had with her (so unfair—none of it was her fault), and the almost-ex-manager couldn't do anything to her now. But then she realized it would probably form a bad impression of her in the minds of the new managers, and kept quiet.

Poligny continued, "Today is the last day that Monsieur Debienne and myself will be managers of the Garnier—we have just concluded signing the papers, and are pleased to announce that Messieurs Richard and Moncharmin"—he gestured to the two gentlemen standing to his right—"are now the proud owners of the Opera Garnier."

A smattering of applause greeted this introduction. Christine could hear several chorus girls whispering things like, "They must be rich!" and "I want the taller one." Christine shook her head incredulously. To be able to buy an opera house, these men _must_ be wealthy—but they wouldn't even consider marriage to the likes of ballet rats. On the other hand, she had gathered, from years of living in the opera house, that it was not marriage these girls aspired to, but to be mistresses. She wasn't exactly sure what that meant; when she'd asked Madame Giry, the woman had just winced and told her kindly, but firmly, that it was an evil thing and to stay away from it. She thought it had something to do with the frequent disappearances of various girls for a few days, sometimes longer, and their triumphant return with a locket, ring, or other expensive bauble. Perhaps noblemen could request private renditions of chorus songs, or something of the sort. She supposed she'd never know—whenever any nobleman tried to speak to her, Madame Giry was there to warn them away.

The taller one—Poligny hadn't specified which was which—stepped forward. "And we are honored to announce our new patron, the Comte de Chagny, who unfortunately could not be here but will be attending tonight's performance—"

"And so," interrupted the shorter one, "we are pleased to present his brother, who has agreed to accept the position of co-patron, the Vicomte de Chagny." He turned, gesturing to a man who walked on stage. Christine's heart stopped.

It was Raoul.

She hadn't recognized his title at first, but there was no mistaking him. Who else could have such shining, ice-blue eyes and such a charming, cultured smile? His hair was darker now, an even more lustrous blonde than it had been. His suit, cut in the very latest of Parisian fashion, a formal black accented with a cravat and gloves of perfect white, along with his signet ring, bespoke of fabulous wealth. They had been best friends as children. No, they had been more than that—they had been sweethearts. She hadn't thought about him for years. Perhaps it was the will of Frigg, goddess of passionate lovers—surely it must be divine intervention that they would meet again!

"My brother and I are honored to support all the arts," Raoul said cordially, "especially the world-renowned Opera Garnier." He was so genteel, so courteous! He had been an adorable boy, but he was now a very handsome man. One of her father's stories of the gods came to her mind—the one about Baldr, the god of beauty, whose hair shone a brighter gold than the sun, and whose proud, unshakable stance put the very mountains to shame....

Meg was asking her what was wrong, but Christine didn't hear. She started forward to talk to him, but Carlotta beat her there, motioning imperiously for Monsieur Poligny to introduce her. Poligny obliged, though rather reluctantly, as if he'd wished she hadn't been there for the new managers to meet. "Vicomte, gentlemen," he began, "this is Señorita Carlotta Torres, our leading soprano for...five...seasons." He hesitated over these last words, and Christine suspected he'd suddenly realized just how long the Opera Garnier had been under Carlotta's thumb. Fortunately, the temperamental diva didn't notice, as she was too busy smiling and cooing unintelligibly in Spanish. Raoul bowed and kissed her hand. Carlotta curtsied in reply, fluttering her eyelashes flirtatiously and tossing back her magnificent head, letting the golden baubles in her hair catch the light and glitter opulently.

"An honor," said Raoul, and it pleased Christine to detect nothing but uninterested politeness in his voice. "But I believe I'm keeping you from your rehearsal. I look forward to being here this evening to share your great triumph of _Faust_." He bowed to them all and began to walk off the stage.

Monsieur Debienne, a short, timid, balding man, stepped forward at this point, twisting the brim of his hat with anxiety—he seemed to hate speaking in front of a crowd—and said, "Mesdames and messieurs—actors, musicians, and fellow...fellow servants of the arts—it has been a great...great pleasure to have worked with you under this roof." Poligny looked visibly annoyed at this burst of sentiment from his usually-silent partner, but did nothing to stop him from continuing.

As Debienne spoke of how he would miss the opera house, Christine ignored him completely and waited for Raoul to get close enough to recognize her. As he passed Christine, she stepped forward and began to speak, but he, looking at another chorus girl with upsetting interest, did not notice her.

"Once more, from the beginning!" called Monsieur Mercier, annoyed at the interruption. Christine dejectedly walked back to her position on stage, feeling immensely sorry for herself. The music began and her body automatically responded, though her mind was elsewhere, reflecting on those glorious blue eyes...eyes that would never look at her, a pathetic chorus girl.

The new managers walked around the stage, observing the ongoing ballet and eyeing chorus girls and ballet rats with an excess of appreciation. Their eyes lingered on Christine for a moment, and she was so busy trying to smile at them that she accidentally tripped. The taller manager, to Christine's surprise, seemed rather interested in Meg. Meg was pretty enough, she supposed—petite and blond, with the large, innocent eyes of a little girl—and her costume for the prison scene, though grey and ragged, did not obscure her figure in the least.

Not once during the ballet did the managers bother to glance at Carlotta, and the diva sang even louder—and therefore more painfully—than usual, but they didn't notice. She was so distraught that she backed into Christine; swearing in her native tongue, the diva shoved her out of the way.

Christine fell on her ankle, which twisted painfully. Her pitiful cry went unnoticed. Tears sprang to her eyes, which she furiously tried to subdue—how would it be for Raoul to meet her again like this? Fortunately the ballet ended before she could get up—she wasn't sure if she could walk. Meg rushed over to her, asking frantically if she was all right.

"The comte is very excited about tonight's gala," one of the new managers told Debienne and Poligny proudly.

"Yes, we're good friends," said Debienne. "He has expressed his extreme delight at his new patronage of the Garnier. He reminded me over luncheon today that this year marks the centennial anniversary of the first performance of _Idomeneo_ , and has suggested that we—goodness, I had already forgotten that I am no longer involved—that _you_ push back _Medea_ so as to perform _Idomeneo_ before the year is out."

"A splendid idea," said the taller manager, and the shorter one voiced his agreement.

"Time will be short to prepare and present a different opera before the new year, gentlemen, but our employees are quite talented—I'm sure they can pull it off."

At this point, Carlotta interrupted their conversation to demand the attention of the managers, both old and new, and remind them of her lofty station.

Christine stared at the section of curtains that Raoul had disappeared through, feeling horribly cowardly and depressed because she didn't dare go after him—what if he didn't recognize her? Or worse, what if he did, and wasn't interested? Or if he was already married?

She glanced back at the managers, who were still being dominated by Carlotta's shrill, accented tirade, and cursed herself for being too much of a coward to go up to them and make her talent known. How was she ever going to become a diva if she didn't demand it? But her failure in front of the entire cast and crew was still too painfully near, and she couldn't bear the thought of another such mistake. _Please, Angel,_ she prayed, _help me. I can't do it on my own._

Erik stood in the shadows above the stage, on one of the precarious walkways built for the stage crew. His expression was one of cold amusement at Debienne and Poligny's (as well as the new managers') predicament, and irritation that neither of them were intelligent enough to see what was right under their noses. Who needed Carlotta Torres when you could have Christine Daaé? The only commendable attribute of Carlotta's voice was how loud it was.

Carlotta seemed very close to throwing a tantrum to make sure that the new managers understood how important she was, and Erik rubbed his chin thoughtfully. It was amazing that such an arrogant, demanding wench had been allowed to hold on to such an exalted position for so long. Well, it didn't matter now; whether or not she threw a fit and left, Christine would get her chance to show the managers her talent.

A rather hassled-looking messenger pushed his way through the crowd of actors, catching Erik's eye. "I have a parcel for Mademoiselle Torres!" he announced, looking around at all the women on stage.

" _Señorita_ Torres, _Señorita_!" Carlotta snapped, stomping a foot in anger. "Address me properly or I will be having you thrown out!"

"Beg pardon, _señorita_ ," said the man, seeming more annoyed than contrite. "An admirer requested that these be brought to you." He offered her a very large box, garnished with a hideous, gaudy bow.

"Ooooooh!" Carlotta cooed, grabbing the box with unnecessary force. "Who is it from?"

"I have no idea. The man requested that his identity remain secret." The man bowed in a very businesslike manner and turned to leave. "Good day, señorita. Gentlemen."

The diva ripped open the box to reveal a veritable ocean of chocolates. Her eyes narrowed slightly in irritation—she seemed to have been hoping for jewelry—but she selected a piece of nougat nevertheless and popped it into her mouth before shoving the box into the arms of one of her attendants.

Apparently Carlotta had decided that the managers, both new and old, respected her position, because instead of throwing a fit, as usual, she marched up to Mercier and demanded that he tell the orchestra to play one of her arias from _Faust_ —to impress upon everyone the height of her talent, Erik supposed. As the orchestra sounded the opening notes of "Radiant Angels," Erik watched silently from above, and waited for her to sing.

" _AAAAANGES PUUUUUUUURS_ ," Carlotta began, her painful vibrato shaking the rafters beneath Erik's feet. Her accent mangled the graceful Latin into something completely unrecognizable, so much that instead of sounding like a dulcet appeal to the angels, the song resembled a war cry. He grimaced and tried to block her out as he waited for the managers to see for themselves that Carlotta wasn't worth keeping. As soon as he saw Moncharmin glance at Richard in disappointment, he knew that his job was done.

" _AAAAANGES RAAAAAAAAAADIEUX, eeeeerrr-go...ergo...suuu...um—_ " At this point, Carlotta's voice, having dwindled from a raging roar to almost the squeak of a mouse, disappeared entirely. She grasped her throat, apparently trying to shriek, and her face turned a dead white as she tried to make a sound.

"Señorita! Are you all right?" cried Debienne, starting forward.

_No!_ he could see the diva trying to shout. He wondered how long it would take her to realize that the chocolates were to blame. Erik watched her mouth form several foul Spanish curses against the managers, her attendants, and the opera house in general, before turning his attention to Christine. He hoped she recognized the opportunity he had created for her. The girl glanced up at towards the heavens, grasping the amulet she wore around her neck; if he hadn't pulled back into the shadows in time, she might have seen him.

Personal servants of Carlotta's escorted the diva (still clawing at her throat and turning quite red with rage) across the stage in the direction of the entrance, probably to fetch a doctor. The formula would keep the overbearing star quite silent for the rest of the night—not long, but long enough for Christine to sing Marguerite's part for the opening performance. It made him very happy that his knowledge of chemistry, which, like the rest of his knowledge, had seemed so worthless, had made him useful to Christine.

For a moment, Erik wondered if it would have been worth it to take the less-subtle approach and drop a set on the diva instead. It might have kept Carlotta out of _Faust_ permanently. But Christine deserved Christian-like behavior from her Angel, even if it had been the despised Spanish diva who had been hurt. In the end, it didn't matter; after the managers heard Christine, they would never spare a glance for their old prima donna again.

"Now what do we do?" demanded Moncharmin of the ex-managers, twisting his hat in his hands with anxiety.

"Surely there's an understudy," said Richard.

Poligny actually laughed. "You don't seem to have learned much about Carlotta Torres in the few minutes you were in contact with her, gentlemen—Carlotta would rather die than permit an understudy to even _think_ of performing her role."

"Well then what do we do?" insisted Richard.

Poligny smiled and fingered the unlit cigar in his hand, seeming quite unconcerned. "Welcome to show business, gentlemen." He turned his back on the panicking managers and strolled towards the wings. "It's your problem now," he called over his shoulder.

"Oh dear," whispered Debienne apologetically. "I'm very, very sorry that your tenure of the Garnier had to begin with such a frightful problem."

"Just tell us what to do," Richard said tensely.

"You must secure another comparable singer at once, gentlemen, or refund the seats of the opening night—"

"A—a full house!" choked Moncharmin. _He doesn't look like he'll be able to handle the stress of his managerial duties_ , thought Erik, noting the red color of his face and the sweat forming on his forehead.

Debienne nodded uncomfortably. "I—I believe that Adelina Patti is in town."

Erik looked at Christine, hoping that she would take the opportunity he had made for her. But she stood as still as the rest of the cast, listening to the managers speak.

"She is very good," said Moncharmin, looking hopefully at Richard.

"It doesn't matter how good she is," Richard snapped. "We need someone who already knows the lines!"

"I—I know the lines!"

The stage as a whole turned to stare at Christine, who looked nervous under the pressure of so many startled eyes.

"You—you're a chorus girl, is that right, mademoiselle?" asked Richard, rather skeptically.

"Yes," she said, glancing at her feet ashamedly. "But I've been learning from a great teacher!" Erik grinned in spite of himself.

"Who might that be, mademoiselle?" Richard asked her.

Even from such a great height, Erik could clearly see the blush that rose to her cheeks. "His name?" she repeated, obviously unsure of how to reply. _Strange,_ thought Erik, _that the Angel of Music doesn't have a name._

Richard's mustache twitched in annoyance. "Yes, girl—his name."

"M-monsieur...ah...François...le Chatelier," Christine lied.

Richard and Moncharmin glanced at each other. "I've never heard of him," declared Richard.

"Neither have I," his partner agreed.

Christine shrugged and treated them to her most dazzling smile. "Well, he isn't very well-known, sir, but he's very good just the same."

_She's a fairly good liar_ , observed Erik, wondering if such a trait was good or bad. It had certainly been useful just now.

"Very well," said Moncharmin, believing her without a thought. He turned to Debienne and inquired, "Is there a suitable aria that the mademoiselle might sing for us from _Faust_?"

Debienne mopped the sweat from his forehead with a rather dingy handkerchief, looking strained, and looked at Mercier for direction.

Mercier looked at Christine uneasily, obviously recalling her disaster of "Je Ris.""Yes...'Roi de Thulé,'" he answered at last. "In Act Three. Do you know it, mademoiselle?"

Erik watched with mild interest as Christine nodded; the girl looked quite astonished. He had taught her all of Marguerite's arias from _Faust_ for just this reason, but she didn't know that—she would probably attribute it to "divine intervention." Christine's sudden petulance had been a temporary setback, nothing more. Her voice had vastly improved in the past two weeks, and she wouldn't make another mistake like "Je Ris." Now that she was listening to him again, everything was going according to plan. All of Paris would soon see how divine Christine's voice was—and they would never waste a thought on Carlotta again.

"Very well then," said Mercier, turning to the correct page of music and raising his baton. The orchestra began with the first few, soft notes of "Roi de Thulé," and Christine nervously stepped forward.

"I don't believe this," muttered Richard.

"Well," replied Moncharmin offhandedly, "it will only take a few minutes. And she's quite pretty."

But when Christine began to sing, all doubt instantly melted away. Her voice was so pure, so innocent and glorious, that it was as if an angel were singing. It soared higher and higher, reaching the rafters with pure, divine notes that seemed to make the large auditorium glow in the sublimity of her brilliant voice. The chorus girls stopped whispering and giggling; everyone on the stage, including the managers, who had been so skeptical moments before, stood awed and silent, content to let her perfect notes and sensuous vibrato melt away their anger and their uncertainties and carry them far beyond Paris and into the very heavens. Erik listened from above, as enthralled as the rest of the witnesses of this dramatic change. His heart was filled with pride, and a happiness that erased everything but his darling protégé from his mind.

# Chapitre Cing: Le Vicomte de Chagny

Erik hurried up the steps to the trick mirror, trying to fold the two dresses he was carrying as he went. Christine was coming back to her dressing room, and he couldn't risk being caught. He hadn't even had time to grab his mask off the piano (which he had taken off to examine the gowns one final time in the dim light) in his rush to reach the room before her. He couldn't afford for anything to be wrong with the gowns—Christine's performance was tonight, and she needed appropriate costume.

He'd only been able to have two costumes made; he had asked Antoinette Giry to find a good tailor to make a gown for the prison scene and one for the rest of the opera (she had Christine's measurements already for chorus costumes; it was becoming quite useful to have the Ballet Mistress as a long-time friend, albeit a distant one. He wished now that he had allowed her closer to his heart during his long years at the opera house—if he had, he wouldn't feel as guilty coming to her for help now). For something so specific—the incredibly outdated fashion of a sixteenth century German noblewoman—it had been quite costly, even though the tailor was of the middle class. Though Erik had never made a dress in his life, he had been forced to ransack the Garnier's supply of fabrics to make alterations to the gowns after he'd gotten them back; the incompetent tailor had seen fit to ignore Antoinette's instructions and had given the beautiful dress short sleeves, as modern fashion dictated for evening gowns, instead of the long sleeves of the sixteenth century. Erik's sewing skills were a little rusty—he usually had Darrius (his only other friend in the world, who hailed from Persia) secure clothes for him from his own tailor—but he had managed it.

He wondered if Antoinette knew that he was acting as Christine's mentor. If she did, she probably wouldn't say anything; she had always given him the distance he needed. He supposed that he was rather glad of it, in a way; the last thing he needed was criticism concerning the mess of lies he had managed to tangle himself up in.

Erik flipped the switch and the mirror pulled away. He didn't wait for it to be fully out of his way before darting through the frame and placing the two dresses on Christine's vanity table. In doing so, he caught a glimpse of his reflection in the vanity's mirror. With a cold frown, he averted his eyes. He didn't need any reminders of how disfigured he was.

When he had left the stage, Richard and Moncharmin had been telling Christine that she would most certainly be taking Carlotta's place. By now they would have realized that Carlotta's costumes would not fit their new diva and would have instructed her to find something suitable among her own clothing—of which, of course, there was nothing. He liked Christine's dresses—they were simple, well-made—but they were not fitting for the performance.

As he stepped back from the table, he realized that, among all the clutter on the vanity, it was doubtful Christine would ever notice the two foreign parcels. Perhaps he should hang them in her closet. No, her closet was just as utterly chaotic as the rest of the room. As the Angel, he would have to instruct her that neatness was a virtue. (Not that he practiced it much himself; his collection of rooms below played host to mountains of music books and instruments.) Blast it, where should he put them...?

The sharp sound of a turning doorknob echoed in the silent room—it was Christine! Oh God, if she saw his face—!

He snatched the dresses off the vanity and set them hastily on a stool before racing back to the safety of the mirror.

As Christine opened the door to her dressing room, completely preoccupied, she didn't wonder what the strange "click" was that came from the direction of the mirror. The old opera house was always creaking. And besides, she had far more important issues to worry about—what was she going to do? At first she had been thrilled that the managers had agreed to let her play Marguerite. She attributed most of this praise to her own hard work and talent, but the role Fate had played—injuring Carlotta and ensuring that she knew Marguerite's arias—suggested the Angel's interference. In any event, that wasn't the important thing right now.

Carlotta had no less than fifteen gowns for this opera, each one costing a king's ransom in silks and pearls. Unfortunately, the diva's sumptuous figure was far from Christine's thin, willowy one. It would be impossible to take in the garments to such an extent if given a _week_ —but the performance was this very night! The new managers had told her, after a heated argument with the head seamstress, that she'd just have to wear something she already had, whether it fit the opera or not. Christine, thinking of the few worn dresses she owned, had given up all hope of finding a solution.

Angrily, she slammed the door behind her and stomped over to her small, dingy closet, throwing out all the boxes, food trays, knick-knacks, and other clutter. When she finally unearthed the five pathetic dresses she had, she examined each and threw them to the floor in disgust. They were all far too plain for Christine Daaé, lead soprano of _Faust_! It was so unfair! Why couldn't Mamma have parted with a little more money to make her dresses less plain?

A small voice in her mind whispered that Mamma made very little money as a seamstress, and Christine herself made even less; they couldn't afford sumptuous wardrobes, and the dresses Mamma had made for her were perfectly acceptable. Christine did not want to listen to this line of reasoning, however, so she shut it out. It was still unfair, no matter what!

Furiously, she kicked the closet door and sat down in a huff on the stool in front of her vanity. She realized immediately that she was sitting on something, and, still raging, she pulled it out from under her.

To her great surprise, the offending parcel happened to be a dress. It was a full, flowing gown, soft white damask with a teasing hint of pink where the shadows hit it. The sleeves were puffed and full at the shoulders, and the fabric was very fine, but other than that, it was a very simple design. It was far from Carlotta's dresses, which took an entire jewelry shop to decorate, but it was acceptable. Christine immediately tried it on and was surprised to find that it fit her perfectly.

Admiring the mysterious dress in one of her mirrors, she saw something in the reflection that she did not recognize. Turning around, she saw that it was another dress, previously hidden under the first. She lost no time in examining it and was severely disappointed in her findings. It was dull grey and completely unadorned, with a frayed length of rope for a belt. It was even uglier than the dresses in her closet. She threw it in the wastebasket, absolutely disgusted.

A moment later she was scrambling to fetch it out again, having realized what it must be for: the prison scene at the end of the opera!

But who had sent them? Someone who knew the opera, obviously, and the fact that she would be performing in it. But most mysterious of all was the fact that they were both exactly her size.

She was still puzzling over it when she heard a familiar voice echo through the room. "Are you ready, Christine?" The Angel's voice seemed, for a moment, a little uncollected and out of breath. But she must have imagined it, for his next words were spoken with his usual kind, composed air: "The performance starts in less than half an hour."

"Yes," she told the Angel, even though she had yet to arrange her hair or reapply her stage makeup. "But where did these come from?" She gestured to the dress in her hand and the one she was wearing.

"I couldn't have you performing your first starring role without appropriate costume, my dear. They are a bit simpler than they could have been, perhaps, but you must understand, I do not have much practice in dressmaking. But still, simplicity is purer than coarse vanity, wouldn't you agree?"

"Then—then you made them?"

There was a slight pause. "I had help from the other angels," he said at last.

For a moment her anger was revived; if it was angels who had made them, then why hadn't they woven a gown out of silvery star dust, or out of the golden rays of the mane of Skinfaxi, the horse that raced Day's shining chariot across the sky? Or the silvery light of the horse of Day's sister, Night? Didn't the Angel think she was good enough for something like that? It was so unfair!

But then she realized how many uncomfortable questions it would raise if she walked onstage wearing a gown from the light of a celestial body. She would not be able to give any reasonable explanation for such an impossible garment, no matter how hard she tried. Christine's shoulders sagged in embarrassed defeat. She had learned already that the Angel always knew best, and this case was no exception.

"Did you cause Carlotta's absence, too?" she asked, changing the subject. "Oooh! Did you steal her voice away?"

A momentary silence gave her the answer, despite his words: "That wouldn't be very Christian of me, would it?"

"Well, no.... But it was in a good cause."

"Yes, I suppose so," he replied cryptically.

Christine shrugged again and dismissed it. It was obvious that this wonderful opportunity was entirely his doing. "While you're doing marvelous things, can you fix my ankle? I can barely stand, let alone walk. I don't know how I'll manage to make it through the entire performance."

"I'm so sorry, my dear, is your ankle still hurting you?"

"Abominably," she said, her voice sour. "Curse that blasted Carlotta."

"Are you applying ice and exercising it as I instructed you?"

"You couldn't just snap your fingers and heal it?"

"Magic is inadvisable concerning such small troubles."

"Fine, fine," she sighed, moving to search her vanity drawers for a suitable necklace to go with the beautiful pink gown. "I used the ice, and that helped, but moving my ankle hurts far too much to even contemplate exercise."

"Small exercises will reduce the swelling and stiffness, Christine."

She held a faux-diamond collar up to the light for inspection. "Well, it's too late now." Some of the glass gems were cracked, and the clasp was broken. Absolutely intolerable for the future diva of the Garnier. She would have to sneak into Carlotta's dressing room and filch something more befitting of her impending station. "How do you know so much, anyway?"

"I've perused the occasional book of medicine."

"You're supposed to be an Angel of Music."

"It's never advisable to have one's entire store of knowledge constituted in a single sphere, my dear."

"Mm-hmm." She shrugged and stepped behind her screen to change. Her thoughts turned to the performance, and within moments, she had forgotten all about her ankle and cursing Carlotta.

"This is the most wonderful day of my entire life!" she chattered happily, giving little heed to what she was saying. Surely Raoul would ask to meet the beautiful star of the opera! "I can't wait for the performance!"

"Yes," agreed the Angel. "It should start an illustrious career for you. Within no time at all the new managers will have you replace Carlotta permanently. After this performance, if we are fortunate."

"Oh yes, well, that too." She paused, drawing in a large breath to shrink her waist while she struggled to lace her corset as tightly as possible. "Stupid corset," she muttered.

Apparently the Angel could hear very well, for he said, rather unhappily, "Christine, you shouldn't wear that."

She gasped, yanking the laces tighter. "Of course I should—a diva must be beautiful!"

"But it's very damaging for your body. It's crushing your organs."

"I don't care. I want to be as beautiful as is humanly possible!"

"You already are." His voice sounded oddly husky as he said it, but she was too busy to notice.

"You don't suppose you could use some heavenly magic to make me fit into this thing?"

"No, I don't suppose I could."

She gave the laces one final jerk and gasped in horror as one broke. "Blast it to Niflheim!" she screamed, throwing it to the floor. "The world hates me!" she shrieked, violently stomping on it. "Why, _why_ would it choose to break now, of all times?! It's not fair! Why do I have to be so poor? Why can't I afford nice things?" She fell to the floor and began sobbing wildly.

"Christine, Christine," the Angel pleaded, "please don't cry! It's all right—sixteenth century fashion did not require corsets. You are doing the opera a service not to wear one."

She sniffed and wiped the tears out of her eyes. "I am?"

"Yes."

"But I won't be as beautiful!"

"Christine, you are so beautiful that no one could possibly find any fault with your appearance, corset or no."

"Really?"

"Yes!"

She stood, feeling a little better, and started to put on the costume. "Well, okay. I hope you're right."

A few moments later she stepped out from behind the screen and seated herself at her vanity to retouch her eye shadow. Unlike all the other chorus girls, she was already wearing her stage makeup, supplied by Madame Giry; it was the only makeup she owned, so she wore it all the time as a surrogate for normal cosmetics. It wouldn't do to have anyone suspect she was too impoverished to purchase any.

Feeling rather pathetic, she brushed these thoughts away and turned her mind back to the performance. "Yes, this is the most wonderful day of my life. But not just because of my divahood."

His voice held a note of polite interest now. "Oh? Why else?"

"The new managers have a patron—the Vicomte de Chagny. Well, actually, his brother is the patron, but Raoul's going to be helping him. He and I were childhood sweethearts."

"Oh, really." Christine did not notice the sudden iciness in his tone.

"I can't wait to introduce myself to him, as 'Christine Daaé, diva of the Opera Garnier!'" She arranged her face into the expression she imagined an aristocratic diva might have, giggling at the ridiculous result.

"I don't think you should do that."

Christine wasn't really listening; she was imagining all the wonderful compliments Raoul would shower on her when he realized that _she_ had been the beautiful Marguerite! "Will he recognize me right off, do you think? Wouldn't it be embarrassing to introduce myself if he already knew who I was—"

"Christine."

She jumped at the burst of power in that single word. "Um—yes?"

"I don't want you to see him."

Christine's brow furrowed in confusion. "But...but why not?"

The air in the room was icy, and she felt a shiver quake her body. "He may seem like an honorable gentleman from afar, Christine, but I fear he is just a conscienceless womanizer, like so many of the aristocracy of Paris."

"How dare you say something like that!" she exclaimed, righteously infuriated. "Raoul could never do anything so horrible! How absurd!"

"Trust me, Christine, it's not absurd in the least!"

"No! I can't believe it! I won't believe it! He's a wonderful man, and I'll renew our acquaintance if I want to!"

"There's no way I can convince you?" he asked desperately.

"No!"

There was a long moment of horrible silence, in which Christine cringed against the surface of the vanity, praying to the gods that the Angel, his fury so palpable in the air, would not smite her where she sat. Though he was trying only to protect her, and she appreciated that, she couldn't allow herself to be pushed around. What if Raoul, love-struck on sight, as he of course would be, decided to propose? Or if he was already married, perish the thought, he might introduce her to another wealthy nobleman who would rescue her from this rat hole. She couldn't let the Angel ruin her chances!

Finally the Angel spoke: "If you bestow your heart on Earth," he said, sounding strangely cold, "I will have no choice but to return to Heaven."

Christine, who had not been expecting an answer of such gravity, fell from her stool. Scrambling to her knees, she cried, clasping her hands together in supplication, "Oh, no! Don't do that! Please! I didn't mean it! He d-doesn't mean anything to me, I-I swear—"

"I wish I could believe that, Christine."

"He's just an old friend, that's all. If you like, I won't even talk to him!" Her heart was pounding at such a pace that she feared it would explode. The Angel, leave her? What would she do? She had already discovered what would happen if he left—no, she couldn't let him go! "Please, please, Angel, don't leave me!"

His voice was somewhat warmer now. "Don't worry yourself, Christine. I won't leave you. But please, promise me you'll stay away from the Vicomte de Chagny."

"Yes," she exclaimed, "yes! I promise!"

"Thank you, my dear. Now, we need to review the chorus of 'Je Ris'—I know you don't want to, but this debut will make your career. We can't allow for any mistakes...."

Raoul de Chagny nodded politely to Messieurs Richard and Moncharmin, who were sitting in the box straight across the stage from him. It was fortunate that they had the Chagny family as their patron; the new managers had only recently amassed their fortune, and therefore had no experience with either nobility or managing an opera house. Why, just tonight he'd already corrected several grave mistakes that surely would have destroyed their enterprise. How on earth could anyone be so foolish as to seat Madame Valois in the very next seat to the Marquis de Morel? Morel had used their affair as leverage against her husband to obtain a government office; that was only six months ago, for Heaven's sake! Raoul shuddered to think what would have happened if they had found themselves seated next to each other.

And that wasn't even counting the vast funding he and his brother were giving the opera house. (He wasn't certain of the exact figure—he had always found counting money beneath him and had let his brother, Philippe, handle it. Philippe knew more about finances anyway; there was no need for he, Raoul, to expend efforts on something as distasteful as budgeting. It was enough to know that the figure was in the millions of francs.) It would certainly be gratifying to have other nobles watch these operas and say to each other, "Didn't you just love the diva's dresses?"

"Yes," the other would say. "Did you know that the sapphires were all real?"

"Really?" the first one would ask, shocked. "The Chagnys must certainly be a great house, to give so much to the Opera Garnier!"

Raoul smiled at the thought. Yes, the managers were very fortunate indeed. They seemed to know it, as well—they had presented him with the very best seats in the house, Box Five. It was a bit strange that Debienne and Poligny had not reserved it to someone before they sold the Opera Garnier to Richard and Moncharmin. Or perhaps they had, and the new managers shifted those distinguished personages to a different box. Either way, it was fitting of the managers to give him the best seats, in light of all he and his brother were doing for them.

The orchestra sounded the first notes of the overture, and Raoul sighed resignedly.

"Not excited, Raoul?" queried Philippe, pushing his chair farther back into the shadows.

"Of course not," Raoul said sourly. "I've seen it twice already in my life—and that's about three times too many, I might add—but even if I hadn't seen it before, it would still be a waste of time."

"Time that could be spent wooing beautiful maidens, I take it."

"That's right. Operas are a means to an end, that's it—an excuse to take a woman to dinner. And stop lurking in the shadows like some kind of fiend."

Philippe ignored that. "At least _pretend_ to enjoy the opera we've financed, if at all possible. For subsequent operas you can bring all the women you want, but for this one could you try to act as if you're interested in our investment?"

"Fine, fine," the vicomte sighed. Philippe knew best—he _was_ the Comte de Chagny, and ten years Raoul's senior. He supposed he would just have to suffer.

Oh well; if Philippe had agreed to allow him to accompany a lady, he would have only had one choice: Veronique de la Musardiere, his insufferable fiancée. It seemed like a dreadful waste of time and charm wooing Veronique, since their marriage had been arranged since they were children. Much more attractive to him was the idea of enjoying the company of as many pretty, buxom Parisian girls as possible before he was married in January—a mere three months from now—and had to accept the responsibility as the ruler of a household.

He supposed Veronique wasn't the most undesirable bride in Paris; she was blonde and absolutely beautiful, with all the daintiness and fashionable taste of a true lady. As long as he didn't have to talk to her, she was just fine. But she had a very sharp tongue, and her intellect was too great for any ideal woman. If only he could have brought Julienne, or Brigitte, or even Anceline l'Roux....

Raoul scowled and folded his arms, trying to push away the thoughts of all those beauties ripe for the picking. "I'll pretend to enjoy the opera," he said to his brother, "if you pretend not to be a misanthropic hermit who's terrified of all these people."

Philippe stood and pushed his chair up to the balcony railing, saying with dignity, "I am not terrified. I just don't like their eyes going over us with a fine-tooth comb, trying to find any faults in our taste that they can gossip about."

"You sound like my fiancée," Raoul muttered.

"Really?"

"Don't sound so pleased about it," he snapped. "Why did you have to offer up our wealth to the Garnier anyway?"

"Monsieur Debienne has always been a very good friend of mine; when Baron de Bellamont could no longer afford to keep up his patronage—"

"Stupid man, to allow his gambling to get away from him."

"—the Garnier was in dire need of funding," continued Philippe, with a frown. "It was the least we could do."

"Then you could have at least taken the burden of 'Patron of the Garnier' upon yourself and left me out of it."

"I know, Raoul, and I'm sorry; I know you're not interested in opera, but I just couldn't—"

"It's fine," sighed Raoul, not wanting to delve into the depths of his brother's crippling introversion. "Forget about it."

The curtains opened, and he steeled himself for the most boring evening of his life. Hopefully Richard and Moncharmin had taken his advice and cut out the half-hour of ballet in the second act.

The opera proceeded the same way it always had. Faust, about to commit suicide, called on Satan. Satan, known as Méphistophélès, promised him the world in exchange for his soul. Faust hesitated, and Méphistophélès conjured an image of Marguerite, Faust's only love. _Mon Dieu_ , this was so boring—

Raoul almost fell off his chair.

It was Christine Daaé.

The beautiful, ghostly image of Marguerite sang a few dazzling notes, and Faust fell to his knees before her. Raoul had to grip the railing to keep from doing the same.

He hadn't thought about Christine Daaé for years, but now he could clearly see her demure smile in his memories, feel the grip of her cherubic hand in his, hear her darling, angelic voice, though she was only seven years old when they last saw each other.... How could it possibly be her?

But it was. Her looks had changed; she had been rather awkward as a child, very pretty, but always talking and unaware of all social customs and feminine graces. She was much taller now, thin and perfect, and her form was flawless and graceful. The white dress she was wearing was almost blinding in the lights of the stage, but he refused to shield his eyes. It complimented her beauty much more than her worn childhood dresses, though he didn't particularly care for its unadorned nature. A girl as beautiful as she should be wearing pearls, at least, if not diamonds!

"It's her," Raoul whispered to his brother, jabbing him in the arm.

"Who?"

"Christine!"

"Who?"

"Christine Daaé!"

Philippe studied her with mild interest. "She's the Swedish girl you met in Trouville-sur-Mer all those years ago, is that right?" Raoul nodded, unable to rip his eyes away from her. "It couldn't be," said Philippe. "What are the odds?"

And then she began to sing, and Raoul silenced his brother so he could listen. As she sang, thought of all else faded away. It was only a few tantalizing notes, and she disappeared. Faust cried aloud, and Raoul barely managed to keep himself silent.

By the time Christine had reappeared in the Third Act, Raoul—thoroughly bored by the scenes without Christine in them—had planned out his gallant and dashing reintroduction to her, recalled distant, foggy memories of their interaction as children (as well as making up a few) in case he was called upon to recount them, and worked out a rough timeline for the seduction of this unbelievably-beautiful diva.

When she walked out onto the stage, he noticed that she was wearing the same dress, an unheard-of cheapness for such a famous opera house. He would have to reprimand Richard and Moncharmin for such stupidity and make sure Christine was present when he demanded that she be given the wardrobe she deserved; if she didn't know about it, then it would just be a waste of his time.

She looked out at the audience, and she faltered as she saw the hundreds of expectant eyes staring back at her. Her distress made her appear even more beautiful, like a shy, exquisite forest nymph from a faerie tale, but she paused so long that she missed her cue for the aria concerning the jewels.

"Mademoiselle!" hissed the conductor, his voice clearly audible to the audience. She jumped, and a few crude, obviously-lower-class spectators laughed. Raoul considered leaping up from his seat to defend her, but decided against it; he didn't want to risk his image just to impress her, no matter how beautiful she was. _Blasted plebeians shouldn't even be allowed in the building_ , he thought angrily before returning his attention to his perfect diva.

Christine faltered twice more during the song, causing the orchestra to halt and restart the current verse. After that, she seemed to lose all confidence, and every aria she sang came out imperfect. Because of all the starts and stops and incorrect words, the story was difficult to follow, but all Raoul was interested in was that beautiful, beautiful voice, and the impossibly-perfect, angelic body that went with it.

As the curtain slowly escalated for the final act, revealing a silent and staring audience, he could see Christine sway slightly, seeming about to faint, as if a sudden stage-fright had gripped her. A long, expectant silence filled the opera house as everyone waited for her to begin.

At the exact moment when Raoul thought he could stand the suspense no longer, she began. The note caught in her throat at first. She raised her eyes to the sky, as if in prayer. Then, astonishingly, she seemed to hear something from the rafters—as if an angel were speaking to her from above— and, suddenly filled with courage, she began to sing.

The aria was so beautiful that Raoul's heart twisted with agony in his chest, pleading, demanding, that he jump from the balcony and sweep the diva into his arms.

But as the last note died and the entire house erupted into thunderous applause, Christine's knees buckled and she fell to the stage floor. Raoul picked up his hat and cane and strode from the balcony, ignoring Philippe, who wanted to know where he was going, and congratulated himself for his good fortune: appearing, stricken with concern, at the diva's side, would be a perfect way to reintroduce himself and begin his seduction.

# Chapitre Six: Dans Son Vestiaire

Christine awoke to the sound of frantic voices. What was going on? Where was the Angel? She moaned, trying to blink away the tumult of color and pain rushing around and around in her head. At long last she opened her eyes. There were three blurs standing over her. As her vision cleared, she identified the first person as an unknown gentleman; the woman was Madame Giry, and the other man—

_It was Raoul!_ No, not him! Not here! The Angel would leave her forever, just when she needed him the most!

Raoul was bending over her, his face radiating anxiety and concern. "Christine," he murmured gently, squeezing her hand. "How are you?"

Oh, gods, he was so perfect.... Like a god himself.... But she couldn't afford to dwell on that now—what if the Angel was watching?

"Mademoiselle Daaé," said the other gentleman, "how are you feeling?"

She didn't reply, too busy panicking to pay him any attention.

"I am a physician," he continued. "Luckily I was sitting in one of the aisle seats and was able to reach you quickly. You appear just fine, merely shaken."

"Y-yes," she agreed. "I must get up—I must accept the audience's praise!"

"You aren't on the stage any longer, mademoiselle," Madame Giry informed her kindly. "Monsieur le Vicomte was kind enough to carry you to your dressing room."

She blinked, and her eyes focused enough for her to recognize her surroundings. How just like Raoul to do something so dashing! "Thank you very much, monsieur," she said, smiling brilliantly. "I really do—" She cut off suddenly as she realized just how angry the Angel would be if he had seen Raoul carrying her so romantically away—and surely he had been watching the performance! "Um, that is, thank you, monsieur, you may go now."

"Christine," said Raoul softly, "don't you recognize me?"

"I'm sorry, I don't," she whispered faintly, cursing herself for lying. Would Raoul believe that she did not recognize him? She hated to lie to him; he was so radiant, so handsome....

Raoul kissed her hand passionately. She inadvertently flinched, though she was rendered breathless by his handsomeness and gallantry. The fact that the Angel was undoubtedly watching was the only thing that kept her from throwing her arms about his neck and begging him to stay with her. "Mademoiselle," he said with a dashing smile, "I am the boy who went into the sea to rescue your scarf."

Christine felt the last of her resolve melt away. That was how they had first met—her scarf had blown into the ocean, and Raoul had rescued it for her.... Braving the terrors of the powerful, bottomless ocean, where the god Aegir and his daughters made their dark, turbulent home. She had always been so afraid of the ocean's malevolent, unpredictable currents—what a romantically courageous thing for him to have done! But what if the Angel had heard that? She couldn't make it to the top without him! She quickly decided that it was best to continue to feign indifference, as horrible as it was. "I am sorry, monsieur, but I—I don't know what you are talking about."

"But I am the Vicomte de Chagny, mademoiselle," he said, looking quite taken aback by her coldness. "I am Raoul! Surely you recall me!"

She shook her head blandly, pursing her lips as she pretended to wrack her memory. "No, I'm sorry, monsieur. You simply aren't familiar to me at all."

A faint scarlet tinge colored the vicomte's cheeks, and he stood. "I would like to have a private word with you, mademoiselle."

"Aaahh...when I am better, do you mind?" she asked sweetly, her voice shaking. Couldn't he just _get out_? Raoul turned to leave. The hurt expression on his face pained her greatly; he did not deserve such an ill reception. But the Angel took precedence....Didn't he?

She dismissed the doctor and Madame Giry with assurances that she would be fine with a little rest. Before the doctor left, Christine begged him to inform the managers that she was not—under any circumstances—to be disturbed. She had kept the Angel waiting long enough already.

And, painfully hobbling over to her worn vanity stool—cursing Loki, the trickster god, and Carlotta for giving her such a horrifically twisted ankle, which had redoubled its burning pangs in the aftermath of her collapse—she seated herself, closed her eyes, and waited for him to arrive.

Raoul was very surprised, upon exiting Christine's dressing room, to find that the hall was quickly filling up with people. Richard and Moncharmin, who were standing next to the door, spoke urgently to the physician, and were apparently relieved to find that their diva was recovering. The throng was now blocking the hallway, but Raoul had no intention of leaving; it was obvious that Christine had forced them all out so that she could talk to him alone. The way she had gone about it was roundabout and quite insulting, but fortunately he had seen through her feigned coldness.

"What are all these people doing back here?" he demanded of the incompetent managers.

"They all wish to congratulate Mademoiselle Daaé," said Moncharmin, pulling at his moustache with a mix of anxiety and excitement.

"Where is the comte, by the way?" Richard asked, scanning the crowded hallway. "He should be sharing in our success!"

"Waiting in a secluded corner, no doubt, for all these people to disperse."

Richard looked puzzled for a moment, then dismissed it in favor of their great success. "We'll be rich, Moncharmin!" he declared. "We have discovered the greatest voice in all of Europe!"

"Yes, yes," Raoul scowled, not really listening. The chattering and clamor of the crowd was beginning to get on his nerves, and it was keeping him from his rendezvous with Christine. "Get all these people out of here!"

"We—we can't very well do that, monsieur!" exclaimed Moncharmin.

"Fine, then I'll do it!" snapped the vicomte. Turning to face the mob—a difficult task, as he was almost completely surrounded by it—he declared in an overly-loud voice, "MADEMOISELLE DAAÉ IS RECOVERING, MESDAMES AND MESSIEURS, AND WILL NOT BE ABLE TO SEE ANY OF YOU TONIGHT!"

Protests rippled through the crowd, but Raoul cut them off: "YOU MAY ALL SAVE YOUR CONGRATULATIONS UNTIL SHE HAS RECOVERED! GOOD NIGHT!"

A few of the more determined opera-goers gave the vicomte some trouble, but after a brief battle he was able to convince everyone, including the managers, to retreat. He then positioned himself just outside the door to Christine's dressing room, waiting for her to open it so that they could be reunited.

Oh, Christine! Such a darling little seraph she had been as a child, and such a voice.... But it was nothing— _nothing_ —compared to her divine radiance now. He had enjoyed many fair beauties, but Christine would undoubtedly be the most beautiful, the most radiant mistress he would ever possess. Even her low-born status would be irrelevant, so beautiful was she that—

"Christine, you were absolutely beautiful tonight."

Raoul froze.

Whose voice was that? How had this man even managed to sneak into Christine's room? There was no means of ingress besides the door he was standing in front of, and there was absolutely no way anyone could have possibly slipped by him. It was impossible!

But that wasn't the most pressing issue—the fact was that the man _was_ in Christine's dressing room. It was obvious that the scoundrel had the same idea as himself. Yes, that must be it—the man's voice had been soft and loving, confirming Raoul's fears. He couldn't detect anything insincere about it, but that just meant the man was good at the art of seduction. This was terrible! But he wouldn't succeed if Raoul had anything to say about it—the only man who had the right to deflower this perfect rose was the Vicomte de Chagny!

Then he heard Christine's voice, tired and upset: "No, no, I was terrible! I ruined every single aria! I was horrific! Pathetic! Amateur! And then fainting, on top of it all!"

"Are you quite all right?" he asked softly.

"Yes, yes, I'm fine—though I did bruise my hip a little when I fell—but I'm so terribly embarrassed!"

"You were wonderful, Christine, and a few mistakes do not change the beauty of your voice or the fabulous talent you possess."

"You really think so?"

"I do."

"Well, thank you, but that's just your opinion, and you're _supposed_ to be wonderful to me—what about the audience? The nobility? The critics?!"

"I'm sure they will agree with me, my dear."

' _My dear'?_ Raoul had to fight to keep from laughing at the man's pathetic attempt to win Christine's affections. That anyone could use such a trite term of affection for a perfect beauty like Christine was absolutely absurd!

"So you think I was wonderful anyway?"

"Yes, Christine. There are no words to describe the beauty of your voice in any language. The angels wept tonight."

Raoul rolled his eyes in disgust. What a ridiculous thing to say. This nincompoop was no competition, he was sure of that.

"Tell me more!" she demanded.

"About what, my dear?"

"How amazing I am!" she exclaimed, with an audible pout to those gorgeous lips, still sounding upset over her blunders in the opera. "Praise my intelligence, my poise, my beauty, my grace, everything! Tell me I'm the best pupil you've ever had!"

"You are," said the man, in a voice filled with sincerity and admiration.

_What a stupid sot this man is_ , thought Raoul. _He doesn't have the skill—the words—the wherewithal to praise her, even when she requests it._ When he, the only true deserver of her affections, spoke to her again, he would shower her with so much praise, devotion, and adoration that she would melt in his hands.

"Christine, why are you putting on more makeup?"

"Because I want to speak to my admirers, that's why—and that blasted doctor and his cold compress washed it all off my forehead!"

"Are you sure you wouldn't rather rest?"

The next thing he would say would be, "Come lie down," and then before Christine knew it, blast it, she would be in the arms of another man!

Raoul drew his dagger, ready to fight to the death to keep Christine, and kicked the door in.

Christine screamed as her door crashed to the floor. At first she was convinced it was an earthquake and started to call to the Angel to save her. But then she realized who was standing in the doorway. This did not make her any less afraid, however; the Angel could save her from a natural disaster, but not from the brash words of a vicomte.

"Where is he?" demanded Raoul, brandishing his dagger. "Never fear, my dulcet diva—I will save you from this unspeakable dastard!" He grabbed her arm, and, pulling her past him through the doorway, he began to prowl behind the chairs and piles of clutter.

She tugged her wrist out of his grasp. "Who?" she asked innocently, realizing with a furious scowl that he must have been listening. How could he do such a terrible thing? Perhaps he'd changed since those summers by the sea!

Raoul threw back the closet doors with a jerk and checked suspiciously inside. Finding nothing, he turned sharply to Christine. "I heard his voice—don't lie to me."

"Voice? W-what voice?"

Having searched every possible hiding place, Raoul lowered his dagger—though he did not sheathe it—and turned to Christine. "Who was it, Christine? I'll have his head on a platter for so much as speaking to you!"

Christine had no reply. It was wonderfully gallant of Raoul to try to protect her, but the Angel was most assuredly listening. So, much as she wanted to thank Raoul for his bravery, she had to get him out of her dressing room as quickly as possible. "I told you," she said distractedly, casting about for something to force him to leave, "there wasn't anyone." Her eyes fell upon the broken door, and she suddenly got an idea.

"Oh, Raoul," she wailed, falling to her knees before the broken door, "how could you?"

"Aha, you _do_ know who I am—" He cut off as he realized why she was so upset. "Oh, Christine, I'm sorry," he faltered, taken aback, "but you're safety is worth more than any door—"

"No," she cried, twisting her expression into one of abject grief. "No! This door is irreplaceable! Oh, why did you have to break down my door?" As she pretended to cry, she studied the door's painted surface. The single fleur-de-lis carved into the center had been smashed by Raoul's boot. Besides that, it really _was_ a pretty door. She'd never noticed.

Raoul sheepishly sheathed his dagger. "I'm terribly sorry," he said again, less loudly this time. "I'll have it replaced as soon as possible."

"But my door—"

"I promise," he added hurriedly, frantic to placate her, "that I'll buy you a door a hundred times more beautiful than this one. I'll even have your name engraved in gold. How does that sound?"

"Well, I—I suppose," she sniffled, secretly overjoyed that he would spend so much money on her. Even Carlotta's nameplate wasn't made of gold. "Thank you."

He started towards the doorway, but abruptly turned around. "I'm going to get someone to help me move this. You're coming with—I don't want to leave you alone."

He was so thoughtful, so caring! No man had ever shown concern for her wellbeing before, especially not one so handsome. "Thank you," she said, "but I'll be fine. I'm going home now."

"Christine, that dastard might still be out there!"

"But there wasn't—"

"I won't take no for an answer."

"Well, all right," she said, feigning reluctance. If allowing Raoul to accompany her home was the only way to keep him from snooping, surely the Angel couldn't blame her! Grabbing the first shawl she saw, she hurriedly threw it over her shoulders. He was so handsome, so kind, so caring.... He _had_ thought, after all, that he was coming to her aid. As she followed him down the hall, she breathed a sigh of relief. The Angel... She shuddered to think what he had thought.

# Chapitre Sept: La Notoriété

Christine had become a celebrity overnight. The simple act of walking across the street—accompanied by shouts of "It's Mademoiselle Daaé!" and people crowding all around—left her giddy and wondering if she were residing in a dream. Despite her mistakes in the opera (which she had been assured by countless people were so minor that no one even noticed), the newspapers described her as a goddess, an angel, a muse greater than any other in the history of song itself. She had had to ask the Angel what a muse was—she'd thought they were calling her "amusing"—but now that she knew what it meant, it was among her most favorite compliments. She was showered with a vast, endless deluge of praise, compared to the delightfully-pathetic drizzle Carlotta was receiving—more of a mist, actually, or even a drought. She had considered starting a list of all the compliments she received, but there were so many that she couldn't keep up with them and decided to paste the newspaper clippings on her dressing room wall instead.

Still, she couldn't demand all the groveling and subservience that Carlotta had been able to, but she was confident that with a few tantrums and refusals to sing, she would be able to wield that kind of power. Carlotta sometimes disappeared for days, amused by the effect it had on the panicking managers, and Christine couldn't wait to try out this tactic herself.

The fame was so marvelous and so sudden that she was constantly lightheaded, and continued to make mistakes in the successive performances of _Faust_. Indeed, she had become so scatterbrained in the light of so much attention that she had given out several dozen autographs before realizing that she could charge people for them. Of course, she had given Meg, Madame Giry, and Monsieur Mercier autographs for free; it wouldn't do to forget the little people who had helped her attain her fame. She almost presented the entire chorus and ballet free autographs, but when the first rat she generously offered one to just laughed at her and walked away, she remembered all the horrible things the rats had done to her and decided that she wouldn't give them a single autograph no matter how much they begged. Besides, if she signed too many, they wouldn't be worth as much; the Angel had explained that to her once when he was answering her question about the difference between capitalism and communism (his knowledge, it seemed, was by no means limited to music. She had contrived all kinds of impossible questions to test the limits of his genius, and had come up short). Despite this economic knowledge, she couldn't resist whipping out her fountain pen every time someone approached her, which was quite often; she was spending a lot of time in cafés and department stores (a very recent and popular creation) enjoying the adoration of the public.

The admirers she was most excited about were the fashionable French gentlemen, who flocked to the Garnier night and day to shower her with praise, poetry, trinkets, and flowers until her dressing room was untraversable for all the vegetation. She, never having possessed even one mildly-interested suitor in her life, was overcome with giddiness every time one of these gentlemen kissed her hand. Madame Giry had tried to warn these gentlemen away, as she had ever since Christine's childhood, and Christine, good as she knew the ballet mistress's intentions were, had been forced to set the kind woman straight—the last thing she wanted was to lose even one of these devoted admirers.

Leading the reverence and adulation of Parisian gentlemen was the fabulous Vicomte de Chagny, who seemed to have dedicated his existence to winning her affections. He was a wonderful man; he was so handsome, so well-bred, so incredibly wealthy, and he was in madly love with her—everything she had ever wanted in a man. He had paid for a new door, as he had promised; the plaque upon its surface was solid gold and proclaimed, in shining, elaborate letters, " _Mademoiselle Christine Daaé, Diva Extraordinaire." I_ t was so beautiful and so obviously expensive that she'd even considered having Raoul break a few more things so he could replace them. Sadly, though she wished she could sit back and enjoy his flattering attentions, it was so stressing looking over her shoulder every few minutes for the Angel that she hadn't been able to enjoy one minute.

Raoul himself had not been helping her anxiety either; when he had accompanied her home after breaking down her door (the Angel had not been pleased, but she had convinced him that she had nobly sacrificed her walk home to keep the vicomte from snooping or causing any further problems), he had bent down to kiss her when they reached the door of her apartment. She had jumped, caught by surprise that he would attempt something so forward after they had just barely met, and he had instead kissed her hand. She felt foolish, but—Angel or no—that she was glad Raoul had perceived her discomfort. He was incredibly handsome, and after he had courted her for a while (which she had no doubt he would do; he was obviously quite taken with her if he would risk seeming ungentlemanly as he had) she would be very happy to share a great number of kisses with him, but now was just too soon.

The managers had offered her the lead role of the next opera, _Idomeneo_. It was a great honor, since she had not been a diva for more than a few days. But of course, she was utterly amazing, far better than any singer in Paris, or Europe for that matter, and so it was not surprising that they would beg her to continue her triumph. Still, it was an awful lot of work—months of rehearsals and scripts and choreography.

But now that she had a taste of fame, she couldn't bear to think of losing it. She would do better than simply fulfilling her father's dream—she would become the most legendary and sought-after diva in the entire world. And _Idomeneo_ was the next step on her road to celebrity—so she would play the lead in _Idomeneo_ greater than it had ever been played before, even if it killed her.

Christine muttered a curse as she threw piles of junk out of her closet, wondering sourly why she had so much worthless stuff. It made it impossible to find _anything_. Of course, if she had ignored the Angel's sermon on neatness and left everything out on the floor as it had been, there wouldn't be a problem—it was having everything shoved into the closet that made it so miserable. But, she supposed, throwing out a stack of fading programs from past operas, if Raoul was going to be a frequent visitor to her dressing room, it wouldn't do to greet him with a filthy mess. (Or even if he didn't visit, there would assuredly be crowds of fans.)

She stared at a strange little bent piece of metal she had unearthed, wondering what on earth it was. Oh yes, it was a part from one of the set-hoisting contraptions backstage. She had taken it so that a certain stagehand (who had been particularly rude to her the previous week) would be fired. She had felt a little guilty when he had been escorted from the Garnier, yelling that without a job he wouldn't be able to feed his children. But it wasn't as if she had broken the machine or anything; the part had already been on the floor and she had just picked it up. She hadn't really done anything.

She flung the metal part into the overflowing wastebasket, willing the guilt and bad memories to go with it, and recommenced her search. She threw a bunch of torn, crumpled papers in the direction of the trash, then stopped, picked one up, and decided she would keep them; she had collected them out of discarded copies of _Godey's Lady's Book_ because she loved to admire the beautiful gowns and latest fashions.

Christine was reaching the back of the closet now, and she drew a rune across her chest and prayed to the gods that she wouldn't find any spiders.

"Aha!" she cried as she cast aside a fallen dress to reveal a miniature hope chest. She had spent several hours in her search—first in her apartment and now in her dressing room—but perseverance had paid off. As she picked it up, she fearfully inspected all sides of the little box for arachnids, and was relieved to find nothing but dust.

She opened the wooden lid and extracted the object of her search: a rough-spun, moth-eaten brown scarf. It was quite a bit smaller and more dingy than she remembered, but she was glad she hadn't thrown it out.

As she held the wool in her hands, she could remember the warmth of the sun, and the salty smell of the sea on the day she had, as a child, crept on to the Chagny family's private beach hoping to admire the noble ladies in their beautiful clothes and sparkling jewelry. Despite the month—June, she recalled—the wind had been fierce, and the temperature so close to the ocean had become uncomfortable enough that she had been very glad for her scarf. Her mother had made it for her before she died, and though Christine could barely remember her, as a child she had treasured the scarf because it smelled of cloves and cinnamon, as her mother always had.

When the wind had ripped the scarf from her neck and cruelly carried it off into the surf, she had been so heartbroken that she had cried aloud and given away her presence to the wealthy boy and his governess whom she had been watching. The governess had immediately called for the attendants to escort "the filthy waif" from the Chagny's property, but Christine, about to run, tarried to watch the little boy, who had dashed madly into the ocean after her scarf. The governess had cried sharply for him to come back at once, and Christine had screamed the same, falling to her knees and entreating Aegir for mercy and not to trap the boy forever beneath the waves.

The servants had secured Christine by the arms by the time the boy had strode triumphantly out of the ocean, with the sopping scarf held high. It had been like a faerie tale to Christine as he, the handsome young prince, demanded that the attendants release her, and despite the governess' protests, had invited Christine into his beautiful summer estate to share lunch with him. Though she had gaped at all the marvelous fineries and quite disgusted the snobbish governess with her awkward, peasant manners, the handsome prince (who introduced himself as Raoul, future Vicomte de Chagny) had been very kind and treated her as he would have a noble lady.

Raoul had said that it was his parents' wish that he spend his summer at their Trouville-sur-Mer mansion, and admitted to her that he was quite bored with country life, because there were no children of a similar age with whom he could pass the hours. When he had beseeched her to return the following day to alleviate his boredom, she had been so thrilled to accept that she had spilled her tea. They had quickly become the best of companions and spent every moment together until he had returned to Paris at the beginning of September. He had promised to return early the following summer, but though she convinced her father (with many tantrums and threats of running away) to remain in Trouville-sur-Mer throughout that next summer, Raoul had never appeared. And after that, her father's travels had never taken her back to Trouville-sur-Mer. It had been like a tragic play, their romance nipped in the bud before it could open but a few petals.

But now, so many years later, after all her hardships, her poverty, the death of her father, her dismal life in the opera house, the Norn that looked after her fate had finally made up for it all—first with the Angel, and then with Raoul's reentrance into her life.

She pulled a magic charm out of her pocket—a small, home-made affair consisting of a pilfered ruby earring, dried sprigs of vervain and thyme, and a string of copper beads (all symbols of the goddess Freya)—and clasped her hands together, saying aloud, "Please, most gracious Norn who controls my destiny, though you be but a demigoddess, your power bends the fates of even the gods themselves; please find it within the goodness of your heart to make the love that Vicomte Raoul de Chagny bears for me—for I'm sure he loves me—burn like a raging fire within his chest, and lead him to marry me and make me a vicomtess.... Please," she said again, wringing her hands, "please let me escape this wretched poverty."

Though she received no sign that the Norn had heard, she felt better knowing that her fate was in good hands and began to take the seashells from the little box (mementos from the beach) and arrange them on her vanity. How could Raoul not marry her, when the supernatural was involved? And even if it hadn't been, she was very, very pretty—she had been told so many times—and with her new divahood, she was, while not nobility, more worthy of marriage to a vicomte than most denizens of Paris.

_But_ , she thought, with a sudden frown, _as long as the Angel opposes my relationship with Raoul, I have no chance with him._ More than once, Raoul had cornered her and demanded to know why she refused to acknowledge his presence. She'd had no choice but to thrust hasty excuses at him and slip away. She had tried to tell him about the Angel, but he had just smiled and agreed with everything she said, like an adult indulging a child's fantastic ramblings. It annoyed her a little—a lot, actually; he had never believed in the Angel, even when they were children—but she supposed it did seem a little unbelievable. Despite his refusal to listen, she continued to drop hints; what else could she do? It was all so stressing!

But still, it was secretly quite lovely to have such a dedicated admirer. In Raoul's eyes, she had no flaws. But it was terrible to hear his compliments; even as they sent a wave of heat through her body, a chill shook her heart—what if the Angel heard? But the gods were on her side. She had to remember that.

One evening not long after, Christine opened her dressing room door to find Raoul standing there, looking exceptionally dashing in a blue dinner jacket trimmed with gold embroidery and an immaculate ruffled shirt. Christine, surprised that he would go so far as to come to her private rooms so soon after breaking her door down, made the mistake of looking into his eyes. They were crystalline and azure, as beautiful and shining as diamonds. Even seeing them from a distance had had a terrible effect on her, but now that he was so close.... Before he had even opened his mouth, she felt her heart thunder within her chest, and the celerity of the beats increase.

"Ah, my alluring angel," he began, "you shan't avoid me a moment longer. I have arranged for a private dinner—just the two of us. I'll ready the carriage, while you get dressed in something more"—he eyed her costume with a beautiful, devilish grin—" _suitable_. I'll give you two minutes." And with that, he turned and strode down the hall.

" _The Angel is very strict!"_ Christine shouted after him. But Raoul was already out of earshot. As much as she wanted to go with Raoul—to spend an evening in some lavish restaurant, followed by a dreamy drive along the Seine in his carriage—the Angel was most certainly watching. Perhaps she could pretend to go home and then meet Raoul in front of the opera house. She wasn't betraying the Angel—just having dinner with a childhood friend. There was nothing wrong with that. And the Angel never need know.

Erik leaned against the wall of the hidden passage behind Christine's mirror, watching her intently. When Christine had opened the door to reveal the vicomte, he'd been fearfully certain that she would accept his offer. Perhaps she had mulled over what he had said the night of the performance and had come to realize that these men held poor intentions.

The voice in the back of his mind started to protest this last thought, muttering that he wasn't an angel any more than he was a vicomte, and that Christine's love interests weren't any of his business, but he silenced it before it could finish. Christine had put her future in his hands, and that made these circling wolves his business—he just had to concentrate on that, and not the feverish pang of jealousy that twisted in his heart every time he thought of Christine's ardent interest in the vicomte. She had no idea of the dangers involved with celebrity status, despite his warnings.

Erik straightened, suddenly noticing what Christine was doing. She had discarded the plain, woolen dress she had intended to change into and had chosen another from her closet. It was a blue silk gown, with delicate silver threads embroidered into exquisite swirls and stars. As she appraised it with critical eyes, Erik tried to recall where she had gotten it. Ah yes—it had been her costume for _The Magic Flute_. But what was she doing with it? It should be in storage with all the other old costumes. Obviously she'd seen fit to appropriate it.

As she began changing one costume for another, Erik turned away, mind racing. It was quite apparent that she intended to accept the vicomte's offer. What other reason could there be for her choice in apparel? Christine had rejected his warning. Why hadn't he seen it coming? Her pagan beliefs, with their damnation of the soul to a dark, lightless Underworld for eternity, worked against him: if the next world was to be one of never-ending torment, the obvious reaction of a typical human was to get as much pleasure as possible out of this life. And the gentlemen who were showering her with attention could offer her much, much more in terms of wealth, comfort, and beauty than he ever could.... But he shoved the anguish away—this moment called for decisive action.

When the rustling of clothes stopped, he turned back. Christine was fully dressed in the sparkling gown and checking her hair in the trick mirror, only inches away from him. The excited light in her eyes hurt him, and he set his jaw decisively; he had to do something, and quickly. If the vicomte had been a true gentleman, sincerely seeking Christine's hand in marriage, he would have hesitated to interfere, despite the love that flared in his own chest. But what aristocrat would consider marrying so far below his station? Besides, he had taken note of the look in the vicomte's eyes whenever he saw Christine—it was the look of a ravenous wolf. There was no chance that his courtship was genuine.

He had hoped to keep his angelic façade in place until Christine's position as sole diva had been firmly established, but he couldn't think of anything to do but compromise his plans to protect Christine. She wouldn't believe him if he simply told her the truth about the gentlemen pursuing her—he had tried that already.

As she started for the door, he flipped a switch, which cut the gas to the lamps lining the walls—a trick he had installed with the intention of amusing her.

Christine froze as the light in the room was obliterated, her hand jerking guiltily away from the doorknob. Erik let his voice sound, all traces of angelic heavenliness gone. _"Good evening, Christine." H_ is words resounded off the walls, magnifying with every reverberation until it was almost deafening.

Christine's eyes widened in shock, and it took a moment before she could regain her composure enough to form a reply. "Angel!" she squeaked, scuttling to the center of the room to further the pretense that she had not been about to leave. "G-good evening."

"You're in danger," he said.

"W-w-whatever do you mean?"

"I mean these aristocrats who have set their sights on you."

She looked surprised, then annoyed, before finally arranging her face in a puzzled expression. "Why Angel, I don't know what you're talking about."

"These men are only interested in using you."

"That's ridiculous!"

"Trust me, Christine, they aren't after marriage or—"

"You're wrong!" she interrupted. "And it's none of your business what I do in my free time!"

"But—"

"No! I'm done listening to you!"

She whirled around and stomped towards the door. The force with which she slammed her feet into the floor caused one of the flimsy costumes heels to break, and she lost her balance and fell.

Erik flipped the switch opening the passageway and was halfway through the mirror frame towards her when her forehead crashed into the unforgiving wood of the vanity. He was instantly at her side, cursing fate and his stupid decision to make her angry, and examined her head. She was unconscious, and he was alarmed to see that the side of her head was already starting to color and swell painfully.

He looked toward the door, wondering if he needed to fetch Christine help. But the Garnier had no physician employed and no one else would be of much help. He had a little medical knowledge—just bits and pieces he had picked up from his pursuit of knowledge; hopefully it would be sufficient.

He wanted to fetch a cold compress for her forehead, but he didn't dare leave her. So he grabbed a stained pillow out from a pile of stuff in Christine's closet to make her more comfortable, and waited for her to regain consciousness.

# Chapitre Huit: Le Vérité du Ange

Christine's eyes fluttered open, and she moaned as a terrible searing pain in the side of her head jarred her fully awake. She couldn't really remember what had happened, or where she was, or why her body ached.

She frowned as the ceiling came into partial focus, and she realized that she was looking at the stained, cracking tiles of her dressing room. She struggled to sit up, and found herself lying on the floor before a sharp pang in her head distracted her.

As she clutched her head in agony, a beautiful, familiar voice, deep and sonorous, inquired concernedly, "Christine, how do you feel?"

It was the Angel's voice—but instead of resounding from all corners of the room, it came directly from her right. She turned quickly to locate it, and was shocked to see a man kneeling by her side.

This wasn't the Angel—Gods, who was he? "Angel!" she cried, clutching trembling fingers around the charm at her throat, a relief of Thor's magical hammer etched in pewter. "Angel, help me!"

"Do not be afraid," he pleaded. "You are in no danger."

It was the Angel's voice!

He was clad fully in black, save for a white porcelain mask covering half of his face. The half she could see was attractive, seeming very noble and breathtaking, with dark, passionate eyes. But he was still a very mortal man, despite his likeness to the dashing Angel she had imagined. Could this possibly be the Angel...? No, it could not be true! She raised an arm in an attempt to rip off his mask, but the sudden motion sparked unbearable pain in her shoulder.

"Your shoe broke and you fell," he said somberly, as she collapsed back onto the floor.

The pain, the swirling confusion in her head, and the nausea threatening her stomach were so overwhelming that she started to sob. She tried to keep from shaking because it hurt so badly, but to no avail. "I feel so sick," she whispered. "My head hurts and I feel sick...and dizzy..." She breathed deeply, trying to focus her thoughts. "Everything is blurry."

"You may have a concussion," he said.

"A what?"

"An impact to the head that jars the brain—"

"Oh, Gods, don't tell me that," she said, as her stomach threatened to revolt.

"You woke up quickly, and the bump doesn't look severe, so I think the concussion is mild," he said, pain in his deep voice.

"How—how long will it last?"

"A few hours, a few days at the most—as I said, it is mild."

She lay on the floor for a long time, the masked man at her side; she kept her eyes closed, thinking little and waiting for the pain to subside. The dizziness started to let up, and in its place, her ears began to ring. When the shock had worn off, her thoughts started to gather. "So then...you're...not an angel?"

It took him a long moment to answer. "No."

"Gods, gods," she sobbed, "it was all a lie." Her hopes, her dreams, dashed, and in their place this man, who had lied to her, convinced her that the Angel of Music had come at last. Oh, she had been such a fool!

The Voice—or whoever he was—looked even sadder than before. "I'm so sorry, Christine."

"Who are you, then?" she demanded, her voice choked with sobs.

"I am Erik," he said.

"Erik what?"

"I do not possess a last name—I am merely the phantom of this opera house."

Christine's heart sank even further. So, she thought miserably, THIS is the Opera Ghost. And that, too, is but a sham; merely a fantasy to ensnare the weak-minded.

"I am sorry, Christine, sorry for everything," he said, still on his knees. He could not bring himself to meet her eyes. "I did not want to lie to you. And I didn't mean to destroy your illusions like this—I just wanted to protect you from harm—and in my haste, I've ruined everything.... And on top of it all, you were hurt."

"It's not your fault," she said, touched by his grief. "I'm very clumsy."

Her words didn't lighten the somberness of his expression. "As soon as you feel better, I'll leave—go to dinner with the Vicomte de Chagny. I won't trouble you ever again." His anguish was so poignant that she began to cry, and she realized that his eyes as well were threatening tears. "I would beg that you would allow me to remain as your instructor, but I cannot even ask—I've deceived you too greatly for that." The half of his face not covered by his mask was bold and rather handsome. His eyes, just a shade darker than emerald, were bright and shining despite the dim candlelight. The forced calm of his body belied the passionate fire in his eyes, and she blinked in surprise. She didn't have much experience in the subject, but he seemed quite in love with her.

She supposed it wasn't that surprising; she was fantastically beautiful, after all—it was natural that men would fall for her.

Christine thought about it for a several minutes, finding it difficult to focus her thoughts. She wasn't sure what to do about the masked man. He had taken advantage of her faith and desperation. She felt so betrayed and so stupid for believing him that she never wanted to see him again.

She started to tell him to leave, but then stopped to think. Why had he lied to her? What had he gotten out of it? He'd gone to far too much effort to teach her for the whole thing to have just been a joke. It would be better if she sent him away until she had figured it out. Yes, she would send him away and go to dinner with Raoul as planned.

A sharp pang in her head put an end to her ambitious plans. She was in no condition to return to life as usual, not for dinners, performances, or anything else. She weighed her headache against her desire to keep her dinner date with Raoul. She hated to lose a glamorous dinner, and worse, what if Raoul took some other girl instead? But at the same time, she could have dinner with Raoul any time she chose—he was completely infatuated with her—and Raoul would love her all the more for having worried for a while. When he came back to see what had happened to her, he would be so concerned that he would undoubtedly cancel his plans for the rest of the week to spend every minute by her side.

Another horrible pain made her decide that it would be better if someone was watching her condition until Raoul arrived. "Perhaps you'd better stay for a few minutes," she said, touching the lump on her head experimentally. "I might faint again."

He stayed at her side, silent and unmoving, seeming afraid to speak lest she reconsider and order him to leave. She made no attempt to speak either, contemplating what she thought of this peculiar man and how he fit into her plans to marry the Vicomte de Chagny. It was, strangely, a comfortable silence, and in a few minutes, she fell asleep on the floor, wrapped in blankets.

Raoul waited in the carriage for a few minutes, thinking of the lovely dinner he was about to spend with Christine, and how best he could extract from her the reason why she had been so rudely and blatantly ignoring him. At first he had thought it was her way of making him desire her all the more, but it was becoming rather tiresome. Perhaps it was just her maidenly shyness. Well, that was tolerable, he supposed, as long as she got over it sooner rather than later. He only had three months until he had to give up his irresponsible bachelor existence, and he wanted to enjoy the company of the most beautiful women in Paris as much as possible in that short time. So, regrettably, much as he enjoyed the challenge of romancing a recalcitrant girl, if Christine spent much more time being maidenly, he'd have to abandon her for easier conquests. It would be a terrible shame; she was undoubtedly the most gorgeous thing he'd ever laid eyes on.

To pass the time, he absentmindedly studied the interior of the carriage. Though he rode in it most every day, he never took the time to admire it. The windows were lined with gold leaf and equipped with shining little hinges to allow air in to the passengers. The wall opposite him was painted with an accurate reproduction of da Vinci's _Annunciation_ , glowing in the light of the street. It was a beautiful painting, depicting a kneeling Gabriel revealing to Mary that she was to bear the son of God. His wings were luminescent and golden, looking like the delicate wings of a swallow rather than the strong eagle-wings that Raoul fancied angels really had.

An angel.... That reminded him—every time he managed to corner Christine and demand an explanation, she babbled something about an angel. He supposed it was the Angel of...what was it...Music, yes—that her father had always talked about. Perhaps she attributed her recent success of _Faust_ to the angel her father had promised her—but to take stock in such an absurd story was pure folly. Surely she didn't think that it was the Angel of Music she had been talking to the other night? No, that was ridiculous. She had never had much by way of brains, but no one was _that_ stupid.

He had never discovered the identity of the brazen scum foolish enough to come between him and his lovely diva, and Christine still denied the fiend's existence. But, as long as it didn't interfere with his seduction—and because he could tell she was absolutely smitten with him, despite her reluctance, he wasn't worried—he supposed it didn't matter. It was probably just some stupid illiterate stagehand trying his hand at a prank.

Growing impatient, he tapped his fingers against the leather seat, wondering what could possibly be taking so long. Surely she couldn't still be dressing. He supposed the two minutes he'd given her wasn't really enough time, but he had wanted her to hurry. And anyway, it had been at least fifteen minutes. Perhaps she had gotten lost. She had never had much of a sense of direction, either....

With a sigh, he jumped out of the carriage and started back up the steps into the opera house.

# Chapitre Neuf: Christine a un Plan Astucieux

"Come, mademoiselle, you must cooperate!" implored Monsieur Mercier in exasperation.

Christine folded her arms, attempting to create the image of a resolute diva. "I want to cooperate! But what you're asking is ridiculous!"

"We are simply asking you to put a little less emotion into your prison aria!"

"First you say you want more emotion, and I slave to accomplish that, and now you've decided you want less emotion! Make up your minds!"

"We're not reversing our request, mademoiselle," said Moncharmin, in a reasonable voice despite his obvious frustration. "It's just that Monsieur le Conductor feels you are overdoing it just a tiny bit—"

"Since when was Monsieur le Conductor in charge of this opera house?" demanded Christine. "The crowds adore me! _They_ don't want me to change a thing! And according to the Ang—er, my instructor—the highest authority the actors, musicians, and even the managers must answer to is the audience, isn't that right?"

"W-well, I suppose so," said Moncharmin, looking rather surprised as he glanced at his business partner for confirmation.

Christine grinned widely, stifling an unladylike "ha ha!" of triumph. She felt the jealousy of the ballet rats burning into her back, and she smiled to herself despite her irritation at the new managers and the uppity conductor. Rehearsals might have been trying, but it was such fun to rub her success in the rats' faces that between that and all the fame and praise, all the work was worth it.

But at this exact moment, divahood was proving to be very difficult indeed. She wished Raoul were here to set them all straight. He had been quite worried about her when he had returned to her dressing room to see why she hadn't met him at his carriage. Erik had disappeared through the mirror the moment she had called for the vicomte to enter, for which she was grateful; she wouldn't have been able to explain his presence. Her instructor was quite a mystery.

Despite her sorrow over the loss of the Angel, she was still speeding down the road to fantastic success beyond her father's wildest dreams, due to a very large degree to her mentor, no matter who he said he was. Of course, she had been terribly upset at first, but then it had occurred to her that he still might be the Angel, hiding in human garb. She really didn't know anything about him. She hadn't spoken to him since she had bumped her head last night. She wanted quite badly for the stupid rehearsal to be over so she could question him about who he really was and where he had come from. Just because he had denied being the Angel didn't mean that he wasn't really a divine being. The gods disguised themselves as mortals all the time. It had taken her a while to fully convince herself that he was still the Angel, but the belief was like salve to her wounded pride. Yes, of course he was the Angel.

"But Mercier says—and we tend to agree," said Moncharmin, looking to Richard and Mercier for support, "that your excessive fervor is turning pathos into...what did you call it, monsieur?"

"Bathos, monsieur, _bathos_!" declared Mercier. "She is turning beautiful, moving pathos into absurd, over-the-top bathos!"

Christine laughed derisively. "He just made that word up!"

"I most certainly did not, mademoiselle! It is a common term in theatrics and other forms of the arts! And until you know a little more about the art in which you are employed, your opinion doesn't count for very much!"

"How dare you speak that way to me!"

"She's right, Monsieur Mercier," said Moncharmin. "We shouldn't be...losing our tempers...over a small artistic disagreement."

Christine gave Moncharmin a beautiful smile to thank him. Out of the three men, she liked him the best; he seemed the most unsure of himself in his new profession—and therefore the most likely to give her what she wanted—and also the most concerned with fairness and civility. "My thoughts exactly," she replied loftily.

"Then what do you propose we do?" Richard asked his partner.

"We—we'll compromise," said Moncharmin, seeming quite uncomfortable with all the attention he was receiving. "Mademoiselle Daaé can have her..." he trailed off and looked to Richard for an idea.

"Her prison costume altered," offered Richard.

"Excellent," said Moncharmin. "Mademoiselle Daaé can have her prison costume changed as she desires if she will agree to cooperate with Monsieur Mercier's wishes about the prison aria."

Christine bit her lip. She really was annoyed with the demand that she alter her acting, especially after she had worked to change it already, but she really did hate the prop chains rubbing against her ankles. She had been pinched more than once. "That seems fair," she agreed, a little reluctantly, feeling that she was giving up potential power over the managers by acquiescing. "But...I also demand that...that...the phony jewels Faust gives me be replaced with real ones!" It seemed like a good demand; it was exactly the sort of thing that Carlotta would have demanded, and she always got away with whatever she pleased.

The managers choked. "Mademoiselle, you cannot demand such a thing!" exclaimed Moncharmin, turning red with surprise and embarrassment.

"You cannot demand _anything_!" declared Richard. "We own this opera house, mademoiselle, and as critical as you are to its success—"

"Most critical," agreed Moncharmin, still trying to be civil.

"—you are still an employee!"

"I am more than an employee!" Christine snapped, stomping her foot. "I am a diva! A goddess! Your opera house succeeds or fails by my whim!"

The managers did not take kindly to that pronouncement, and the confrontation went downhill from there. By the end of the rehearsal, Christine was shrieking that she would quit and seek employment elsewhere.

She stomped to her dressing room with the intention of carrying out her threat, but by the time she had thrown off her costume and changed into her street clothes, she had calmed down a little and realized what a terrible mistake she was making. Not that the managers wouldn't deserve it if she quit—in fact, it would serve them right—but then all of her hard work would have been for nothing.

She sat down on her stool with a thump and cursed the situation she was in. She couldn't quit, but she couldn't go crawling back to the managers without losing any influence her position might have wielded.

As she brushed her hair to calm herself, she tried to determine what Carlotta would do. Much as she despised the ex-diva, she had always been able to secure whatever she wanted from the managers. Carlotta had thrown tantrums regularly, quit numerous times, refused to do rehearsals, and disappeared on occasion for several performances without a word, leaving the managers in an apoplectic panic.

"That's it!" she declared to her reflection. "I'll disappear!" It solved her problem perfectly—she wouldn't have to quit and risk throwing everything away, but she wouldn't lose any face.

_Now, where can I disappear to?_ she wondered, tapping the brush against the table in thought. Carlotta probably had villas and boats to steal away to, but all Christine had was a tiny apartment only a few blocks from the opera house—that wouldn't do.

Suddenly she noticed the mirror and a cunning plan hit her. Mentally congratulating herself for coming up with such a brilliant plan, she stepped over to the mirror and pulled the glass back to reveal the stone corridor from which Erik had appeared the previous night. She couldn't believe she hadn't noticed the mirror's trick catch before. "ERIK!" she called, as loudly as she could, and jumped as her voice echoed with surprising force down the passageways.

She called his name a few times, then returned to her stool to wait. It didn't matter if it took him a few minutes to arrive; she had to figure out what to pack. She would need several dresses, her cosmetics, more than one pair of shoes in case she broke another pair.... She thought for a moment on how long to stay, and finally decided that three or four days was probably sufficient. It depended on how quickly the managers were reduced to panic and subservience.

She thought for a moment about sending a letter to Mamma explaining where she was, but quickly discarded the idea; the managers might get hold of it. Oh well; it would only be for a few days. Besides that, her plan was perfect—the managers would be beaten into submission, she would get a break from all the trying rehearsals and performances of _Faust_ , her fame would increase tenfold as her disappearance became a scandal, Raoul would worry and fall even more in love with her, and she would be able to question Erik about his identity and learn what was underneath his mask.

By the time Erik appeared in the mirror frame, Christine had already filled her carpetbag. His expression was strange, seeming confused, worried, and oddly, hopeful as well. Perhaps he had feared she had never wanted to see him again. "What took you so long?" she asked him, stuffing another pair of earrings into the overfull bag.

He ignored her question. "What is it? What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," she informed him, feeling as if she were stating the obvious. "I've decided to stay with you for a few days."

She had returned to packing and didn't see the blank expression on his face. "What?" he asked, after a long moment.

Christine sighed. She was always having to explain the obvious to other people. "The managers aren't listening to me. So I've decided to take a leaf out of Carlotta's book and disappear for a while. And the only place they are guaranteed not to find me is wherever you live."

"How—how did you come to that conclusion?"

" _Because_ ," she explained, a tone of irritation in her voice, "obviously, if you're the Opera Ghost, the old managers have tried and failed to discover your lair for years and never succeeded. It's the perfect hiding place. Wherever it is." He continued to stare as she shoved the carpetbag into his hands. "Well?" she said impatiently. "Lead the way!"

Erik looked surprised to the point of speechlessness, but still unmoving. She took a step back to regroup, and quickly came up with a reason that would be sure to secure his cooperation:

"All right, I—I lied to you, just now," she said, casting her eyes downward and rubbing a lock of her hair between her fingers, glad for once of the acting techniques all ballet girls were required to learn. "I'm not trying to threaten the managers. It's just that I—I'm so overwhelmed by all these men, and I've been thinking about what you said, and I...I needed somewhere to go where I could escape them."

As she finished her faux-confession, she looked up into his eyes, and saw to her delight that her words were working like magic. "Christine, why didn't you just tell me that?"

"I—I was embarrassed. I wasn't sure what to do."

He visibly wavered, and she pressed her attack: "A day or two, that's all I ask—just to get away from everything and collect my thoughts."

After that, it was cake to get him to agree to anything. She intended to remain hidden for more than a day or two, of course, but she'd wait to tell him that until after they had made it to his hideaway.

The trek was only a few minutes, but the passageways were damp and cold, and to Christine, every moment felt longer than the last. It was also quite dark, and without the lantern that Erik grabbed from an obscure corner near the surface, it would have been impossible to traverse. She'd had no idea that there were tunnels and passages under the Garnier at all, and was shocked at how extensive it all was. She gasped when she saw that there was an underground lake, and for a moment was very afraid that they would have to cross it before Erik noticed her discomfort and led her another way that went around the lake.

She hadn't been quite sure whether to expect a nice, normal house, or a moldy, rat-filled cave, but discovered as Erik pulled back a tapestry to reveal his home that she would have been wrong in either case. It was indeed a cavern, bordered on three sides by rough stone and the lake on the fourth, but it was dry, and made civilized and almost refined by the furniture—though sparse—and the vast array of books and instruments that filled it. Her attention was drawn to the pipe organ chained to the far wall, the focal point of the room, and was astonished by the beauty and power that resonated from the behemoth instrument. "How did you get it down here?" she breathed.

"Piece by piece," he answered, rather uncomfortably, still holding her carpetbag.

"This place is twice the size of my apartment," she said, peering around in the dim light. She spotted an archway and headed for it. "What's through here?"

"Are you sure you want to stay here?" he asked.

"Absolutely. Ooooh, you have a kitchen! I wouldn't have guessed! I suppose it makes sense, but—"

"What about _Faust_?"

"I'm sure they can manage for a few days without me." _Maybe they'll grow desperate enough to raise my salary up to Carlotta's level_ , she added silently. "Where do I get to sleep?"

"You can have my bedroom if you want, or the...the sofa." He seemed stunned and rather unsure of how to act, as if he had never had a woman in his home before. Which was probably true, she realized, after a moment of thought. In any event, it was adorable, and quite convenient for her purposes.

She raced to investigate the said bedroom—very small and cozy, with little more than a bed and nightstand—and sat on the bed to test it out. When she returned to the main room to try out the sofa, Erik asked, "Exactly how many days were you wanting to stay?"

Christine tapped the side of the couch as she thought. "Well, there's a very important religious ritual on Thursday I have to see too—All Hallows' Eve is a serious matter, you know. I can't believe all these ridiculous French city-people trying to make it into an excuse for parties." She crossed her arms in a childish pout, filled with disgust. After a moment, she remembered her point. "Oh, yes—so I have to be back at least three—no, four—four days beforehand to make all the preparations. There's so much to see to! And then Mamma will probably make me go to Mass for All Saints' Day, blast it...."

She drifted off again, and Erik prompted, "So you wish to remain until the twenty-seventh?"

"Hmmm? Oh. Yes. The twenty-seventh," she agreed. Five seemed like a reasonable number of days. She hoped he was a good cook.

# Chapitre Dix: Le Masque

Christine enjoyed her night's sleep on Erik's bed down in his caverns. She felt the tiniest bit guilty about making him sleep on the lumpy sofa, but he had been anxious to please her, and she was a guest, after all. In the morning she awoke to the beautiful, heavenly sounds of an organ, though she couldn't see one anywhere.

The organ, somewhere beyond her limited line of sight, crescendoed in a rush of powerful chords, accented by long, sorrowful trills that dwindled away, reminiscent of the last few drops of rain against a windowpane, replaced by a series of solitary notes so long and so haunting that they seemed indelible in her ears. _What mortal could play something so beautiful?_ Surely Erik was truly an angel.

She sat up and crossed to the doorway linking the bedroom to the main cavern. For a moment she paused to appreciate the cavern's beauty, with its majestically-high ceiling and how powerful the notes of the organ sounded as they echoed off its walls. With interest, she studied the bookcases piled high with sheet music, the plain, serviceable furniture, and instruments everywhere—flutes, oboes, violins, a cello, a piano, everything the Garnier's orchestra had and more. The cavern was clean of mold and other gross things she would have expected to find in a cave, but there was an element of bachelor untidiness that surprised her.

Bolted to the center of the far cavern wall stood the magnificent pipe organ. Ranks of bronze organ pipes stretched up to the ceiling and several even jutted out into the room, reminding Christine of a row of trumpets. Erik was seated at the massive instrument; a dark cloak spread out behind him and hid his feet as they flew across the pedals at the organ's base. His hands were likewise busy, moving between the various keyboards to create a soaring, graceful melody.

As if sensing her gaze, Erik turned around for a brief moment, then returned to his music.

"Hello," she ventured.

Erik returned her greeting with a nod. "Christine." His loose cotton shirt did not hide the well-toned muscles of his arms and chest, hardened—she guessed, noticing the sabers and rapier leaning against a far corner—from hours spent fencing.

"Do you still wish to remain here?" he asked tentatively.

"Of course."

"Do you wish to continue our lessons?"

His voice was calm, but she thought she could sense hope and uncertainty in his demeanor. It gave him a hint of vulnerability that came in sharp contrast with the boldness and poise his body radiated, and it pleased her to think that she could have such power over anyone. It was apparent that he thought his deception had destroyed all chances of continuation as her instructor. In fact, he seemed utterly nonplussed that she was speaking to him at all.

Hearing him play had confirmed her belief that he still was the Angel—who else could he be, with such sublime talent! Still, she had been hoping to avoid work of any kind during the execution of this plan, but his demeanor made her change her mind. "Yes, of course," she said, with a beaming smile.

During the following two days Christine felt as if she were in Asgard itself, the fabulous home of the gods. Erik was so good to her, constantly at her side, teaching her more in that brief time than she'd learned in her entire life. He was a marvelous cook, too. It was enthralling to see the wonders he could work with the wood stove, few utensils, and pans. The place was fairly comfortable, too, for a subterranean cavern. Erik kept the place astonishingly well-lit (because of her presence, he said), and, with the comfort, the excellent service, and the spectacular food, it was rather like staying at a fine hotel.

She tried to find out as much as she possibly could about angels, and about him personally, but always ended up with more questions than answers. He seemed quite unhappy when she interrogated him and evaded most of her questions, still asserting that he wasn't the Angel, but generally he avoided the subject entirely. His reticence irritated her, but she supposed she could live with her limited knowledge of angelic beings—perhaps he wasn't allowed to tell her of the divine (that is, if he really was an angel). And besides, the most important thing was that he was here and leading her along the path to fame and fortune.

But something was gnawing at the back of her mind—what was under his mask?

He was so good-looking...at least, the half of his face that she could see. His discerning emerald eyes and perfectly chiseled features, though not as handsome as Raoul's, were quite attractive. What could he possibly have to hide? Several times she had to stop her hand from reaching up and ripping off the mask. But what could it possibly disguise? If one side of his face was handsome, then how could the other side not be?

It struck her at one point that perhaps it concealed his true face—the face of an angel—too radiant for any mortal eye to behold. Yes, that made perfect sense. Or, at least, it did for a few hours. Then it hit her that it was terribly impractical to change one's entire self to look human except for half of one's face. But what did she know of the divine? Perhaps it was a rule that, when an angel was clothed in mortal flesh, he could not cover himself entirely. But then, why not choose one's hand, or foot? Feet were always covered, and Erik wore gloves. She could not make sense of it at all, and, after a day of mulling it over, she gave up. There was only one way to find out, and she was too scared to do it.

"Why do I have to read sheet music?" she whined that afternoon, finishing off a strawberry.

"Put those down, Christine—you can't sing with your mouth full of fruit."

Christine defiantly picked up another berry. "I don't want to sing. I hate sheet music. It's complicated and stupid and I can't read it."

"That's not a good attitude," Erik chided gently, taking the bowl from her. "You'll never become a diva if you can't learn the music."

"I'll just get you to play the notes for me, and I'll learn it that way."

He sighed. "What if the managers hand you a sheet and ask you to sing the notes?"

"I'll pretend to faint."

"That will only work once."

She snatched at the bowl of fruit, which he held easily out of her reach. "Then you can drop a set or something to distract them."

Erik's hand flew to his face in an attempt to conceal a laugh. The sound that emerged from his mouth, so rich and uncharacteristically carefree, surprised Christine. The idea of Erik laughing was a strange one; he loved her intensely, yes—she could feel it in his every word, every movement—but his passion did nothing to lift the somber iron cloud that never left his countenance; at least, that was what she had thought. But he was definitely laughing.

When he had regained his customary solemn expression, he had to fight to make his voice sound serious as he said, "Will you at least try, Christine? Please?"

She started to say something rude, but realized it at the last second and checked herself. "Oh, fine." It wasn't as if she didn't enjoy her lessons; Erik had the most marvelous voice she had ever heard. She had worked at the Garnier for several years, but despite all the lauded singers she had listened to in that time, she had never heard a voice like his—even listening to it during her lessons, when he wasn't singing full-length polished arias, she was always moved to tears by its unbelievable beauty. No being in all the Nine Worlds—not the elves, the norns, or any god—could possibly possess a voice as perfect and sensuous as his. When he sang happy arias, her heart was filled with bubbling joy, and she felt as if she were going to float off the floor in ecstasy; when he sang sorrowfully, it affected her so deeply that she couldn't stop crying for hours afterward. How could he be anything but an angel with such a voice? Curiously, he seemed quite surprised at the power his voice had on her, and after reducing her to tears more than once, was very careful not to sing anything hinting at all of unhappiness.

He handed her a page of music, bringing her back to the matter at hand, and pointed to a strange symbol that looked something like an uppercase C right after the treble-clef sign. "This denotes four-four time."

"That's stupid," she declared. "If it's four-four it should just say four-four."

"Yes, it should," he agreed placatingly. "But since it doesn't, you should know what it means." Before she could disagree, he pointed to another symbol. "What does this signify?"

"It's an X."

"But what does it mean?"

"I have no idea. Give me my strawberries."

"Christine, you need to pay attention."

"I'll pay attention if you give me a strawberry."

He reluctantly obliged. "I spent a half-hour explaining double-sharps yesterday, if you will kindly recollect."

"Oh yes, a double-sharp. Now I remember." She really didn't; she had been thinking about Raoul at the time instead of listening. She wondered what Raoul was doing right now. How would he know that she was still in the opera house? Not that she wanted to be rescued right away, but she wanted to know just how many legions of searchers Raoul had recruited in his desperate search for his abducted bride.

The moment he saw her, he would probably kneel and propose before she had a chance to say a word! Yes, and Raoul would order the wedding immediately and race her to Italy for their honeymoon before the demonic Phantom could ensnare her in his clutches again.

This line of thought prompted her to study Erik's white, glossy mask. What would Raoul think if he knew that the fiendish ghoul that everyone dreaded was, in fact, an angel?

"So if the note is an E, then what is it double-sharped?"

His words didn't reach Christine, who was busy staring at that mask. It was infuriating that he wouldn't show her his angelic face. It was downright insulting! Didn't he think she was worthy to look upon the beauty and glory of his true face?

"Christine!"

"Sorry! What was the question again?"

"What is E double-sharped?"

"Uh...a G sharp?" she guessed, not really trying. Perhaps if she could somehow spill ink on his mask, he would have to take it off to clean it. Or she could just wait until he fell asleep....

"No, no," he said, as patiently as possible. He sat down at his piano and pressed a key. "This is the E. So if you go up two steps"—he hit the note above the E, and then the next note—"you have...?"

"An F sharp," she said immediately, recognizing the pitch of the note thanks to her father's teaching.

"But you know that by its pitch," he accused lightly. "You need to think in terms of the staff."

"I don't care about the staff," she snapped, unable to tear her eyes from his mask. Perhaps the light of his heavenly face was so bright that it would blind a mere mortal such as herself. But if that were the case, he could just explain it to her and quell her curiosity—in part, at least. "Isn't it enough that I can recognize a note by hearing it?"

"The managers won't think so."

"Then you can just send them a scary note threatening to haunt them if they don't like it."

If Christine had been paying more attention to him than to his mask, she would have noticed the amusement, accompanied by a slight glint of exasperation, in his eyes. As it was, however, she selected another strawberry and asked petulantly, "Can we be done yet?"

Erik sighed. "Yes, Christine, we can be done."

Her lessons, wonderful as they were, became slowly unbearable as the mystery ate away at the back of her mind. Even his presence, so gentle and loving, became torturous. It made her undeservingly short with him, and his submissive acceptance of her abuse made her feel absolutely horrible. One particularly dreadful episode occurred on the third day of her stay with him, when he had been teaching her a new set of scales. It was higher than she could easily manage, and she was embarrassed at how awful it made her voice sound. When she told him this, he replied,

"Christine, the purpose of these scales is to increase your vocal range. It doesn't matter if you don't sound perfect now, as long as, when the time comes, you can sing the especially high notes that Mozart loved to include in his works."

"But I sound horrible!" she snapped, stamping her foot childishly and striding away from him, arms folded. "I sound horrible and this is boring and I hate it!"

He was silent for a moment; then he sighed. "I am sorry. If you like, we won't practice for the rest of your stay."

Feeling a sudden surge of guilt, she whirled to face him. "No, no, I'm sorry—I didn't mean to be so unpleasant."

"It's all right, Christine."

She sat back down, but it was such a difficult thing to keep her hands locked behind her back....

Raoul was going mad with anxiety. He paced about his study with unmatched fury, wracking his brain for an answer. _Where was Christine?_ What on earth could have happened to her? It was obvious that someone—the man in her room that night—was taking advantage of her innocence. And it worried him greatly that this man was perhaps responsible for Christine's disappearance. What if she'd been kidnapped, or worse—what if she'd gone willingly?

On the first day of her disappearance, he had assumed she was still suffering from her fall (he had offered to take her to a doctor after he had found her lying on the floor of her dressing room, but she had refused). But perhaps she had simply been too afraid that he, a vicomte, couldn't possibly enjoy her company, since she had so recently been a lowly chorus girl. But that was fine; in fact, it was endearing that the lovely girl realized how wonderful it was of him to honor their childhood friendship, even though she was so far beneath his social standing. Even as a child, though she hadn't fully understood just how different their social stations were, she had always talked and talked about how wonderful it would be to be wealthy. Well, when he found her and personally carried her back to his mansion, she would have all the wealth and splendor she could ever ask for. He just hoped she would appreciate the fact that he was spending his time wooing her and not someone of greater social standing. (Of course, when everyone saw just what a prize she was, he would be the most envied man in Paris, despite her plebeian status.)

She had evidently been at the Garnier for the next day or two, though she missed some of the rehearsals due to a claimed "concussionary relapse," and then disappeared altogether.

He had gone to Christine's flat to investigate, but Christine wasn't there—just her guardian, Madame Valerius. If he had known just how impossible the woman was to deal with, he wouldn't have bothered. When he asked her where Christine was, she would merely say, "She is vith ze Angel of Music, of course!" What a ridiculous answer. Her superstition was almost as intolerable as the wretched squalor in which she allowed Christine to live. Imagine being forced to reside in an apartment—not even an apartment, but a _tenement_ —with only three rooms!

But he'd played along with her absurd notions about the "Angel," asking most politely, "And where does this Angel live, madame?"

"In 'eaven, monsieur! Surely you knew zat!"

He might as well have not asked at all, for all the good it did him. He was relieved to bid the woman goodbye and leave the horrid flat. He hadn't been able to bring himself to sit down on one of those scratched, stained chairs and had been forced to stand the entire time, an unheard-of slight for someone of his rank. Their chimney was tiny—almost nonexistent—and the room had smelled very strongly of smoke. The walls themselves were so grimy with soot that the cheap whitewash had been reduced to a mottled grey. Imagine what the smoke and soot had done to his garments! He'd never be able to wear them again.

When he found Christine—wherever she was—she would be so pleased to become his mistress and get out of this unbearable poverty! Of course, she would have done so even if she were not quite so poor. How could she possibly resist the charm of a Chagny? Actually, it was rather disappointing that he would not have any _real_ competition with which to show how skilled at courting he really was; who else would lower themselves by associating with a chorus girl? That man in her dressing room was so pathetic that he didn't even count. If anyone else tried for her affections, it would probably just be some worthless stage hand. Absolutely pathetic.

But he had to _find_ Christine before he could commence planning how best to woo her. And all that rubbish about an Angel was nothing to go off of. Those ridiculous stories Christine's father insisted on filling her head with weren't just irritating, they were downright damaging! Christine had always refused to believe anything he told her if it contradicted one of her father's tales. He remembered one particularly aggravating instance when he had tried to explain to her that rain was simply the condensation of water particles in the clouds. She insisted that they were the tears of all the people that had ever died. She'd refused to speak to him for two days because of it. It was appalling. He couldn't believe that she actually still entertained the idea of that ridiculous Angel of Music. Well, when he got her back, he'd make sure that all those absurd beliefs were done away with. Not too much education, of course—that might damage her poor head—but just enough so that she wouldn't refute what he had to say.

Raoul had gone to the managers, but they knew nothing of Christine's whereabouts. They were so busy panicking that they were of absolutely no use whatsoever. His next step had been to alert the police, though he held little faith in their abilities. He had always been taught that, as a Chagny, the only way to get something done right was to oversee it personally. And the police never took kindly to such an imposition on their rigid hierarchy. He'd heard many good things about their current _Prevote_ , Leonhard Blaise, but still, the efforts of the police amounted to nothing. In fact, Blaise seemed irritatingly calm about the whole thing.

"I'm sure she'll turn up in a day or so," he'd told Raoul, turning back to the paperwork on his desk. "Chorus girls disappear more often than you'd think, just to reappear within a few days. Usually the result of a fling with some upper-class member of society."

"Christine would never do anything like that!" Raoul snapped furiously. With anyone but himself, anyway. But he couldn't stand around and listen to Christine being maligned. "Can't you do _anything_?"

Blaise had glanced back up at the furious vicomte, looking singularly wearied by the whole matter. "Monsieur, we are doing everything we can. We've checked all the morgues and hospitals within a fifty-mile radius and have spoken with her managers and friends at the Opera Garnier. We _will_ find her, vicomte."

But Raoul was far from assured. He took it upon himself to question the members of the chorus, but none of them seemed to know Christine well. All he received for his efforts were comments concerning Christine's lack of intelligence and twenty-six variations of the phrase, "Either she ran off with some man or she's been kidnapped by the Phantom." Ridiculous.

By the third day, Christine had almost been driven mad by the mystery of the Angel's mask. It was so unfair! Surely she had a right to see the Angel's face—he had been sent to serve her! Several minutes after this furious thought, she sheepishly realized that Erik had been on the earth before her father had died—Madame Giry had informed her in passing that the Phantom had been haunting the opera house for over...what was it...fifteen years? Seventeen? She couldn't remember. But whatever the number, her father had died almost twelve years ago. So Erik couldn't have been sent to serve her.

That bewildering stumbling block had halted her anger for a few hours before she had come up with an explanation: Erik's last pupil must have been living in Paris as well—perhaps even a singer or musician at the Garnier—and he was just continuing his role as the Phantom for convenience's sake. From there her fury increased with every moment she spent in his presence—he, a slave, had no right to keep anything from her!

She could hardly speak to him without snapping. "Leave me alone!" she cried, throwing down her music. "I'm sick of working!"

"What is it that's bothering you, Christine?" he asked, with concern and the indefatigable patience that infuriated her so.

"You!" she said, jabbing a finger in his face. "Why should I work so hard for anyone who keeps secrets from me?"

For a moment, he looked baffled. "Secrets...?" he repeated. Then the puzzled light in his eyes dimmed, replaced by an unhappy understanding. "You mean this." He gestured to the porcelain, resigned, and yet almost pleading: "I will show you someday. But won't you allow me a few moments to be near you before that day comes?"

Christine's rigid posture sagged ashamedly as she realized what a horrible, unreasonable person she was being. "I'm sorry," she said, retrieving the battered sheet music from the floor as an excuse not to meet his eyes.

"You don't need to apologize."

She cast around for something to change the subject to. Her eyes caught a sheaf of music laying on the organ bench. "What have you been working on?" she asked, gesturing to the organ.

Oddly, he seemed even more reluctant to discuss his composition than his angelic visage. "An opera," he replied laconically.

"What's it called?"

"Don Juan Triumphant."

"Will you play something of it?" she asked.

"No, Christine," he murmured. "It burns with terrible passions that I felt before you appeared in my life." He hesitated before continuing, seeming rather uncomfortable with his words: "Hatred, vengeance, lust...your beautiful, angelic presence makes them seem coarse and evil. I have no desire to finish it now." He cleared his throat. "Let us sing something from _Otello_ ," he suggested, rather offhandedly.

Christine nodded, somewhat mystified. They began to sing a duet with a passion that she had never before experienced. Erik was singing the part of Otello; his voice was so sensuous and beautiful! What could there possibly be hidden under his mask? It could only be the face of an angel, far too heavenly to be looked upon by human eyes.... Why did he hide it from her? Nothing could ever change the overwhelming power of his voice, or the passion that had gripped her from the first moment she had heard it. How could he not know that? But she would show him the deepness of her appreciation for his guidance—he would undoubtedly thank her for removing this barrier from their relationship. Yes—there was no reason for him to continue on, hiding his face from her. She could bear it no longer. The guilt she felt only moments ago over her unreasonable words refused to leave her alone, but she pushed it aside, and didn't allow herself a chance to talk herself out of it.

Too fast for the eye to follow, Christine's hand flashed out and upwards—and Erik's mask flew from his face.

# Chapitre Onze: Ce qui Se Trouvait Dessous

Christine screamed and stumbled backwards, eyes wide in terror and unable to look away. Nothing—nothing could have prepared her for the horror that met her eyes. She had been expecting something heavenly—the face of an Angel, shining in immaculate perfection in the divine light of the gods. Oh, the fantasy her treacherous mind had created! How could she have believed that the flesh behind Erik's mask was anything heavenly and divine?

There were no words to describe the monstrosity that lay underneath the tantalizing, innocuous mask. The first thought that entered her horror-stricken mind upon seeing his sickening, ghastly visage was that she was gazing upon the face of a male version of Hel, the queen of Niflheim—her right half a woman, the left half a grisly, eternally-rotting corpse. But even Hel must be a less ghastly sight to see. Then all she could think of was to escape, to get as far away from this monster as possible.

"Christine!" the creature screamed in anguish, jumping up and clamping a hand to his gruesome face. His eyes were burning, and he seemed like a devil to the terrified girl. But through his anger, Christine could see the tears forming in the corners of his eyes; a look of never-ending grief, and sorrow.... Whimpering with terror, she turned her head away.

" _Why, Christine, why?_ " he cried, tears streaming down his terrible face. "Now that you know my hideousness—my monstrosity—you will never consent to stay with me long enough to see that under this visage is a human soul!" He turned and stumbled away from her, his breathing ragged and wracked with sobs.

Christine closed her eyes, crying and shaking uncontrollably. There was no way she could spend another moment in its presence—it was monstrous! Hideous! It was all the more agonizing that this creature—this _thing_ —had been the Angel. How could she have been so foolish? He wasn't even human—he was a monster, a fiend, a creature the gods should have banished to Niflheim upon his birth, as they had banished Hel, for being such a terrifying, disgusting monstrosity.

She sobbed into the floor, so afraid, so disgusted, and crying so hard that she had to gasp to force air into her lungs. Her body was starting to go numb from the freezing stone, but she didn't have the strength to lift herself up. She felt so sick, so soiled from the horror she had seen—could _still_ see, seared on to her eyelids, as if someone had taken a branding iron to them—that she had to fight the urge to vomit. The bile in her throat burned, and she clapped a hand over her mouth and tried fruitlessly to will herself to be calm.

Erik had seated himself at his organ, his back to her, and began to play, trying to forget the horror of the moment. She did not want to hear him play ever again, and thrust her fingers into her ears; but the organ's notes were so low, so powerful, that she couldn't block them out.

The music that reached Christine's ears was intoxicating, and she pushed her fingers farther into her ears, but to no avail. It expressed every emotion, every suffering of which mankind is capable. From the low, sad tones of the bass clef, to the anger and helplessness expressed by notes in the middle of the treble clef.

But it was not an Angel playing. It was a monster.

She looked down at his mask, lying useless on the floor, and picked it up with a trembling hand. It was hard and cold, yet beautiful, as if treacherously promising beauty behind its innocent façade. For what seemed like an eternity, she just sat there, mind awhirl and unthinking. Even though she couldn't see his face now, she could still see it in her mind. He was still so hideous, so disgusting, that she wanted nothing more than to turn and run. But, she realized with a shiver, it would be all too easy for him to kill her and dispose of her body in a dark corner of his cellars. She couldn't afford to anger him further.

She thought and thought, hoping she could find a way to escape the monster's clutches. But she couldn't run, she wouldn't get far in the boat, and from all the way down here, no one would be able to hear her screaming for help. In the end, she had only one idea—a single, horrifying idea. She would have to play the part of the interested ballet rat.

"Erik," she began, almost choking on the name. He wasn't human. He didn't deserve a name.

He didn't turn, but he did stop playing.

"I—I am afraid, but I understand," she said hesitantly. "It's not your fault. I...I can accept you, and—forget about your face!" The words, such terrible, grotesque lies, burned on her tongue, but she could do nothing else. If she spoke the truth, there was no telling what he would do.

He slowly turned, and in the flickering candlelight she saw the tears coursing down his face. She was unable to fight back a shudder at the glistening contours and crags that the tears accentuated.

"You see?" he said sadly, almost bitterly, upon seeing her disgust. "There is no way you could ever do as you say."

After a moment, he sighed and closed his eyes, turning back to the organ and resting his elbows on its oak surface to rub his temples. "You can leave. The doorway is behind that tapestry. Say the word—and I'll barricade the trick mirror and never trouble you again."

Christine almost laughed aloud. He wouldn't let her go. He was lying—he was a monster. Monsters weren't honest. He was probably waiting for her to say yes—lull her into a false sense of security—and then wham—he'd knock her out and cook her for dinner, like the trolls in the Ironwood Forest. She couldn't take that chance. She had to pretend she wanted to stay.

"No, Erik, I don't want to leave." She approached him, smiling the coquettish smile she had observed on the faces of her fellow ballet girls, batting her eyelashes and keeping her gaze locked into his eyes. The beauty of his eyes did not reach her now—all she could see was the horror of that face. But she could see the pain and despair in his eyes, and she feared that if she did not pretend to accept him now, her life would be in terrible danger. She couldn't bring herself to touch him, so she merely said, trying to come up with a reasonable explanation for her shudder, "If I ever again shiver when I look at you, it is because I am thinking of...the splendor of your genius!"

Erik's twisted face froze in a horrific expression of shock. It made him all the uglier, and she felt very much like fainting. For a moment that seemed to stretch into an eternity, he could not bring himself to speak. Christine strove to meet his astounded gaze, though it was an impossible task. It was much worse to be forced to stare into such a hellish face than to catch a brief, terrible glimpse, as she had moments before. She could see every twist, every horrendous crag and deformity.

Just when her knees were about to buckle, Erik fell to Christine's feet and kissed the hem of her dress. Her rigid posture sagged, and she found herself only moments from unconsciousness. She could barely hear Erik as he knelt at her feet, speaking words of immeasurable joy and love, before her world faded into blackness.

# Chapitre Douze: Les Quelques Jours Suivants

For Christine, the next two days were like spending an eternity in the torture chambers of Jotunheim, realm of the evil giants. She had agreed to resume their lessons, though the sight of Erik—the mere thought of that horrible, horrible face—made her cringe. However, he seemed to love her all the more for the events of that horrible night. He stayed by her side, even when he wasn't teaching her, and paid her constant little attentions. He reminded Christine of a puppy—a horrible monstrosity of a puppy—eager to please its master. But despite his unwavering forgiveness, Christine immensely regretted removing his mask. Not for his sake, but for her own; she couldn't bring herself to accept that her Angel—what she had thought was an Angel—was so hideous. She put off thinking about it, trying to convince herself that beauty wasn't important. But it was. Even being in the same room with him made her skin crawl. It was terribly difficult to play the part of the attracted, flirtatious chorus girl, not only because she was unpracticed at it, but because she had always imagined it would be a handsome, dashing nobleman she would be flirting with, not a deformed monster. Fortunately, it quickly became apparent that open flirtation made Erik uncomfortable, and she was thankful to revert to a calm, collected state—though even that was a challenge. Thank the gods he was wearing that mask. She wished she could run away, as far away as she could go, but she was too scared. Despite his submissiveness and gentleness, and though she was sure that he loved her, she couldn't help but be afraid of him.

The strain was so great that she had become physically ill, and she had to spend a great deal of time in bed. Erik, she suspected, understood the reason for her ailment, and tended to her every whim, no matter how slight, with a somber mixture of sorrow and subservient devotion. If it had been anyone else, she would have enjoyed having such a devoted man for a servant; but she doubted very much that Erik was even a human being. The gods wouldn't be so cruel to anyone.

She had continued to call him "the Angel" to keep her father's heavenly story from collapsing completely. After so many years of believing in the Angel, she couldn't just let it go. It was hard to trick herself into believing that he—such a hideous thing—was truly the Angel in disguise, but it was much easier to think that than to come to terms with the fact that she had so stupidly believed him when he answered that night, "Yes, Christine, I am the Angel." How could she have been such a fool? But if she continued to believe that he was the Angel, she wouldn't have to shudder and turn her head away every time she thought about what lay under his porcelain mask—there was no such thing as an ugly Angel. So she continued for some time to call Erik "Angel," though the thought seemed so unbelievable that she couldn't truly accept it.

He seemed to hate the false appellation. "Christine," he told her somberly, "I despise myself for lying to you. But I consoled myself with the fact that I would reveal the truth to you, and you would know me as _Erik_ , not 'the Angel.' Why do you so staunchly refuse to call me by my name?"

Christine hadn't been sure how to reply. "Why can't I still think of you as the Angel? You're doing exactly what the Angel of Music would have done. Better, even," she added, after a pause, trying very hard to keep him in a good mood.

"Thank you, Christine." For a moment he looked unsure, then his face brightened; a horrible image entered unbidden into Christine's mind of how disgusting his misshapen features would look contorted into a smile. It disgusted her so badly that it took all of her strength to keep looking at him as he continued sadly, "However, I am _not_ an angel, so please try to imagine how painful it is for me to be constantly reminded of my deception."

Christine wasn't sure she fully understood, but she agreed to call him Erik. It was a nice enough name, anyway—it was Scandinavian. Her father had placed much importance on the meaning of names; if she recalled correctly, Erik meant "ever-ruler." It was a cruel irony, really—the only kingdom that would accept such a monstrous face as that of their king would be the kingdom of the trolls, or that of the demons. It was horrible that such a good name would grace such a hideous creature. He didn't deserve a name. However, even thinking of him made her stomach turn, and she put all evaluation of his name out of her mind.

Amplifying her unhappiness and anger at her own gullibility concerning the Angel was her realization that everything this creature had told her about the Divine—about Heaven, about Angels, about the universe—were merely lies to maintain his angelic pretense. The Angel, as he had been, had never seemed pleased when she questioned him about what Asgard was like. His voice would grow tight and his answers terse and evasive, which she had never understood at the time; now, of course, she realized that he had been forced to invent the answers to some of her more difficult questions. With the Angel's arrival, she had allowed herself a few brief moments of hope that it was to the Christian Heaven, and not to the hell of Niflheim that she would go when she died. It was quite sad for her to realize that there were no streets paved in gold, as he had said, and that there was no endless shining city in the clouds. It distressed her greatly that she was now so unsure about the afterlife.

Erik seemed to realize the reason for her anguish, because without explanation he handed her a Bible and showed her the passages from which he had answered her impossible questions, assuring her that his answers had been based on its contents as much as possible. And indeed, the Holy Scripture did state that the house of the Lord was filled with "many mansions" in the clouds and among the stars. Even the more extravagant descriptions, such as the city of Heaven, which was made of "pure gold, like unto clear glass," with twelve gates, and all manner of gemstones embedded in the walls, were pulled straight from the texts. It reassured her to a small degree, but she was too disgusted and too frightened of him to fully appreciate the textual evidence he offered. And she was still hopelessly lost. The Angel _wasn't_ real—her faint hopes had been cruelly dashed with that realization. It made her wonder: if her father's belief in the Angel of Music had been wrong, what else had he been wrong about?

This thought only came to her once, and she shut her mind to it immediately and forced herself to forget that she had ever conceived such a terrible thought. Of _course_ her father was right. The Angel was out there—somewhere.

Raoul de Chagny prided himself on his impeccable demeanor and breeding. His family was of the uppermost echelon of Parisian society, and everyone who knew them considered them gentlemen of the highest degree. Nothing made him prouder than being heir to the pure bloodlines, superior intellect, and etiquette of the Chagny family. The lessons that had been drilled into him since childhood were chiseled in his memory: "The cultured man is never angry, never impatient, never demonstrative. His actions and speech are tempered with a dispassionate calmness and tranquility. He does not know what it is to become irritable, to lose control of his temper, to speak discourteously. He is kindly, courageous, and civil."

Under normal circumstances, Raoul was only too proud to follow this code of gentlemanly etiquette. However, as if the stress and anxiety of Christine's disappearance was not enough, Philippe had forced him to attend a private luncheon with Comtess Veronique de la Musardiere that he would have most happily forgone. "You can't back out of a luncheon with your fiancée that's been planned for two weeks," his older brother had reprimanded him firmly. "I don't approve of your sudden fixation with this Mademoiselle Daaé, but surely it can wait a few hours?" So, instead of directing the search teams out scouring the city for his beloved Christine, he was sitting on a balcony overlooking the Seine eating crumpets and trying to appear interested in what Veronique was saying.

"...Rather vatical that the wedding is at the very start of January, don't you agree?" the blonde woman asked him, stirring more sugar into her tea. Raoul didn't have the slightest clue what vatical meant, and she knew it. "Symbolic of a new, fruitful beginning, you understand." She was enchantingly beautiful, with piercing, dark blue eyes framed with arching eyebrows that often rose in mocking amusement. "Of course, a spring wedding would be more traditional and filled with promise, like the blossoming of a new, beautiful existence.

"'Awake, thou wintry earth, Fling off thy sadness!"" she quoted musingly, as if sampling a good wine. "'Fair vernal flowers, laugh forth Your ancient gladness....' That's Thomas Blackburn."

It always annoyed Raoul that any woman, let alone the one he was going to have to marry, was so educated. What good would it do her? She should be spending her time admiring dresses in store windows and flirting with gentlemen like himself, not reading Thomas Moore and Aristotle. What was especially irritating was that he could never prove to her that he was just as well-educated as she was, because he had ignored books for more manly interests, like fencing, courting, and polo. "How nice," he told her, fingering his spoon and wondering how the search for Christine was going. Those bumbling idiots would never find her without him to command them.

Oh, God, if the kidnapper defiled her—! He battled a choking knot in his throat as he contemplated the very real possibility, realizing that he would have to discard Christine entirely if he rescued her too late. But no—it was too horrible to think about. He had to concentrate on getting her back.

But after three days of searching, he had run out of Garnier and surrounding city to scour, and the managers and other denizens of the establishment were growing quite irate with him. He spent every waking moment sweating and cursing and wracking his brain for new places to search. He'd had to cancel a lunch date and two candle-light dinners with the most beautiful women in Paris, making him especially irritable and aggravated that the one engagement he had to keep was an utterly unenjoyable one.

"Perhaps 'fatidic' would be a more befitting term than 'vatical,'" mused Veronique, still stirring her tea. "Of course, 'Delphian' has a more exotic flavor; it's also less flauntingly pedantic."

"Whatever pleases you," said Raoul, tapping his fingers on the table and wondering how much longer he would be expected to sit there wasting his time. It was obvious she was taking her time finishing her crumpet just to drag out his torment.

"Do you wish to hear another poem?" inquired Veronique, knowing full well that quoting irritated him. She was not pleased to be marrying him—a fact that Raoul simply couldn't understand—and didn't try in the least to cater to his feelings.

"I would rather spend my time in silence," he said, making a small attempt to keep the enmity out of his voice. If she hated him so much, why didn't she just end the engagement? The breach of such a prestigious, long-term contract would cause quite a bit of damaging gossip and a loss of honor, the most critical possession one could own—the reason Raoul didn't end it himself—but Veronique didn't care about important things like public opinion. He supposed she just wanted to make him suffer as long as possible. He only hoped the loathing she held for him would prompt her to end the engagement before the wedding—January fifth. But she might hate him just enough to marry him out of spite. He couldn't take that chance. He had to find Christine quickly!

"As you wish," Veronique replied, smiling, and turned her attention to the landscape beyond the balcony, no doubt planning a bombardment of poetry concerning wind and autumn leaves. Insufferable.

He thought for several minutes about Christine, savoring the deep luster of her hair, the slenderness of her perfect waist, the beauty of her eyes when they adopted that vulnerable, confused look they so often wore.... Sitting there in the Musardiere mansion, trying and failing to ignore the pedantic horror seated across the table, his misery at not having succeeded in the seduction of his luscious little ingénue was even more piercing that usual. As Veronique opened her mouth to speak yet again, Raoul decided that Christine, so innocent, so radiant, so malleable, the absolute opposite of his future wife, was the perfect climax to his long and triumphant career as a bachelor. It was just fine that Christine was so shy concerning his advances—she would be his final victory. That is, if he ever found her.

"It reminds me of a stanza," began Veronique, retrieving another slice of bread from the basket on the table, "by a little-known poet from a hamlet in Germany—"

"Please," Raoul interrupted, striving to be polite. "You've been talking all afternoon—allow me to contribute something to the conversation."

Her smile was something like that of a cat tormenting her prey before killing it. "By all means."

"I don't recall much poetry, but I would like to compose an ode to your sublime eyes, your perfect lips, your hair, the same blonde as Helen of Troy—"

"Greek genetics favor dark hair," she informed him patronizingly. "Or is it your supposition that Helen is of Scandinavian origin?" Her tone was insufferably mocking.

Raoul was silent for a long, simmering moment before trying again to divert the subject from poetry. "Fine, Venus then. Surely Venus was blonde. You are fairer than Venus, more beautiful than any woman on earth—"

"'Remember,'" she interrupted again, and he realized disgustedly from the pitch of her voice that she was quoting someone, "'that the most beautiful things in the world are the most useless: peacocks and lilies, for instance.'"

"Who said that?" he said acidly. "Someone ugly, obviously."

"John Ruskin, and quite the contrary, if the paintings of him are even reasonably accurate, he was quite an attractive man."

Raoul shook his head. Your recommendation doesn't mean much, he thought sourly. Your idea of attractive is probably a doctorate and a private library.

They fell into unpleasant silence for a time, in which Raoul contemplated a few possible ways that he could extricate himself from this horrific marriage. His parents had introduced him to Veronique when he was eight years old, explaining to him that it was not just wealth that made them nobility—it was their bloodlines, completely untainted down through the ages since the time of Charlemagne. He could be proud, his father had told him, that every drop of his blood was that of a Frenchman, and that the blood of the nobility and even royalty flowed in his veins. So it had been agreed that he would marry Veronique, who belonged to one of the few families with as vaunted an ancestry as his own. It would be unthinkable to sully his progeny's veins with something less than the purest of French blood. Besides, Veronique was beautiful and just as wealthy as himself; he had been perfectly content with an arranged marriage.

He hadn't expected that his fiancée would be the one woman he had ever come across that didn't swoon at the sight of him. No, not even when he'd applied his Chagny charm, his astounding wit, and his genteel manner, had she so much as given him a smile—except for that infuriating, amused one he loathed so much. Veronique wasn't swayed in the least by his handsomeness and noble air; she was interested in things completely unattainable to her female grasp, mainly philosophic and economic discussions. What was worse, she seemed to delight in making him feel like an imbecile.

He'd tried talking to Philippe about it, but without any results. Philippe actually seemed to enjoy hearing about Veronique's infuriating behavior, laughing at her witticisms and applauding her extensive knowledge. It was appalling. "What on earth would you want a smart woman for?" Raoul had demanded of him. "She's supposed to receive guests, look pretty and bow to your wishes—not debate about the disadvantages of capitalism or the legacy of the Napoleonic Code!" Philippe had just given him a despairing look and tried to explain something about the advantages of an intelligent woman running the manor's domestic affairs, and that such vast knowledge was to be admired, no matter in which gender it was manifested.

"Then why don't _you_ marry her?" Raoul had snapped. But he knew perfectly well why—Philippe was absurdly uncomfortable around women. He didn't have the slightest clue how to handle them. However, it seemed to Raoul that it would be better for everyone all around if it had been _Philippe_ the Musardieres had wanted to marry their daughter. But it was too late now—the word of a Chagny was the core of his entire existence. To jilt a Musardiere (especially one so closely related to the Bourbons, a former ruling family of France) was social suicide.

Veronique interrupted his thoughts as she plucked a rose from the trellis on the balcony and said, "'And Spring arose on the garden fair, like the Spirit of Love felt everywhere; and each flower and herb on Earth's dark breast, rose from the dreams of its wintry rest.'" She closed her eyes for a moment—Raoul wasn't certain whether she was savoring the flavor of the tea or the poetry—then added, "Shelley was certainly a exceptional man."

Having calmed down a little, and seeing a chance to show that he was more educated than she, he said, "Ah, yes, the man who wrote that horrid novel about that undead, vicious monstrosity."

Veronique's full, Thulian-pink lips curved in a cold, derisive smile. He had adored those lips once, back when he thought that he would be kissing them, not having to endure lectures and disdain from them. It was unfathomable. What a ridiculous waste, for a woman of such wealth and beauty to squander her time trying to be intelligent.

"You are thinking of Shelley's _wife_ , vicomte," she said with a sardonic air of amusement. " _Percy_ Shelley was a poet. And evidently you missed the point of the book completely if you think that Doctor Frankenstein's creation was a vicious monstrosity."

Raoul threw down his fork in disgust. "He was a criminal's corpse shot full of electricity that hunted down Frankenstein to his death. You don't call that a monster?"

"I could reference a hundred places that prove that Frankenstein's creation had emotions and kindness far beyond those of his creator—"

"Please refrain from doing so," said Raoul, with a forced smile that he hoped concealed his loathing. It only made her happier to see his frustration. "I have an appointment within the hour."

"Very well. I shall state just one: the heart-rending scene in chapter five, where that 'monstrosity,' as you so charmingly put it, just barely gifted with life a few minutes prior, discovers Doctor Frankenstein cowering in his bedroom—and I quote, 'he muttered some inarticulate sounds, while a grin wrinkled his cheeks'."

Raoul, who had been hoping futilely that she would drop the subject, had to refrain from rolling his eyes in disgust. What kind of a woman—or any person, for that matter—spent their time memorizing any book, let alone _Frankenstein?_

"The innocent heart of a child was revealed in that smile, my ignorant fiancé," she said, her tone more than a little patronizing. "'He might have spoken,'" she continued to quote, "'but I did not hear; one hand was stretched out'— _in greeting, vicomte, and in need—_ and Dr. Frankenstein _ran from the house_. He deserted the poor, ignorant child he had created, leaving him to fend for himself in a world that could never even begin to accept him. This 'thing' did not originate as a monster, he was made so!"

Completely fed-up with being repeatedly corrected—he, a vicomte!—Raoul abruptly stood. "Thank you for such a fine meal," he forced himself to say, his voice sounding mechanical as the gentleman in him attempted to mask his fury. If he had been desperate to find Christine before, he was doubly so now. Christine would _listen_ to what he had to say, blush at his compliments, bow to his superior intelligence, and never contradict him! Who gave a damn if Frankenstein's monster raised a hand in greeting? A monster was a monster!

Furiously he strode inside and down the long marble staircase. Damn all etiquette—he would rescue Christine from her dastardly kidnapper, no matter what the costs!

# Chapitre Treize: Le Retour á la Surface

In the two days since Christine had come face to face with the horror of a lifetime, every waking moment had dragged on and on to such lengths that by Saturday night she was in tears—clandestine, fearful tears—waiting for Sunday to arrive. She kept mostly to the small bedroom, and saw Erik rarely during that time, but she spent the hours biting her nails, watching the curtain for any sign of his approach, squeezing her eyes shut in an attempt to block out his face—still burned in her vision—and cursing herself for setting the date of her release so far away.

When Saturday evening arrived (Erik had to inform her of the fact; night and day were the same in that dark prison) she was forced to use all the self-control she possessed to keep herself from racing up the steps and towards the safety of the light. She needed time to recover and to think—think about his deception and the nonexistence of the Angel. It was so unbearable to look at that innocent, white mask, knowing of the horrors that were concealed beneath it, and wonder, _How could I have thought_ this _was an angel?_

When she finally reached the mirror—Erik, unfortunately, had accompanied her up through the winding passageways to ensure that she did not lose her way—she felt so horribly sick over all the disappointment, the horror, the anger, and uncertainty stewing in her chest that she feared she might faint.

"I will be here," said Erik, "if you have need of me." As he turned, searching for the concealed mechanism that controlled the false mirror, she caught a glimpse of the look in his eyes; an inconsolable hunger, a desperate longing, glimmering there amidst kindness and quiet subservience.

After successfully locating the switch, he continued, "I shall be waiting, should you wish to practice your part for the next opera— _Idomeneo_ , I believe, if the new managers have not changed it again."

"Do you think the managers will let me be a diva, after I ran out on _Faust_?"

"I'm certain they will, Christine."

His smile was gentle, but all she could think of was how gruesomely it must have twisted his face. After two days of pretending, and with freedom so close, she couldn't bear to look at him anymore. He caught her expression before she could alter it, and she hurriedly asked, hoping to divert him, "What's the opera about?"

"Well...to put it succinctly, Idomeneo is king of Crete—"

"Crete? What's that?"

"It's an island near Greece. Idomeneo's son Idamante is in love with Princess Ilia—"

She gripped the mirror frame to withhold a shudder, feeling the bile rise in her throat the longer she was forced to remain in his presence. "Ilia...is...is that me?" she managed, not really listening.

"Yes. She is the princess of Troy, which the Cretans have just defeated. Idamante frees the Trojan prisoners—"

"It—it sounds great," she said suddenly, unable to take any more of that gruesome face, even if it was hidden. "I'll hear about it later."

"As you wish." He gestured towards the empty mirror frame. "Until tomorrow?"

"Yes. Tomorrow." Christine wanted to jerk away and run, but she forced herself to pretend that nothing was wrong. Slowly she turned away and stepped out into the dressing room.

She heard the mirror slide back into place, and she listened for Erik's footsteps back down the stairs to the cellars. She heard nothing, but couldn't wait a moment longer. She considered blockading the mirror, or at least throwing a sheet over it, but the image of the furious, unmasked Erik of a few days before flashed violently before her eyes, and she thought better of it.

Erik waited a few moments after closing the mirror, gazing out at Christine in wonder. She was so beautiful, so pure, so kind—she had accepted his deformity, his inhumanity, as no other woman in the world could possibly do. Of course, he could tell that she wasn't comfortable with his hideousness, but the fact that she had agreed to stay with him meant more to him than anything else in the world. All the guilt that had weighed on him—the guilt of his deception, his kidnapping—had been lifted from his shoulders by her angelic forgiveness. The poor girl had been so frightened by his face, and then his anger....

It had been so unfortunate that she had let her curiosity take control of her, but miraculously, unexplainably, it had turned out for the better. If she hadn't, he might not have ever had the courage to show her his whole face. How could she have accepted something so disgusting, so vile?

You, Christine, he thought, you are the angel.

At first he had wondered if she was putting on an act, but what reason could she possibly have? All she needed to have said was, "I'm leaving," and he would have taken her back up to her dressing room. She hadn't needed to stay with him for two more days.

He had never really believed in God, or at least never considered worshipping him—how could a God have allowed him to be born with such a hideous, demonic face?—but as he turned and started back down the stairs, the darkness did not seem so oppressive, and he thought, _Thank you, God, for sending me such a beautiful, forgiving angel._

Christine, having changed into her street clothes, ran a brush quickly through her hair, and, now that she had calmed down a bit, thought to check her reflection in the vanity mirror before leaving. When she walked to the door, she almost tripped on the bag of laundered clothes that one of the washwomen for the chorus had left during her absence. For a moment she wondered if she ought to go to the effort to put her clothes on hangers in the closet, where they belonged. _Well_ , she reasoned, _it's a lot of work, and I need to get home—and anyway, in a few days I'll just drag them all out again, so why bother?_ Besides, she needed to get out of the opera house altogether so that she could recover, and she certainly wasn't going to wait around over something like tidiness. She just dumped the bag on an already-overloaded chair and briskly walked out into the hall.

She had been missing for so long, she could only imagine how everyone would have reacted. Mamma Valerius would be so worried! And the managers would have called out a search party by now. Raoul had probably engaged the military in the desperate search for his kidnapped love! She sighed heavily. Perhaps it was easier to be in the chorus than to be a diva—no one cared what you were doing when you were just another faceless chorus girl. But what a wonderful thing it was to be worried about, sought after, constantly fawned over! Well, after a while, she supposed, that would begin to be irksome; but that was the price one paid for fame, was it not?

Someone stepped in front of Christine, whom she didn't notice until he spoke. "Where have you been?" demanded Raoul, running a hand through his perfect blond locks, the picture of confused relief. He pulled her into a hard, almost furious embrace, then pushed her back to arms' length so he could demand, "Don't you know how worried I've been? I had the whole city out looking for you! Where have you been?"

"I was kidnapped," she lied, expecting him to cry out in dismay, hold her tightly, then step back so he could kneel to propose. Ah, to be whisked off to Italy, away from lessons, away from monsters, away from lies and uncertainty—

"I suspected as much!" he declared. "Are you hale? Did the dastard touch you? He didn't—he couldn't—"

"No! He—he just...wanted...to teach the managers a lesson, that's all. I barely even saw him."

"Oh—oh, good," he said, seeming almost weak with relief. "But how juvenile! Oh, just wait, Christine, when I find him, he'll pay dearly for this ridiculous scheme." He paused, then prompted impatiently, "Well? Who was it, my darling little angel? Give me his name so that I might impale him on my sword!"

"He—he didn't tell me his name," she said, stumbling over the words. She couldn't let Raoul fight Erik. Not that he didn't deserve it—imagine, lying to her, luring her down to his lair, and on top of it all, being so ugly!—but there was a horrible chance that the evil monster might defeat the handsome knight, despite what the faerie tales promised. She wanted to think things over and pray to the gods for guidance before she made any hasty decisions that could affect her future.

"Then give me his description so I may exact revenge!"

"Well, I didn't see much of him, as I said—"

"Christine, you wouldn't try to protect something so vile?! I demand justice! Tell me it wasn't that ridiculous specter I keep hearing about—"

"No!" she exclaimed, panicking for a moment before a decent lie came to mind. "No, of course not—the Phantom doesn't exist, don't be absurd! This man was short—rotund—and had—light hair. I think he was one of the stagehands."

"I will have the entire city hunting for this dastard! Oh, my sweet, I'm so glad you're safe.... Any man in his right mind would have snatched you after seeing your beauty—not that it excuses him from the retribution that awaits him at the tip of my blade! He's one and the same as the outrageous man I heard in your dressing room, isn't that correct, my rose?"

"No! I mean, yes! Yes, it was!"

"I thought so," declared Raoul, sounding rather gratified at having his suspicions confirmed. "Just wait, my darling, my precious, I'll soon have him at my mercy, and he'll beg forgiveness for his crimes against you! Tell me of his whereabouts so that I may challenge him to a duel!"

"I—well—I have no idea. We were somewhere outside the opera house," she invented. "That's all I know. I was blindfolded most of the time."

"Blast! But it doesn't matter—I shall hunt him down and exact revenge, never fear!"

Christine's frightened, horrified thoughts of Erik seemed to dwindle and fade to the back of her mind in the light of Raoul's brilliance. _He must really love me_ , she thought happily, _to so furiously want revenge! And to have the entire city out to find me!_ She momentarily forgot about everything else, caught up in the idea that so many people had been frantic over her disappearance. "Oh, Raoul—"

Then she remembered that Erik was probably watching her, and his ominous words echoed in her mind: _If you bestow your heart on earth, I will have no choice but to return to Heaven._ Of course, he wasn't the Angel anymore, but still—what would happen if she went back on her promise not to associate with Raoul? A shiver shook her body as she contemplated his anger.... Oh, Gods, she hoped that Raoul didn't propose.

Raoul actually laughed. "Oh no, my delightful little cream puff, where are you going?" He struck an even more dashing pose. "Wheresoever thou doth go, fair Christine, I shalt follow, and protecteth thee from harm. Thine kidnapper shalt trouble thee no longer!"

The absurdity of this statement did not reach Christine; she was entirely taken up by the flattering thought that a vicomte would care so much about her. Raoul was so wonderful! He cared enough about her safety to offer to protect her! He was so gallant, and handsome, and kind....

Then suddenly she realized that if Erik was watching, he would be able to see the look of adoration on her face. "Um—should we tell the police that I'm fine?"

"Them? Why bother? They were completely useless. But darling, blossom, empress, what did he do? Surely he didn't kidnap you just to have you sit in a corner and do nothing for five horrible days!"

"Well, yes, that was about it, actually," she said, reluctant to tell him anymore. But she needed someone to sympathize, to console her after the horrible week she had just endured. She could at least tell him a little, so he understood the horrors she had been through. "Come, walk me home," she whispered, hoping that Erik wasn't nearby.

"Of course, _mon ange_!"

They walked for a long time in silence, Christine shushing Raoul every time he tried to speak. He seemed rather annoyed by it, but was so thrilled to get her back that he finally walked along silently. When the Garnier was out of sight, she spoke: "Oh, Raoul, it was like a nightmare! He kidnapped me to keep me away from you—"

"The ridiculous ruffian!"

"—but when I saw his face—oh gods, that face!—it was just so horrible, I couldn't help being afraid, and—"

"And he realized that with such hideous visage he didn't have a chance, and returned you to the opera house?"

"Yes, yes," she said, burying her face in his jacket.

"Oh, my poor little darling," he said, holding her comfortingly. "What a harrowing ordeal! I'm so sorry I failed to reach you in time to spare you such a terrible sight!"

"It was so horrible! He is beyond revolting! Beyond humanity! He was acting nice, but gods, that face—he's so terrifying!"

"Yes, my poor sweetling," said Raoul, stroking her hair. "You must come to stay with me in my fabulous mansion immediately to keep you from further harm."

"Oh no, I couldn't!" she exclaimed, quaking as she thought of how angry the Monster would be.

"But my precious, it's—" Raoul pulled back, suddenly making a connection. "So that's why you wouldn't submit to your obvious attraction to me.... He threatened you, didn't he? Of course! Why didn't I realize it before? Oh, my golden-voiced little songbird, nothing will ever keep us apart, not even this fiend." After a moment, he added, "He probably told you that he'd kill me if you continued pressing advances on me. How very noble of you, my love. He's jealous, yes.... Well, you needn't worry. No asinine scoundrel will be the death of me!"

Christine, conscious of how handsome and dashing Raoul appeared in the soft glow of the gaslight emanating from the street lamps, felt her the beat of her heart hasten. Even the wrinkled nature of his clothes—she imagined that he hadn't bothered to change them since she had disappeared—couldn't dampen his godlike attractiveness. She realized that she was blushing. He was so gallant, so genteel, so perfect...!

"Oh, my precious," he murmured, drawing her close to him, "you need someone to comfort you after your ordeal, to remind you of what kind of man you deserve!" Before she could react, he had her around the waist. Within moments, he was kissing her, and, after a moment of panicked struggling—it was so improper!—her heart started to pound and she almost fainted from the pleasure of the kiss. Warmth stole over every inch of her body, making her giddy and unable to stand. If Erik saw, then it was too bad for him. She was forced to cling to him, and he supported her weight easily, stroking her chocolate curls with gentle fingers. All thought of the Monster fled from her mind as lightheadedness overwhelmed her. Though the night was cool, she felt warm and feverish. She wanted nothing more than to stay like this, forever and ever—

Then Erik's face appeared in her mind, his pleading eyes holding in their glistening depths all the sorrow and anger of the world....

Christine pulled away from Raoul with a cry, shaking and dizzy. As she reeled, Raoul grabbed her hand and steadied her. "I'm sorry," he said, grinning devilishly, "I didn't think you'd be so—"

She jerked her fingers from his grip and ran down the street.

Christine burst through the front door of her flat, crying and shaking. She closed the door behind her with a loud bang and thrust the deadbolt into place with undue force. Her legs could hardly support her weight, and she had to lean heavily against the wall to keep upright. It was all right. Erik hadn't seen her. She had merely seen his face in her mind, that was all. _What must Raoul think of me now?_ she wondered miserably.

She could hear Mamma walking towards the kitchen, having heard the door slam. The familiar smells of simple food and old carpet comforted her and calmed her pounding heart. She hurriedly wiped the tears from her eyes before Mamma appeared, not wanting to upset the woman.

Mamma Valerius swept her into a massive embrace. "Oh, mine child," she cried, "I have missed you zho! Zhough I knew you vere being vith ze Angel, it vas very 'ard for an old voman to bear, especially with ze turmoil over ze plague."

"Yes," managed Christine breathlessly; she told herself that her out-of-breath state was due to Mamma's crushing hug, but it wasn't that at all. She could still feel Raoul's warm, demanding lips against hers, and she knew her cheeks were flushed. "But it's not a plague. Erik—I mean, people—people say it's just an 'epidemic,' whatever that means."

"It is all ze same—a curse from God upon ze sinful. Thank goodness it 'as not struck in France yet; zhough 'oo knows 'ow far it vill go before it 'as finished vith its divine vork...?"

It took a moment for Mamma to notice Christine's condition. "Vot 'as 'appened to you?" she demanded, guiding Christine into the small kitchen and setting her down at the table.

"I'm just tired," she lied. "It was a long walk home, and it was dark and I was scared. So I ran."

"Poor child!" cried Mamma, fetching various plates from the counter and setting them before the quaking girl. "I di' not expect you 'ome zho zoon, but zhere is some supper left."

"Thank you," said Christine. "I expected to stay longer too, but Erik thought—"

The woman turned, eyebrows raised. "Who is zhis 'Erik'?" she asked suspiciously. With her accent, she mangled the name into a barely-recognizable " _Er_ -ek" that made Christine wince. "I vas thinking you spent zhose five days vis ze Angel."

Christine gave a strained laugh. Was it only five days? She felt as if a millennium had passed—a millennium of agony, of horror, trauma and strain. "Erik _is_ the Angel, Mamma," she explained wearily. "Sort of." It was too complicated to explain. She didn't want to ruin Mamma's faith as her own had been so cruelly dashed.

"Ze Angel has a name? Zhat is strange," Mamma Valerius declared. "I haf never 'eard zat he vas hafing a name. But you _haf_ been vis ze Angel, haf you not?"

"I swear by Thor's Hammer that I was," she said indignantly.

Mamma, ardently Christian, frowned at her. "I thought you 'ad promised me you vould not bring your father's pagan gods under zis roof—"

Christine regretted bringing Erik up, but interrupted with, "Don't you want to hear about the Angel?", hoping to avoid a lecture.

"I vos speaking, Christine."

"It's quite a story," Christine hastened to assure her.

"Vell, fine zen. Vot is 'e like?" asked Mamma, filling Christine's plate with sad, soggy string beans and a small amount of tough beef. Christine had always tried not to complain about the poor food that she ate—they both worked very hard for it, and Mamma gave her the best of everything—but it was just so depressing to think that she was living in such poverty.

The girl told her the entire story, deciding to unveil that the Angel's was really a monster in the hopes that Mamma would forget about the chastisement. Mamma would find out sooner or later that the Angel was a fraud anyway.

"...And he led me back up the steps and let me return," she finished some time later. Reliving her ordeal made her feel very foolish—she had been so easily duped.

"Strange, child, very strange," Mamma declared.

Christine's food had gotten quite cold while she talked, and she grimaced as she inspected a string bean and forced herself to eat. Throughout the remainder of the meal they were both silent; Mamma appeared to be musing over this new enlightenment, but Christine was brooding. How could she have been so stupid? But even worse, what was she to do now? A monster had access to her dressing room, and there was no real Angel to fight him off. Why was there no Angel? She supposed she still wasn't worthy of his presence. Much as she hated to think such a thing—if anyone deserved the Angel, she did—it was better than doubting her father. He couldn't be wrong. The Angel was real. He just didn't think she was deserving enough.

It was a terribly depressing thought. How would she escape the monster that lived beneath the opera house? Could she just quit? Live off of Mamma's income for a while? No, it wouldn't do any good; surely he would find where she lived. She thought for a moment about fleeing Paris—perhaps escaping France altogether—but it was hopeless. The monster would probably follow her to the ends of the earth.

By the time supper was over, she had fallen into an inescapable pit of despair. She dried the few, cracked dishes automatically, missing spots and putting them in the wrong cupboards, worried about the future. What could she do? She couldn't keep up the façade of accepting Erik; it had taken everything she possessed to keep from screaming every time he came into her sight. But she couldn't let him know how horrible she found him. There was no telling what he would do.

So distraught was she that she accidentally dropped a glass. It shattered into a myriad of sharp, shining pieces on the floor, and she shrieked in surprise and stumbled back from the hazardous area. "What will I do?" she wailed, wringing her dishcloth in agony.

Mamma Valerius had started towards the broom, but turned at these words. "Vot do you mean, child?"

"He's a monster!" cried Christine.

A pensive, troubled look crossed the Romanian woman's face, and she was silent for a few long moments. "Christine—I zhink you are mistaken about zis man."

"What are you talking about?" she moaned, collapsing to the floor, picturing the horrible life before her, enslaved to a hideous fiend to whom she owed her career.

"I zhink he is still ze Angel."

"No—he can't be." The words were very difficult to give voice to, and with every syllable she cursed her own stupidity. She'd tried to get herself to think of him as the Angel. But he was so hideous that the task was impossible.

"But listen, child—I vos unsure at first, but it makes perfect zense. He is teaching you to zing, yes?"

She nodded listlessly, too busy lamenting her terrible fate to pay attention.

"Vell then!" Mamma declared. "He must be ze Angel! Perhaps zere is a mandate zat no mortal can zee an Angel's face, so he must be looking zho terrible and 'ideous—yes, Christine?"

"I suppose..."

"And it could all zhust be a test of your faith, my darling."

"Yes..."

"Ah! Or per'aps, since ze two Angels in Sodom vere mobbed because zey vere zho beautiful, 'e is in disguise to be able to complete 'is task on earth."

"Yes," Christine breathed, amazed that she hadn't thought of it herself. But of course, it wasn't her fault she had forgotten about Sodom and Gomorrah; she had never spent much time thinking about Christianity. "Of course! It's brilliant! It's wonderful! Oh, Mamma," she cried, jumping up and embracing her guardian.

"Thank you, child, but let go of me zho I can sveep up zis glass."

"I'll do it!" Christine darted to the floor and began zealously picking up the shards. So great was her excitement that she forgot about the danger, and she quickly found herself holding a bleeding finger.

"Oh, child!" Mamma exclaimed. "You haf 'urt your-zelf!"

"It doesn't matter!" she declared. "Nothing matters!" She wasn't wrong! She hadn't been tricked! Erik really was the Angel!

# Chapitre Quatorze: Christine Renie le Récit du Enlèvement

The following morning, Christine waltzed into the managers' office, so happy that she was practically floating off the floor. Everything in her life was perfect—Raoul was in love with her, Erik was ugly but still possibly the Angel, her father's dream had come true, and she was going to be the star of the Opera Garnier. Best of all, everyone was fawning over her because of her mysterious disappearance—even people she had never spoken to before had greeted her in the halls on her way to the office, expressing their happiness at her safe return and wishing her good luck in the next opera. Everything seemed beautiful to her—the people she passed, the architecture of the opera house, the sparkling flicker of the gas lamps; everything seemed to shimmer with a magical aura that promised her the world.

She threw open the door dramatically without bothering to knock. "Good morning!" she announced, twirling into the office. Meg, whom she had met in the hall (and who had hugged Christine multiple times, demanding over and over to know that she was all right), followed quietly behind her.

" _Bon jour_ , mesdemoiselles," said Moncharmin, looking rather startled by her sudden entrance. "We were very glad to hear of your safe return from Monsieur le Vicomte several minutes ago, Mademoiselle Daaé."

The office was large and decorated lavishly with tall, bold furniture, dark and incredibly ornate, including a marble-topped desk with clawed feet; Christine paused in her twirling, absolutely breath-taken with the beauty and expense of it all. She had only been in this office once before (when Poligny had wished to reprimand her in private for a certain practical joke she had played on one of the meaner chorus girls), but it had looked so plain and boring then—now, with Messieurs Richard and Moncharmin in command, it was exquisite!

After a moment of reverence she remembered why she had come and happily danced over to the beautiful desk where Moncharmin was sitting and placed her hands on it dramatically. "I have returned!" she declared. "And I shall be the greatest princess the world has ever seen!"

He hurried to stable a pile of papers that she had jeopardized when she bumped into the desk. "Princess, mademoiselle?"

"Princess Elaina!"

"Ilia, you mean?" asked Richard.

"Yes, yes, her—when do I get to start trying on costumes?"

Richard looked somewhat surprised by the question, and she glanced at Moncharmin and found that he was looking at her a little oddly as well. Perhaps she shouldn't have pronounced pretty costumes as her first priority.

"It will be a few weeks," Richard replied, after a moment. "We have to figure out some kind of budget for the costumes and the sets."

"Oh," she said, disappointed. She had always wanted to flounce around the stage in a gorgeous satin gown with jewels and a tiara, enjoying the adoration of the crowd while the pathetic ballet rats looked on with jealousy. But a few weeks wasn't terrible, she supposed.

"You're taking the part, mademoiselle?" asked Moncharmin.

"Of course I am! Of course, that means that you'll have to find someone else to finish up _Faust_ ; I can't possibly pour my heart into two operas at once—at least, not for my first role as a diva!"

The managers glanced at each other, frowning, and Christine panicked—was her request unreasonable? Or what if they had been listening to Mercier and the chorus rats—jealous, just jealous!—and thought she wasn't responsible enough to handle a diva's part?

"I promise I'll be amazing!" she said quickly, seeing her dreams crumble before her eyes.

"She will be!" said Meg, ready to back up her friend.

Christine, who had forgotten Meg was there, talked over her: "I'll memorize everything way in advance and I won't cause any problems and—oh, please, let me play Ilia!"

"Of course you can play her!" Moncharmin exclaimed. Christine stopped to examine the managers' faces and found that they looked intensely relieved. "It's just that when we last spoke to you on the subject you seemed unsure about all the work involved—"

"Mademoiselle," said Richard, a touch of pain entering his eyes, "we should be begging _you_ to take the part! You have no _idea_ what it's been like dealing with that Spanish nightma—"

"Richard!" Moncharmin interrupted sharply, shooting his associate a very definite don't-discuss-our-problems-in-front-of-her look.

"Nevermind about that," Richard amended. "Congratulations on your appointment as the permanent and celebrated diva of the Opera Garnier, mademoiselle."

"Why thank you," she said, swelling with gratification.

"We'll just have to ask Mademoiselle—what was her name, Moncharmin?"

"Lechasseur."

"Yes, we'll just have to ask Mademoiselle Lechasseur—she was your temporary replacement while you were missing, mademoiselle—to finish _Faust_ while you devote your attention to _Idomeneo_. This upcoming opera is a very important landmark in operatic history."

"Marvelous," said Christine, clapping her hands together. She had been afraid they would not allow her to skip _Faust._

"Now, if you will accompany us to the stage, mademoiselle?"

"Can't I look over the script for a few weeks before we start rehearsing?"

Richard shook his head. "We have to begin immediately if we want to have it ready to perform before the year ends."

"Then why are we going to the stage?"

The managers looked surprised. "No one has told you?" asked Moncharmin.

"We sent for the police the moment the vicomte informed us that you were indeed kidnapped."

"The police!"

"They're waiting for us on the stage so you can pick out the man who kidnapped you."

The giddy happiness shattered like a glass bubble, replaced by a wave of panic. "Th-the police?" she said again. "Are they really necessary?"

"Of course, mademoiselle! The man who did such an unspeakable thing must be brought to justice!"

She continued to protest as they led her down the hall (Meg walking quietly behind), but she couldn't change their minds, and her head was absolutely devoid of plans to get her out of this stupid, stupid lie.

Leonhard sighed and rubbed his moustache between his fingers, refraining with some difficulty from looking at his pocket watch. He had a great many reports to read and appointments to keep—more than usual, actually—and he couldn't afford the time he was wasting waiting for Mademoiselle Daaé to arrive. He ignored the fast, impatient tapping of the Vicomte de Chagny's fashionable boot on the floor; from the looks the vicomte had been giving the policemen and the stagehands lined up at the front of the stage, as well as the fact that he had brought his rapier, it was apparent that he disparaged police interference and was bent on running the mademoiselle's kidnapper through with his own two hands. Leonhard hoped he wouldn't have to restrain the raging vicomte once she had identified the man. Monsieur Camescasse was tapping his foot too, more insistently than the vicomte. He was even busier than Leonhard was; on top of his usual pressing duties—heading the administration of the Paris police force, ensuring the security of the capital, and keeping the politicians happy—he had to juggle the added stress of the epidemic that was sweeping across Eastern Europe in France's direction.

Despite the demands on his time, Leonhard had been happy when the Garnier's new managers had demanded that he appear in person to witness the mademoiselle's identification of her kidnapper. He doubted the man would come to work after such a crime, and handcuffing the culprit certainly did not require his presence, but it was nice to get out of the office and away from all the reports and complaints; this was the closest he was going to get to any real detective work.

He heard footsteps echoing from the back of the stage and turned to see the managers escorting a beautiful lady toward them. He recognized her as Christine Daaé from her picture on the front page of the newspaper—she had been the talk of Paris for days, first for her performance and then her mysterious disappearance.

When they drew near, the managers shook hands with him and the vicomte before commencing introductions. "Mademoiselle," said Richard, "this is Jean Camescasse, the Préfet de Police, and this is Leonhard Blaise, Prevote de Police. Gentlemen, this is Christine Daaé, Mademoiselle le Diva of the Opera Garnier. Oh, and Mademoiselle Meg Giry."

Camescasse kissed Mademoiselle Daaé's hand and gave voice to some standard greeting or another, unable to refrain from checking his pocket watch when he straightened up.

The diva turned to Leonhard, and he kissed her hand as well; she giggled from the tickle of his German-style moustache. "I'm honored to make your acquaintance," he said gravely. "I was unfortunate enough to miss your performance of Faust, but I've already reserved a seat for Idomeneo, and I look forward greatly to hearing your heavenly voice, mademoiselle."

"Why, thank you, monsieur." Her smile made the very room brighter. She practically glowed with an ethereal, fantastic beauty that made her appear as a nymph, or a goddess, rather than just a beautiful woman.

Leonhard kissed Meg's hand as well and greeted her politely before saying to Mademoiselle Daaé, "We will do everything we can to make sure that your kidnapper is brought to justice."

"Why—why thank you," she said, sounding rather unhappy all of a sudden. Then she changed the subject: "I'm confused. You're the Provost—is that right?—and he's the Prefect—which one of you is in charge?"

Camescasse coughed, slightly offended that she had to ask, but Leonhard smiled patiently and said, "Monsieur Camescasse is the head of the Préfecture de Police, mademoiselle. I am the senior officer of the force. I assist him."

"Oh yes, of course. How silly of me."

The vicomte, unable to stay silent any longer, took the mademoiselle's arm and gestured almost violently towards the stagehands. "Please, my darling, identify the blackguard and allow me to exact justice!"

"You will do no such thing," said Leonhard, trying to keep his voice reasonable. He hated dealing with nobles like the vicomte, so caught up in fashion and their own supposed power and superiority that they trod over the lower classes.

Her instructions from the vicomte countermanded, Mademoiselle Daaé looked to the Prevote for direction. Leonhard glanced at Camescasse, but the Préfet waved an impatient hand for him to continue. Normally Camescasse would have been annoyed that his assistant was taking control, but he was in such a hurry to get out of the opera house and to a government meeting that he didn't care.

"I doubt the man will still be here, if he is indeed an employee," Leonhard told her kindly. "But even if he is not here, you can still render us a valuable service by ruling these men out of our search."

She nodded and peered intently at the line of stagehands. Some looked nervous, some tired, and some annoyed. Leonhard couldn't see any obvious choice for their wanted criminal. They were dressed plainly, some in patched clothes; they were all of the poorest working class, and his heart went out to the thinner, more desperate souls in the lineup.

When he glanced at Mademoiselle Daaé again, he saw that she looked almost panicked. Poor girl, he thought, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder. "Don't worry, mademoiselle; he can't touch you now."

When she didn't look any less anxious, he said, "Don't feel pressured. If you can't identify him for certain, it's all right. We understand how frightened you must have been."

"N-no, I can—i-it's him!" she declared in a high voice, pointing at a large man far down the line.

Her pronouncement launched a burst of deafening chaos upon the stage: the stagehand flinched and stared at her confusedly; the vicomte yelled and started forward, but Camescasse signaled his men to restrain him; Meg cried out in dismay and grasped Mademoiselle Daaé's arm, crying that the man she had identified was a good man and wouldn't do anything of the sort, making Leonhard wonder if there was something between them.

The diva shook her arm free and said loudly, "I can't possibly be mistaken!"

"I thought you said he was short and rotund?" inquired Moncharmin.

"What? No I didn't," said Mademoiselle Daaé hurriedly. "I—I was confused. But that is definitely the man!"

"But Christine―" pleaded Meg.

"I demand the honor of running him through!" bellowed the vicomte. As he cursed and strained against his captors, demanding his release and threatening them with his powerful connections in the government, the Préfet stepped forward and took control.

"What is your name, monsieur?" he asked the stagehand in a cold, detached voice.

The poor man—hulking, square-jawed and rather dull-eyed—opened his mouth to speak, but appeared confused by the diva's accusation. He looked to Meg for help, but Leonhard stepped forward to aid the man.

"Don't be afraid," he said kindly. "This is an investigation. We are after the truth."

"Hulbert...Hulbert Tannenbaum," said the stagehand slowly.

"Aha!" cried the troublesome vicomte. "A German, I should have guessed! Only a German would have the gall to―" He stopped abruptly when he remembered that Leonhard, whom he needed on his side if an arrest was to be made, was of the same nationality.

Camescasse ignored him. "How long have you been employed here, Monsieur Tannenbaum?"

The man thought for a ponderous moment, biting his lip and furrowing his brow in a concentrated effort to accomplish the math involved. "Two...two and a half months."

"Do you know Christine Daaé?"

"Not personally, sir."

"Did you abduct her on the twenty-second of October?"

Tannenbaum blanched. "No, sir!"

"Of course he did!" bellowed the vicomte, and Mademoiselle Daaé quickly seconded him.

Camescasse nodded decisively, ignoring Meg's desperate supplications. "Very well."

Leonhard frowned, displeased with the callous, hurried way his superior was handling the investigation. He started to speak, but the Préfet cut him off:

"We'll finish this at headquarters. Fouche, Ronquett, handcuff this man and escort him to the carriage."

As the policemen started forward, Tannenbaum panicked; he tried to run, but found his way blocked by Fouche. Fouche hefted his blackjack as a warning, but Tannenbaum took it as a threat and swung at the man. Fouche managed to duck before the massive arm hit him, and the rest of the men Camescasse had brought joined the fray.

Tannenbaum, though large and muscular, was slow and untrained, and the policemen quickly subdued him. As he was forcibly hauled towards the front entrance, yelling for Meg and bellowing that he was innocent, Leonhard turned and walked off the stage and into the wings, unable to watch. Meg pleaded with Camescasse to hear Tannenbaum's side—that he couldn't possibly have done it—but the Préfet, quite obviously satisfied that the case was closed, continued to ignore her. He remained on the stage for a moment to direct the gathering of statements from the diva, the vicomte, and the managers. He didn't even bother to arrange for character references or alibis for Tannenbaum from the Garnier's employees; he was just interested in wrapping up the paperwork as quickly as possible.

"Monsieur!" cried Meg, turning to Leonhard. "Monsieur, you must help him!"

He patted the hand with which she was gripping his arm, but said reluctantly, "I cannot go against the Préfet's decision, mademoiselle."

"Surely you can see that he is innocent―"

"I believe he is, mademoiselle, but I cannot prove it without witnesses."

"I'll get you witnesses! I'll do whatever it takes!" she said desperately.

"Then speak with the other employees, mademoiselle—establish an alibi for him."

She nodded frantically and rushed off to catch the stagehands, who had already wandered off.

Leonhard watched her go, thinking gloomily that the stagehands would be too concerned about jeopardizing their own employment to be of any help. The managers seemed clueless. And the diva was adamant.

At a loss for what to do, Leonhard wandered into a small room past the wings where the props for the current opera were kept. He paced for a moment, but his anger grew so great that he stopped and swore in German. He had become a police officer to help people, to battle evil and fight for justice; but as the Prevote, all he did was cater to the whims and schemes of a politician, who, while believing himself to have Paris' best interests at heart, had just condemned a man to prison without so much as a hint of justice.

Leonhard touched a prop column, ostensibly of marble, noticing with distracted disappointment that it was merely cheap plaster, and wracked his brain for a way to ensure that justice was done without overstepping his bounds. The Préfet wasn't supposed to handle individual cases like this, but since this was of such a high profile (the beautiful mademoiselle was quickly rising as a celebrity in Paris), he would despise any efforts on Leonhard's part that would put him in an undesirable light.

Leonhard inspected a crack in the plaster and discovered that the faux-column was disintegrating. He was fairly sure that Tannenbaum was innocent—the look in his eyes when Camescasse had accused him was proof enough. But what could he do? The case was closed.

"There's nothing to be done," he muttered, leaning glumly against the wall.

"Hulbert Tannenbaum is innocent."

Leonhard jumped at the voice and looked wildly around, but there was no one.

"Yes, I...I know," he said, searching behind the props nearby. "But I can't prove it." The voice was deep, soothing, and possessed a commanding quality Leonhard instinctively trusted; still, he didn't like anything he couldn't see. "Identify yourself," he said, pulling back a tapestry to find only a bare wall.

"Look in your coat pocket."

His hand delved into the pocket and came in contact with a piece of paper. A trifle unnerved, he lifted it up into the light and saw that it was an envelope.

"Give it to Mademoiselle Daaé. She will come to her senses and revoke her charge."

Leonhard stared at the envelope for a moment, then glanced around again, wishing the room were not so poorly lit. For some reason, he didn't feel in any danger, but he still didn't like it.

He started to demand again that the voice identify itself, but stopped; it wouldn't do any good. "I hope you're right," he said, pocketing the letter.

The voice didn't reply, and Leonhard left the room.

He hurried back to the stage and was relieved to find that the diva was still there, talking to the vicomte and the managers. Meg was desperately speaking to a stagehand, but she seemed to be having an impossible time. Most of the stagehands had already left, and Camescasse had disappeared—he was probably at his meeting by now—but it was just as well; Leonhard didn't think he could explain the strange letter to his superior.

"Oh, it was just terrible," Mademoiselle Daaé was saying. "He never even touched me—he was barely even there—but I was so frightened!"

"Don't fret, my sweet, if I cannot exact justice myself, then I shall have him prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law!" declared the vicomte.

"Excuse me!" Leonhard broke in. "I was instructed―"

"I already filled out a statement and gave it to that other man," the diva informed him dismissively.

"No, no, it's not that—I was instructed to give this to you."

She accepted the envelope and extracted the letter curiously. When she saw its contents however—read so quickly that it only could have been a single sentence—her beautiful skin turned a cold, ashen color.

"What is it, my pet?" demanded the vicomte, trying to take the paper from her. She refused to give it to him, holding it against her chest—though she looked as though she regarded the thing as a particularly large and frightening spider—and stared at the floor.

She started to speak, but her voice came out as a squeak. "I—I—I wasn't kidnapped. I made it all up."

Meg shrieked again and ran to stand by Leonhard to hear the diva's words.

"That man—whatever his name is―"

"Hulbert," said Meg, just as Leonhard, amazed at the sudden reversal the mysterious letter had evoked, said, "Tannenbaum."

"—is innocent," finished Mademoiselle Daaé, dejected and embarrassed, but still firm.

The vicomte's face was an unrecognizable mask of shock. "You—you can't be serious!"

"I made it up," she repeated.

"Why would you lie to me?!"

"Because—because I wanted a few days off, but I was afraid I'd be fired if I admitted it, so I made up a story!"

"Good God!" exclaimed the managers together, unable to believe it any more than the vicomte.

"Christine, my precious, how could you―"

"I didn't mean to make such a big commotion, but you were so gallant, and wonderful, protecting me, that I couldn't tell you the truth!"

That seemed to calm the vicomte down a bit, but the managers were still outraged. They continued to voice protests which the diva replied to in increasingly shrill tones, until Leonhard finally interrupted with,

"Mademoiselle! Monsieur Tannenbaum is being escorted to headquarters as we speak!"

"Oh! Oh, of course! Quickly, lead the way, monsieur—I must revoke my statement at once!"

As the Prevote and the two ballerinas rushed towards the Garnier's main entrance, Leonhard cast a glance behind him, wondering just what being, seeming to share his desire for justice, had just spared an innocent man a prison sentence.

Christine closed the door just as quietly as she possibly could, inching it shut ever-so-slowly, but she still flinched when the mechanism uttered an audible click as it closed. She held absolutely still for a full minute, but there was no sound that Erik had heard; there was no sound at all from the room or the mirror or the tunnel beyond, just the ordinary bustle through the halls beyond the treacherous door.

She turned and took tiny, silent steps across the minefield of a floor—so filled with squeaks that it was impossible to cross without alerting the entire opera house of her presence—towards the vanity, where her makeup was located. She had taken her shoes off in the hallway, so her feet made little sound upon the wood as long as she avoided the creaky spots.

She clapped her hand over her mouth as she felt something sharp stick in the soft, vulnerable arch of her foot. Trying hard to keep from crying out in agony and cursing Loki, the trickster god, for placing a splinter in her path, she ignored the horrific pain and hobbled towards the vanity.

Finally, after the longest eternity of her life—and with minimal squeaks from the floor—she was within reach. She mentally congratulated herself as she seized the cheap tin of face powder. She had gone without makeup all morning, but she hadn't been able to take it any longer and had worked up the courage to sneak into her dressing room. Meg was absolutely furious with her (apparently she had a thing for that hulking German fellow), and as bad as that was to endure, Erik's response would likely be worse. She was so afraid of what Erik would say about her lies and false accusation that she had been avoiding her dressing room for all of yesterday and this morning.

Accusing that stagehand had been a cruel and stupid thing to do, but what else could she have done—told the world that the Angel, whom she had thought was a monster but who really turned out to be the Angel again, disguised as the dreaded Phantom of the Opera, had made off with her in the night? Everyone would think she was crazy, and Raoul would refuse to rest until he had killed the Angel, and no matter who won, she would lose out on one of the keys to her future.

At least, she hoped that he was the Angel. She felt her conviction wavering, and began to repeat to herself, "Erik is the Angel" several times until her doubts subsided. He had to be. He just _had_ to. If he wasn't, it would mean that her father was wrong—that she was in the clutches of a fiend—that she had been tricked and used—

But it doesn't matter, she told herself angrily, because he is the Angel!

She grabbed a little tin of blush, but—unwilling to move any closer than an arm's length to the vanity—she was unable to find the powder puff that went with it in all the clutter. After a moment of frantic searching she gave up, figuring that she could just as easily apply the powder with her fingers. She grabbed a few more necessities and clutched them to her chest, wondering if she should put it all on now or leave and hope she could find another mirror. It was better to leave immediately, she decided, rather than court a chance meeting with the disapproving Angel. Oh gods, when she had caught sight of the words on that paper, her heart had almost stopped....

Holding the tins very carefully so as not to drop them, she slowly backed up a few steps, until, close to the door, she turned around.

"Erik!" she shrieked, dropping all the makeup containers in her fright. A cacophony of multi-hued powders spilled all over the floorboards, and she cried out furiously as her precious cosmetics were lost forever to the disgusting, dirt-ridden floor.

"Christine," he said, looking very displeased as he leaned against the wall by the door, where he had apparently been standing when she had come in.

"I was just coming to see you!" she said, talking loud and fast, as she always did when she was upset.

"Is that so?"

"Yes, and I was going to apologize for my stupidity and beg your forgiveness!"

"Beg _my_ forgiveness?"

"Yes! And—bow down to your—boundless wisdom—and knowledge—and promise that I would never do anything so stupid again!"

Her words didn't change his expression or his stance, tall, straight, arms folded. "Shouldn't you be apologizing to Hulbert Tannenbaum?"

"Um, yes, that was my plan—apologize to you and then straight to Monsieur Tannenbaum!" She smiled brilliantly at him and darted towards the door.

She tugged the doorknob fruitlessly, then looked up and saw Erik's hand holding the door shut. "I just want to know why you would feel the need to deprive an innocent man of his honor and his livelihood," said Erik.

She stared at her feet in shame, unable to formulate any kind of reasonable response. Then a pang from her foot supplied her with a plan.

"Oh! Oh, my foot!" she cried, clutching it desperately in a sudden show of pain. "I stepped on a splinter a minute ago and oh, it hurts so much!" She contorted her face and summoned tears to her eyes as she looked up at Erik pitifully, thrilled to see that her act was working.

With a sigh that let her know he saw through her ploy, he helped her to a chair and lifted her foot—with great whimpering on her part—onto a dusty, torn ottoman and knelt to inspect it.

She continued to sob as he dusted the various cosmetic powders from her foot and lifted it into the light. "This isn't a splinter," he said, after a moment. "It's a sliver of ceramic, if I'm not mistaken."

She squealed in agony and redoubled her cries, playing up the wound for all it was worth in the hopes of avoiding the Tannenbaum issue altogether. Perhaps it had sliced a nerve or something and she would have to go to a doctor. Maybe it would get infected and Erik would be so busy worrying about her that he would completely forget about the whole thing. Come to think of it, she could use this as an excuse to get out of dancing and choreography completely in future operas! Yes, the tragically lamed diva, unable to walk, but with a voice so heavenly that—

She howled loudly as Erik pulled out the sliver, realizing belatedly that she hadn't felt a thing. As he held it up to the gas lamp to deduce what it was from, she was disappointed to see that it was pathetically tiny. She probably wouldn't be able to get away with much with such an insignificant little thing like that.

"It's porcelain," he said. "Did you break something?"

She opened her mouth to say no, but then closed it suddenly when she remembered that, a few months ago, she had taken an ugly little porcelain cat out of Carlotta's dressing room and smashed it in revenge for a particularly cruel insult about her singing. She'd thought she had swept up all the pieces. "Um, no," she said blandly, feigning puzzlement. "I don't have any idea what it could be from."

"You shouldn't walk in here without shoes," he reprimanded sternly, depositing the sliver in the wastebasket. "It's so cluttered that it's dangerous."

"Yes, I'll keep that in mind," she agreed hastily. If she didn't do something quickly, he would remember about chastising her. "Have you seen the managers' office? It's absolutely amazing! All the furniture! It's so beautiful that even the gods must be jealous!"

Erik frowned. "Yes, I've seen it. The furniture is all rosewood, mostly from the Rococo Revival, and an absolutely absurd waste of opera funds."

"But it's so beautiful!"

"So you think it's reasonable that they've pillaged the Comte de Chagny's generous donations—and therefore the props, costumes, and salaries for the opera—for their own private benefit?"

She gasped as she realized that it was Raoul's money and possibly her paycheck that had bought it all. "That's not fair!"

"No, it's not."

She could see that he was about to speak again and feared that it was about Tannenbaum. "I decided to take the part of Ilia!" she blurted hastily.

"Oh—I'm pleased to hear that. You'll make a wonderful Trojan princess." His smile was both fond and proud. It bothered her to think what his face must look like contorted into a smile. She again forced herself to stare into his eyes in an effort to keep from thinking about his ugliness. It failed miserably, and she had to turn away. He was an Angel—she just had to remember that.

"Will you tell me about her character?" she asked. "I'm sure you know everything about her and the opera and I want to play her well."

As he started to tell her about the fall of Troy, she congratulated herself on her brilliance; she'd also managed to make him happy, and perhaps he'd even agree to skip their lesson now. But after a few minutes of listening about Greece and Troy and some wooden horse, she started to regret her plan, no matter how brilliant it had been. But if it got her out of hearing about Tannenbaum, it was worth every boring moment.

# Chapitre Quinze: Les Fraises et le Filigree

Christine did a few pirouettes, watching with joy how her dress flared and sparkled in her full-length mirror. It was absolutely beautiful! The peach-colored silk shone in the morning light, seeming like a pink aurora borealis as the brilliant highlights, like cherry blossoms, and dark cerise shadows leapt and danced across the fabric. From the low, off-the-shoulder neckline hung a black swath of gossamer, embroidered with ebony flowers and long, curling vines; it fell all the way down to her elbows, obscuring the simple bodice underneath. In contrast to all this elaborate design, the skirt of the dress was simple, with only a few ruffles at the base. The front of the bodice was crested with a vast, pink satin rose. She knew there was a similar rose to be pinned in the hair of the wearer, but she hadn't been able to find it when she had borrowed the costume from the costumery.

When she was a child, she had enjoyed sneaking into the rooms where the old costumes were stored, simply to admire the beautiful, expensive gowns. Now that she could fit in some of them—though the most elaborate were, sadly, made for Carlotta, and therefore far too voluptuous for her—it had become a clandestine pastime to slip one off its rack and sneak it back to her dressing room to try it on. It was a sweet dream, to admire herself, looking so beautiful and regal, and pretend that she was a wealthy noble lady, and not a penniless ballet rat. But soon—when she married Raoul—she would be wealthy, and noble, and everything she had ever dreamed.

Suddenly she heard an audible click, and her reflection slid away out of the mirror's frame, replaced by a man in a plain black suit. "Good morning," he said. She tried not to look at him. He might be an angel, but by the Gods, he was hideous. And even if he weren't so hideous, she still wouldn't have wanted to see him—it had only been two days since she had stupidly accused that trollish stagehand of kidnapping her, and besides, she didn't want to see either Raoul or Erik until she had worked out a strategy for keeping Erik's guidance while allowing Raoul to court her. And besides that, what could she say to Raoul, after she had so rudely run away from his affections?

Though he did not comment on the gown and the childish reason for its appropriation from the costume rooms, she felt an uncomfortable blush rise into her cheeks and hurriedly invented, "Oh, hello, um, I just wanted to try on my new costume—for _Idomeneo_. Anyway, it fits nice so I'll just return it now." She turned to flee, but his voice stopped her, so deep, so soothing, despite his visage:

"I thought you'd be happy to know that, in light of your promotion to diva, the managers have decided to disregard the complaints they've been receiving and give you exclusive right to the chapel downstairs."

"Oh—good!" As she turned to look at him, her gaze locked on his face, but she forcefully reminded herself that he was the Angel (at least, she hoped he was an angel—she hardly dared to hope, but she still couldn't bring herself to believe that she had been duped by a monster), and the sick feeling receded.

"Uh—yes, that's marvelous!" she continued hurriedly. "Can you believe those ballet rats—and the chorus rats too—would make such a fuss just because I want Father's memorial to be a permanent fixture of the chapel?" Lost in the sweetness of victory, she forgot about her horror. "This will teach them," she said, smiling viciously.

"Don't call them 'rats,' please, Christine," beseeched Erik, his voice pained. He appeared not to notice that this dress, obviously northern European, could not possibly be in _Idomeneo_ , which was set in—where was it Erik had said?—Crete, right after some war in Troy. (She wasn't sure just when that was, but it must have been at least a few centuries ago—Madame Giry had explained to her that the soldiers were carrying spears because firearms hadn't been invented yet. It seemed awfully stupid to Christine for anyone to start a war before inventing decent weapons.)

In any event, the Angel didn't notice, which was a very good thing; she didn't think something as heavenly, as divine as an angel would be able to understand the reason behind her temporary pilfering of a costume.

"Why can't I call them rats?" she wanted to know, glancing at her reflection and adjusting a loose bauble in her hair. "That's what they are."

"You were one yourself until quite recently."

"Well, I'm different. They've never liked me—I can't figure out why; I mean, I've said a few less-than-nice things about one or two of them, but that was only after they didn't like me first."

"Could it have anything to do with your announcement during a rehearsal that they were all blind fools to deny the existence of 'the gods?'"

"That was years ago—they couldn't possibly still remember that."

Apparently the Angel realized he couldn't win the argument, because he changed the subject: "You really should thank the managers for their generosity."

Busy with her hair, she didn't bother to turn to face him. "What for? They did it because you told them to."

"No, as a matter of fact, I had nothing to do with it."

She looked at him now, mildly surprised. "Then why did they give it to me?"

"Apparently they were quite moved by your devotion."

"Devotion?"

"Madame Giry told them about your visits to the chapel—every night without exception—to light a candle for him."

"Oh." She turned back to the mirror and resumed arranging her hair. "Yes, every day for the last—"

She stopped suddenly. "No, that's not right," she said slowly. "It was that way for years, yes, but lately... I haven't been down there since...since... Oh, gods!" she exclaimed, dropping the brush she was holding. "I haven't entered the chapel for over a week! I've neglected him!" Frantically she grabbed a book of matches and raced for the door.

She spent over an hour kneeling at the foot of her father's altar beseeching his forgiveness before she felt better. Surely he understood; so many things had happened—divahood, Raoul's appearance in her life again, Erik—she had just forgotten to visit him. It didn't mean he was any less important to her, she had told him repeatedly. From now on, she would burn several candles instead of just one—it would be more expensive, and much as she didn't want to burden Mamma, the added expense would show her father the extent of her devotion.

After she had returned the pilfered costume to its proper location, she headed back to her dressing room. Now that she felt better (surely her father was happy with her again), she wanted to spend a few hours lounging around before the rehearsal.

When she had reached her room, however, she encountered Erik. "Hello," she greeted, thinking, _Curse it, he'll want me to practice reading that horrid sheet music during my few hours of leisure!_ She had to think up some excuse before he could bring it up.

"I just stopped back to get a shawl before I went home for a few hours before rehearsal," she said hurriedly. She snatched a crocheted swath of wool from a clothing pile near the door and turned to run.

"No lesson today, Christine?"

"Lesson?" she queried innocently, as if it hadn't been her intent to escape practice. "Oh, yes, well, I think we could skip one day, given that tomorrow is All Hallows' Eve and all—"

"Christine, you know that if you let yourself skip today, you'll skip tomorrow, and the day after that, and when the curtains open in December you'll be completely unprepared."

"But I have it all figured out: I don't have to perform _Faust and_ learn _Idomeneo_ on top of it like everyone else does, right?" She couldn't help but smile, mostly at her good fortune but also a little bit of vindictive amusement when she thought about all those rats working so hard while she was lounging.

"Yes, but—"

"I'm not refusing to do two on a permanent basis, just for a little while—this being my first real diva position, I think it's unfair to make me work on more than one opera at a time. So they'll just have to deal with inferior singers for a while longer."

"Just the same, you shouldn't have refused to finish an opera you agreed to start—it's deleterious to your career."

" _So,"_ she continued, ignoring him—she had no idea what he'd just said anyway—"if everybody else is worrying about two operas, and I'm not, it will take everyone a lot longer to learn _Idomeneo_ than it will me. So I can just relax."

"How will you become a diva if you do not practice?"

"I have the Angel of Music to teach me," she said, smiling flirtatiously. It was hard, looking into that gruesome face. "I shouldn't have to memorize anything."

She had expected him to relent, to say, yes, certainly, you don't have to memorize anything, and then wave a sublime hand and fill her mind with the notes and lines of the opera. But instead, she found herself drawing back as his face darkened, and a frustrated, almost angered light sparked in his eyes. "You still believe that, Christine?" His voice was rigid, cold.

"But it makes perfect sense—" she began.

"It makes no sense at all. Why would I deny it if I were?"

"Because—because you're embarrassed that you're cursed with such a terrible face while you're here on earth, because you are truly so beautiful!"

"That's not true."

"Of course it is! Mamma Valerius was telling me about Sodom and whatever the other one is—"

"Can angels bleed?" he asked suddenly.

"Of course they can't," she snapped, folding her arms. What a stupid question.

"I can."

"Prove it!" Any moment now he would confess.

He walked towards a beaten-up desk she had rescued from being thrown out, on top of which she had piled the plates and silverware from her last few meals, intending to take them down to the kitchens later and save herself a few trips. The opera house food wasn't _that_ bad, she supposed, but it was meant for chorus girls who couldn't afford to eat out, so it was bland and cheap. Nevertheless, it wasn't convenient to have to run home twice a day. She wondered if he was going to eat the overdone chicken she had left on one of the plates. She started to warn him, but he raised a hand for silence.

He picked up a knife and handed it to her, then offered his hand. "Cut my palm, then, if you think I'm so invulnerable." Confidently she stepped forward and drew the pewter blade across his palm, thinking that she had won.

An uneven line of scarlet appeared the instant the knife had passed. He held his hand up to the sunlight, which dispassionately illuminated the blood the small cut had summoned.

"But—but—angels can't bleed," she said dully, staring at his hand. That's what her father had said—and he couldn't be wrong.

"Correct," he said tersely, fishing a handkerchief from his coat pocket and dabbing away the blood before it could stain his sleeve. "Do you believe me now?"

"I—you—you lied to me!" she accused furiously. How could she be stupid enough to believe that the Angel had come, not once, but twice?

"I told you that already."

She screamed in rage and reached up to slap him, but he caught her wrist, holding it gently. Unable to handle her own gullibility, she burst into tears.

His features softened, and he released her arm. "I'm sorry, Christine—I know it doesn't mean much, but I never meant to hurt you. I just wanted to help you learn to sing, and I knew you wouldn't have anything to do with something like—" He stopped abruptly. "Nevermind. The point is that I never meant for it to go this far."

She continued to cry. Fortunately he did not touch her again. She wouldn't have been able to stand it if he had.

"You're doing very well, Mademoiselle Daaé," said Monsieur Mercier wearily the following day, setting down his conductor's baton. "Once you stop daydreaming and missing your cues, you'll have the entire first paragraph down perfectly."

"Thank you, monsieur," said Christine, forcing a smile to show that she wasn't embarrassed by all her screw-ups. After all, they had only been rehearsing for two days, and it wasn't her fault she couldn't keep her mind on all this Italian gibberish or control the wandering of her thoughts, dwelling on Raoul's handsome visage, his golden hair, his mansion.... She imagined being introduced as Christine, Vicomtess de Chagny, and practically swooned over the beauty of the name. As a child, Raoul had been very proud of being one of the only noble families to still hold their ancestral lands, making his surname and title both "Chagny." And to think that she, born penniless and common, would be able to flaunt that name! It was almost too much to contemplate! She imagined fabulous dinners, clandestine rendezvous, even his proposal. Sometimes she made it past their wedding without being interrupted, and she never could restrain a small, giddy giggle as she pictured herself on a balcony in the Chagny mansion, clad in only the most expensive silks and laces, lounging atop a mountain of jewels and golden doubloons.

But, unlike her usual blissful daydreams, today's had been distant and half-hearted, overshadowed by all her terrible ordeals with Erik. The constant sick feeling in her stomach redoubled as she thought of his hideousness, and his cruel lies. But she couldn't figure out what to do—she had tried looking into other vocal instructors, but though several of Paris' finest had jumped at the chance to teach the new diva of the Garnier, she hadn't found one with even a fraction of Erik's talent. She hadn't been looking very long, but she was beginning to doubt that she would be able to find anybody as good.

Everything was made worse by her uncertainty about Raoul—what she would say to him when she saw him again. What _could_ she say? She had run away from him the other night, just when he was declaring his love! But she was blameless—he had been moving a bit too fast, and she was wrung out from all the recent horrors.

"And you, Mademoiselle Giry," continued Mercier, "will start doing much better once you realize that you cannot dance and chat with that stagehand at the same time!"

"I'm sorry, monsieur," said Meg, hanging her head and moving away from the troll-like Tannenbaum.

Normally Christine would have defended her—especially now that her diva status gave her some clout—but Meg still wasn't speaking to her. So Christine just ignored her in return and flounced past her former friend and the hulking stagehand without even glancing at them to prove she didn't feel she had anything to be sorry about. She was so sick of the whole affair that she could just scream—everyone thought she was a stupid, flaky liar now, and it was all Meg's and Erik's fault. If Meg hadn't thrown such a fit and if Erik hadn't have sent her that note, she could have just sent Tannenbaum to prison and everyone would have been happy.

She glanced around backstage, hoping she wouldn't run into the vicomte; she was fairly certain he was in the opera house, and she didn't want to see him just yet. She was still so embarrassed about running away from his affections, and then lying on top of it....

She made it off the stage, and she was about to breathe a sigh of relief when a voice made her jump.

"Christine, where have you been all day?" asked Raoul cheerily, stepping into her path. "The only way I could find you was to attend the rehearsal. And I have a lot to do, as a gentleman of Paris and co-patron of the Opera Garnier—it was very difficult to find time to search for you."

She just stood there, unable to say anything. A faint blush had risen to her cheeks, and she suddenly found it impossible to look at anything other than the floor. Oh gods, she was a mess—her dress was old and worn and she was wearing very little jewelry. What a time for him to see her! "Um, Raoul," she stumbled, "I—"

"I understand perfectly," he interrupted, placing a finger to her lips. "No need to be embarrassed, my sumptuous songbird. You don't hate me for kissing you, surely?" His devilish grin was in complete contrast to his demure words, as if he had no doubts whatsoever that Christine had enjoyed herself.

"No, it's not that," she started, trying to figure out how to warn him about Erik. "It's just—"

"You're worried about your career," he concluded. "Yes, that must be it. Well, don't worry, you'll make an absolutely radiant star, despite the managers' reservations."

"But learning Italian is so hard."

"You just have to apply yourself. You wouldn't want to disappoint me, would you?" he asked, with a dashing grin.

"No!" she said, feeling a frantic need to study her lines.

He chuckled. He was so handsome that she couldn't look at him without feeling her legs melt out from underneath her. His hair, so beautiful, held the same newly-cut look that it always did, making him look very handsome and wealthy. He'd had blond hair as a child, Christine recalled—a shimmering, angelic blond. But time had transformed it into a deeper, caramel color. It suited his noble, stately air, and it seemed to Christine to reflect his transformation from the innocence of childhood to the commanding majesty of the French aristocracy. His black, immaculate tailcoat—the height of gentleman's formal attire—contrasted sharply with the pure white of his dress shirt and bow tie. His shoes were so polished that she could see her face in them. And in one gloved hand he held an ebony cane, capped in gold.

For a long moment she stared, drinking in all the splendor, but after a time, her wonderment began to melt into a sort of sad inferiority as she considered her own clothes. She was a pathetic Swedish peasant, and he was a vicomte of France. There was no way she could hope to marry anyone so far above her. But Raoul was so wonderful, so gallant, so caring—surely he wouldn't tell her he loved her unless he planned to marry her. _Please, Frigg, Freya, goddesses of love,_ she prayed, _please let us be married!_

Christine looked up into Raoul's eyes, and the commotion of the stage crew faded into the background. His face, so flawless, looked as if it had been carved from marble. His eyes were glittering and pale, lighter than ice and just as clear. She found she was having a hard time keeping her thoughts straight, and she fought to regain her mind as it filled itself with thoughts of Raoul, everything else being forced into the darkness. She tried to speak, but her voice was a squeak. "Raoul—"

"What's the matter?" asked the vicomte, frowning. "Do you feel all right?"

"Um—yes—"

"Good—I'd hate for you to miss having dinner with me because of an inconvenient illness."

"Dinner...?" Had he mentioned taking her to dinner? It was so hard to think....

"But of course, my captivating chrysanthemum—I'm taking you to Les Ambassadeurs. I'm giving up quite a few Halloween parties, but you are worth it."

"Oh, I can't go," she said, without really listening, gazing into his perfect face. "I have ceremonies to perform and—"

Suddenly she was jarred out of her cloudy delirium. "Les— _Ambassadeurs_?" she managed, eyes widening in amazement. Only the wealthiest and most affluent of noblemen could afford to dine at Les Ambassadeurs! It was four blocks from the opera house, and Christine had walked past the elaborate facade many times, each time wishing that she could enter and knowing she never would.

"Don't look so shocked, my alluring ingénue," he chided her with a roguish wink. "Did you honestly think I would be so ungallant as to take you somewhere cheaper?"

"Christine, are you sure you want to skip practice tonight?"

Christine froze, halfway out her dressing room door. She hadn't thought Erik knew she was there—she had been so quiet! All she'd wanted was a fashionable dress and a necklace for her dinner with Raoul tonight, but her clothes were all too plain for such an elegant occasion. Only moments before, as she was searching through her own measly assortment of garments, had it come to her that she could go down to the costumery and borrow a gown and some jewelry. There was nothing wrong with that—she'd have them back before anyone missed them. How embarrassing would it be to arrive at _the_ Les Ambassadeurs in one of her worn muslin dresses?

But meeting Erik along the way had not been a part of the plan. She turned, seeing that he was standing in the empty frame of her mirror. She hurriedly closed the door, hoping no one walking by had seen Erik. In her haste she knocked over the foot-high pile of clothing draped over the back of a chair, which she set to picking up, glad that it gave her an excuse not to meet his eyes. It was easier to lie to someone that way. Besides, she didn't want to see that mask and think about his ugliness, or her own stupidity. She hated him for tricking her, but she knew it was partially her own fault—he had told her the truth, and she had refused to believe it. Her hate was further tapered by the knowledge that this man was necessary to her ascension to greatness—at least, until she could find an alternative. But tonight she had more important things to worry about than music. "Can we practice tomorrow night?" she asked sweetly. "I'm much too tired tonight, and I have a very important ritual to the gods to perform." Hopefully the gods wouldn't be too angry that she was putting off the ceremony until after she had returned home from the restaurant.

"As you wish," was his reply. "Should I accompany you? I know your flat is just two blocks away, but if any of those brazen aristocrats—"

"No, that's all right," she cut in, beads of sweat forming unbidden on her brow, fearing that he meant Raoul. "It's not even dark yet; plenty of people will be around. No one would dare try anything with so many onlookers."

"As you wish," he said again, though it seemed a trifle sadder this time.

"Yes, well, good night." Christine felt a twinge of regret at lying to him, but she brushed it away. He was a monster. She shouldn't have any compunction about lying to him. And it was none of his business anyway.

Raoul beamed at Christine, who had just exited the Garnier. "My melodious marigold, you look simply ravishing!"

She smiled and thanked him demurely, trying very hard not to stare at how expensive his suit was. It consisted of a dark, glossy brown tailcoat and trousers with a matching waistcoat, the most formal and pricey gentlemen's attire in Europe. She had to refrain from touching the lapel of his jacket in awe, and could not tear her eyes away from his bow tie and the winged collar of his shirt, both so unbelievably white and immaculate that they seemed to give off a glow.

She couldn't believe that her perfect faerie tale was all coming true. A faerie tale in which she, a beautiful peasant, undeserving of all the hardships she had suffered, fell in love with a handsome prince, who would sweep her off her feet and carry her away to his castle. She felt so giddy (in part from how tightly she had laced her corset) that she feared she wouldn't be able to walk down the few steps to the sidewalk without fainting.

Raoul approached and kissed her gloved hand. "You have wonderful taste in clothing, my resplendent beauty."

She blushed; the gown she'd chosen was one from _Cosí Fan Tutte_. It was the color of bluebells, with crisp, white lace lining the sleeves and bodice. Vast sapphire bows lined the bodice as well, drawing attention to the low cut neckline. The fashions of mid-eighteenth century Italy, when the opera was placed, required her hair to be piled atop her head and secured with bows and flowers—but she hadn't had time, so instead it fell in free-flowing cascades. The gown wasn't as fancy as one of Carlotta's, but she wouldn't have fit into any of those.

As Raoul helped her into the carriage, she couldn't restrain an exclamation of surprise at the splendor of the carriage's interior. But as she was about to step into the magnificent coach, a gust of wind made her shiver, and she glanced over her shoulder. Erik wasn't there, of course, but she felt the same twinge of fear nevertheless.

Christine gasped in awe as Raoul helped her out of the carriage, unable to take her eyes away from the towering marble pillars and magnificent façade of the building before her. Its white stone seemed to glow in the golden light of the setting sun. Fountains lined the cobblestoned walkway, shooting endless jets of sparkling water into the air. "It's beautiful," she breathed.

Raoul chuckled. "Yes, I suppose it is." He seemed unmoved by the grandeur of Les Ambassadeurs. But then, he probably dined here on a weekly basis.

Try as she might, Christine could not contain her awe as they walked through the behemoth double-doors into a lobby that put the opera house to shame. The floors were marble, perfect and lustrous and streaming with veins of white and silver. The candelabras on the walls shone beyond any silver Christine had ever seen. The waiters and clerks were all dressed in immaculate uniforms of costly black fabric. Oh, how wonderful it would be to be so wealthy! To live in a manor, to be able to wear a dress only once and then throw it away, to socialize with the nobility and celebrities and even royalty!

Raoul handed their reservations to the desk clerk, who glanced at Christine briefly before summoning a waiter for them. "Back so soon, Monsieur le Vicomte? But not with Mademoiselle Lafontaine tonight?" he inquired conversationally, filing away the reservation slip.

Raoul's face momentarily clouded with something akin to annoyance, and he said, his voice clipped and cold, "I don't know what you're talking about."

"As you wish, sir. Then who is your mademoiselle tonight?"

"Her name is none of your business." The coldness of Raoul's voice, its sharpness not unlike a shard of ice, sent a shiver down Christine's spine. "Just show us to the table," he ordered the waiter.

Christine pouted. "You should be shouting my name from the rooftops," she said, folding her arms.

Raoul smiled and patted her hand. "Of course, _mon ange_."

"Right this way, monsieur," their designated waiter instructed obediently. As he led them through a massive curtained archway, Christine wondered what the clerk had meant—he seemed to have implied that Raoul came here with other women. But that was absurd. He only had eyes for her.

She clung to his arm, unsure of what to think. "Who is Mademoiselle Lafontaine?" she asked, trying not to jump to any conclusions. It was only fair to let him explain why he had come here with some other woman.

"My...cousin. Jacqueline. I don't like her in the least, but family obligations necessitate it, you understand."

Christine nodded uncertainly, wishing that it hadn't taken him that suspicious extra second to answer. "Is she pretty?"

"No, not in the least," he answered quickly. "In fact, she's downright unsightly—turned up nose, pockmarked face, about thirty pounds overweight."

"Oh." That was good. There was no reason to doubt Raoul—he was too gentlemanly to lie. But just the same, she wasn't certain what to think.

As they entered the main dining room, her amazement swept away her thoughts of mistrust. Though the lobby had been impressive, it was absolutely nothing compared to the dining hall. The floors were marble laid in a checkerboard pattern than ran the length of the hall, but the walls were marble as well—not silver, like the lobby, but gold, glittering like an infinity of stars in the rich candlelight. The ceiling seemed no less than fifty feet high, from which hung numerous golden chandeliers; their halos of luminescence lit up the ceiling, which was painted in bright colors depicting cherubs and angels. It was more fabulous than dining in Valhalla, the Hall of the Slain, with its roof of golden shields. The waiter led them to a table by the far wall, in an alcove near a vast window that peaked gracefully near the distant ceiling. The curtains were amethystine, beyond which was a heavenly view of the Seine, sparkling like a million diamonds in the rays of the setting sun. It was all too much for Christine, who felt like crying and laughing at the same time. Everything was so beautiful!

"Oh, Raoul," she breathed, clinging to his arm, "it's like Breidablik itself! But no, not even Breidablik could be so beautiful!"

"Bray-da-what?" Raoul said, sounding slightly less than patient. But that must have been her imagination. He was a gentleman, and he was madly in love with her. He was undoubtedly hanging on her every word.

"Breidablik!" she said again. "Baldr's mansion in Asgard! The most beautiful place in all the Nine Worlds! I wonder if Breidablik has so many golden chandeliers—"

"There is no such thing," Raoul cut in, his voice tight and almost angry. "And please don't speak so loudly, my precious; you're making a spectacle of us."

Her brow creased in bewilderment. "No such thing? But I can see them hanging from the ceiling."

"No—Breidablik! There is no such thing as Breidablik, or Baldr, or Asgard, or the nine worlds, or your ridiculous Angel of Music!"

She ripped her hand away from his arm. "How _dare_ you say something like that!" People turned to stare at them, but she didn't care. It served Raoul right if people were staring. "Of course there are!"

He stepped forward and grasped her shoulders, forcing her towards their table. "This is not the place to discuss it," he muttered between clenched teeth.

As they sat down, the waiter handed them their menus and informed them that he would return when they were ready to order. Christine's fury dissipated immediately as she saw the menu (after all, she couldn't blame Raoul for having been brought up without knowledge of the gods. And the menu was so exquisite!). Though she was wearing gloves, she still hesitated before touching it. It was made of delicate ivory-colored paper and gilded with gold leaf and borders of filigree. She gaped as she saw the list of entrées, each one sounding more delicious and expensive than the last. But there were no prices next to the meals, so she could only guess at how terribly costly they must be.

After a few moments had passed, Raoul summoned the waiter. "I would like the _nage corsée langoustines_ for the first course," he said cordially, "the _casse croute de noix_ for the second, and the _pigeonneau désossé_ for the third, all with the wines suggested in the menu, except for the third course, for which I would like the Dom Hauvette."

"Very good, Monsieur le Vicomte. And for dessert?"

" _Fraises des bois con glase_ , with the Charbot sauce." Raoul turned to Christine. "What would you like, my pearl?"

Christine, who had not yet decided on anything she wanted, stammered, "I—I hadn't really decided—it all sounds so good—"

"Does mademoiselle need a few more minutes?" inquired the waiter.

Raoul shook his head. "No, that's not necessary. She shall have all the same as I ordered."

"Oh, yes," she said to the waiter, happy that she hadn't been forced to choose.

The waiter bowed. "Very good, monsieur, mademoiselle. The first course will arrive shortly."

Christine amused herself during the wait by studying the elegance around her. The dark, genteel suits and sumptuous, flowing gowns....

It took her a few minutes to realize that the glances she was receiving were not kind or admiring—rather, they raked over her centuries-outdated dress, laughed at her stage makeup, and smiled knowingly, having pegged her occupation as a foreign ballet rat. She flushed and shifted her weight on the chair, noting with embarrassment that every woman in the room save herself was wearing the very latest of Parisian fashion, light-colored gowns without sleeves, and hair pulled back at the sides and worn in a elegant knot or cluster of ringlets. She glanced down at her own dress, with its full-length sleeves graced with large blue bows and her loose, unadorned hair, and she hung her head miserably. The worst realization was that her ridiculously-outdated Spanish farthingale that gave her skirts a full bell shape couldn't be farther from the slim silhouettes of the women around her. She didn't need this cruel reminder of her own inferiority.

Christine stared down at the table, wringing her hands, and tried to listen to Raoul's polite conversation, until the first course arrived. It distracted her from her misery, and before long, she was chattering again, though not quite as happily.

The first course was so wonderful that she wolfed down every last morsel and drank a great deal of wine, and she was quite full by the arrival of the second course despite how tiny the portions of each delicacy were. She hadn't taken notice that Raoul was eating rather little, no doubt saving his appetite for later courses. If only she'd noticed before she'd started eating she wouldn't have made such a mistake.

At one point she brought up Mamma's occupation as a seamstress, hoping that Raoul could pull a few strings and have her hired at the Garnier; she didn't expect to be poor for very much longer (not with a vicomte so obviously interested), but the extra money right now would certainly help, and it would be nice to secure Mamma a better position for when Christine was married.

"She's simply marvelous," she told him, taking a sip of the fabulous wine the waiter had just set down for the second course. "She's much more talented than any of the Garnier's costume staff."

Raoul took a sip of wine. "How interesting," he offered.

"It would be very wonderful of you if you could get her hired there; her skills would benefit the operas a lot."

"Of course, my exquisite éclair," he said, sampling the scallops. "I'll speak to the managers first thing tomorrow."

After that, their talk was of little things, such as the opera house or how beautiful the dining hall was. Christine did most of the talking on the latter subject, unable to contain her awe of the grandiose building. After each burst of amazement from the girl, Raoul would nod politely and remark that it could not possibly surpass her beauty, never failing to make her blush.

By this time, Christine had completely forgotten about the problems hanging over her. Everything was so dazzling that there was no room in her head for anything else. But between the first and second courses, Raoul said, "I don't know why you're so amazed, my shapely sylph—I dine like this every night. And so shall you, when you come live in my mansion. My family's head-chef may not be quite as good as the one here—believe me, I've tried on numerous occasions to get him to join my staff, with _very_ generous pay—but I suppose you'll have to settle for the second-best chef in France."

Christine halted in the middle of a bite of black Italian truffles. She wasn't really surprised, of course, that Raoul would extend such an invitation, but it was still so wonderful to hear. Marriage to a vicomte—how marvelous! How perfect, how wonderful, like a faerie tale! She would escape wretched poverty and spend the rest of her life in the most opulent mansion in Paris!

Raoul was still talking, and she tried to subdue her excitement and concentrate on him. "...my mansion overlooks the Seine, Christine—it's the most envied piece of property in Paris. That's why my great-great-grandfather built it there, you know. And even back then it was terribly costly, but he had to have the best...."

Try as she might, Christine couldn't focus on him; Erik kept creeping back into her mind. She wouldn't be able to hide the fact that she was a vicomtess from him. A sick feeling wormed its way into her stomach, making her set down her fork. What would she do without his guidance?

"Christine, my darling little rose?" queried Raoul, breaking off his speech. "You look ill."

"I'm fine," she said quickly. Erik was ruining her evening, and he wasn't even here!

There isn't any reason not to enjoy myself! she declared inwardly. I'll marry and escape his clutches soon enough, and there is nothing this monster or any other can do about it.

And with that, she pushed all thought of Erik from her mind and renewed her concentration on her scallops and truffles. Though at first she had some difficulty, she managed to sink back into the state of awe and almost religious reverence of the splendor around her.

The wine was excellent and Christine was delighted that every course was served with a different vintage. Christine was amazed by this extravagance, even after Raoul explained that each wine complemented the individual courses. Even though her appetite had long since vanished, she couldn't keep herself from eating every bit of food on her plate, as well as finishing off many of the various bottles of wine. By the time they reached dessert, the room was spinning and Raoul had been reduced to a mere blur. The lights were so bright, and everything seemed to sway and dance before her eyes. She had to squint to see the strawberries mixed into her rose ice cream, but she made sure to eat every last one of the beautiful scarlet blurs.

She couldn't remember much after that. Brief flashes of the carriage crossed her vision, but she knew nothing more until she found herself in bed the next morning.

# Chapitre Seize: Les Conséquences

Christine awoke slowly, unsure of exactly who or where she was. These questions gnawed at the back of her clouded mind, adding to the insufferable headache that was plaguing her. Her vision was blurry, and she blinked a few times to clear away the haze. It did little good, and she soon gave up. She also stopped trying to figure out who she was, as the effort had thoroughly drained her. She was on a bed; that much she had deduced. The lumps and sags in the mattress seemed quite familiar to her, so she decided it must be her own bed. She couldn't figure out anything else.

_And that will have to do,_ she decided, closing her weary eyes and sluggishly reclining further into the pillows. Even with her eyes shut, the light from the window hurt most dreadfully, and she pulled the covers over her head. It was terribly comfortable—even with the lumpy mattress—and she decided she wouldn't get up. Her head hurt too much to even contemplate such a thing.

She remained in this stupor for some time before someone came into the room. The doorknob turned with a deafening, high-pitched squeak, and Christine cried aloud. Someone entered, their footsteps shaking the floor and making Christine's stomach quake sickly. Then the person, whom Christine had not yet identified, said, "CHRISTINE, ARE YOU BEING AL-H'RIGHT?"

The woman's voice was not loud to her own ears, perhaps, but to Christine, it was like someone taking a hammer to her brain. She screamed shrilly, her body jerking forward to a sitting position. Her eyes opened involuntarily, and the bright sunlight exacerbated her torment. Clutching her head, she tried to force the pain away, but only succeeded in spurring it on to a greater duration. Under normal circumstances, she might have realized that the woman was Mamma Valerius, but the pounding in her head left no room for anything else.

"OH, I AM SORRY, MY DEAR," Mamma said quietly (though it did not seem quiet at all to Christine), placing a comforting hand on the girl's shoulder.

Christine managed to keep from screaming by biting into her bottom lip. "P-please," she whined, trying to keep her voice as low—and therefore as painless—as possible. It was still agonizing, but she forced herself to continue. "It _h-hurts_."

"Yes, I am sorry, Christine," Mamma breathed, her voice barely audible to her own ears. To Christine's, however, it was like an entire orchestra blasting an inch from her head. "Ze vicomte said you should be staying in bed today."

"What's wrong with me?" moaned Christine, squeezing her eyes shut to keep out the searing light.

"You zhust drank a bit too much, mine child."

It took a long moment for the words to penetrate the cloudy haze in Christine's mind. Goodness, had all that beauty and glamour been worth it, with the repercussions so high?

In a wonderful moment when the pain temporarily lapsed, she decided that it had been. The filigree, the glowing candlelight, the blazing chandeliers.... The thought of such brilliance brought a fresh spasm of pain, and she dismissed these thoughts. She could think about it later, when it hurt less.

Erik set down his everyday porcelain mask and replaced it with a less-noticeable black one. He then threw on a cloak and pulled the hood down so the mask was obscured by the shadow. Unearthing a small hand mirror out of a bottom drawer in a corner, he surveyed the effect with a critical and dispassionate eye. Unless one looked hard, one wouldn't notice that he was wearing a mask at all. But perhaps that was because of the dim candlelight. Though he had no intention of passing under any streetlights, he adjusted the hood a second time.

He hated having to leave the Opera Garnier for any reason; even with his precautions, the very idea of having people stare, murmuring to each other, was too painful. But Christine had not come back the previous day, and anxiety and the suspicion that the Vicomte de Chagny had something to do with it haunted him relentlessly.

"Perhaps she's just sick," Antoinette Giry had said patiently, when he'd mentioned it to her. But he doubted it. Christine was hardly ever sick. Certainly, she pretended to be ill sometimes to get out of practice, but now that she was becoming a star, she was breaking away from that damaging habit.

He'd also considered that she had needed a few days away from the Opera Garnier to recover from the horror she had experienced because of him. But while there was a possibility, ever so slight, that it was something else, something serious, he couldn't just sit around and do nothing. (Antoinette had offered to go to Christine's flat to check on her, but he didn't want to take advantage of her kindness to him.)

Erik deposited the mirror back in its drawer and turned his gaze to a map of the city. With a gloved finger, he traced the route he would take to the Rue Notre-Dame-Des-Victoires, where Christine's flat was. It was only a few blocks away, but, having never been there before, he wanted to be sure he knew the way.

Setting the map down, he picked up his Punjab Lasso and swept from the room.

Erik crouched to one side of the window, not worried in the least that the only thing supporting his weight was a meager iron rail accenting the bottom of the window frame, or the fact that the ground was at least three stories below him. Heights bothered him a little, certainly, but he couldn't let it keep him from doing his utmost to protect Christine.

Though there were bubbles and aberrations in the low-quality glass, Christine was clear enough. She was laying in a bed in the far corner of the room, swathed in sheets, her chocolate-colored locks gracefully strewn across the pillow. Her white nightgown—though old and rather threadbare—gave her the appearance of a heavenly being. Her eyes were peacefully closed, and she seemed to glow with an ethereal radiance in the dim light of the coals in the hearth. She didn't appear ill at all; in fact, she was even more beautiful than usual. His fears dissipating, Erik was content to watch her for a few moments, thinking of her beauty and the sweetness of her voice and demeanor.... She was so gentle, so perfect....

"Madame, you must let me see her at once!"

Erik's grip on his lasso, which had unconsciously loosened, tightened angrily. That was the Vicomte de Chagny's voice. What was he doing here? Maybe Christine was in danger after all. He adjusted his position on the railing, ready to break through the window and defend Christine should the vicomte enter.

"Not for you, vicomte, and not for any-vun!" a woman's voice exclaimed, heavily accented. _It must be Madame Valerius_ , Erik thought. He had never seen her, but Christine spoke of her often enough. Christine sat up, looking confused at the shouting. After a moment, she got out of bed and began stoking the dwindling fire in the hearth. Erik was relieved to see this movement, taking it to mean that, if she was in fact sick, it was probably not serious.

"How dare you?!" demanded the vicomte loudly. From the resounding footsteps, Erik deduced that the vicomte was attempting to get past Madame Valerius and into Christine's room, but the good woman would not allow it. Erik, half amused and half disgusted by the vicomte's feeble attempts, decided that he would not be forced to break the window. It was obvious now what was happening: Christine must have caught some illness—but she was getting better, so it was nothing to be unduly worried about—and the vicomte intended to prove his devotion by bringing her flowers or something of that sort. But Christine, of course, did not wish to see the vicomte, so Madame Valerius had taken it upon herself to keep him at bay.

Well then, thought Erik, it isn't necessary to let Christine know I'm here. She might take it to mean that I don't trust her. Why else would I be crouched outside her window? When she returned to the opera house, he decided, he would pretend that he knew nothing of her whereabouts.

As he began to climb down the railing, he could clearly hear the vicomte shouting, "Let me past, Madame!" and Madame Valerius' sharp reply, "Not if you vere ze Pope himself!"

With a slight smile, Erik dropped the few remaining feet to the ground and made his way back to the Opera Garnier.

Two days later found Raoul in the opera house, tapping his cane against the side of his boot and wondering just what had possessed Philippe to take on such a worthless and time-consuming enterprise as opera patronage. He frowned and checked his pocket watch yet again; this was taking entirely too long. It was absolutely criminal for anyone, yet alone inconsequential plebeians, to keep him waiting like this. "I'm afraid I am engaged elsewhere, gentlemen," he said, tapping his cane against the dusty wooden floor with impatience.

"It can't possibly take much longer," said Moncharmin, tugging at his moustache in embarrassment.

"Well, I have to be off to a very important luncheon. I'll just have to see the set another time." He turned to leave. "And have someone clean this floor! It may be backstage, but it's absolutely shameful!"

"The cleaning staff is on strike because we cut their wages, but we can—wait, vicomte, here he is," said Richard hurriedly.

A stagehand rushed out of the props room, skidding to a stop in front of the managers. "Beggin' messieurs' pardon"—he doffed his hat and twisted it between nervous hands—"but we can't find it!"

"You can't find it?" repeated Richard. He and Moncharmin shared an angst-ridden glance, unable to believe the incompetence of their employees.

"No, messieurs! We searched everywhere!" The poor man—shaking with some ailment and seemingly quite overly-thin—looked so afraid of being fired that Raoul expected him to collapse from the strain. "Please, good messieurs, don't—"

"Nevermind," interceded Raoul, glancing at his watch with a sigh. A gentleman must never keep a pretty woman waiting, and he was already five minutes late. "It was very good thinking on your part to attempt to recycle sets from _Orfeo ed_ — _ed—_ whatever the name of that opera is—"

" _Orfeo ed Eunice_ ," Richard said.

" _Orfeo ed Euridice,_ " corrected the stagehand before he could stop himself. Raoul and the managers glared at the worker, the managers embarrassed, and Raoul just impatient.

"Yes, yes, whatever," said Raoul. "As I said, a good plan, but it probably wouldn't have worked out anyway. I suggest you tell your men to stop looking for it and start painting a new one."

"Yes, vicomte, that's what we'll have to do."

"Beggin' your pardons, messieurs," the stagehand offered hesitantly, "I'm sure th' Ghost knows where it is. You could ask him—"

Richard snorted. "It's probably due to him that it's missing."

"I thought we agreed he didn't exist," Moncharmin muttered.

"O' course 'e does!" said the stagehand, surprised. "Haven't you been gettin' th' letters from 'im requestin' that you raise our salaries back to—"

"Of course he doesn't exist," snapped Raoul, his impatience getting the better of him. "I'm sure some absurd prankster—probably an employee, at that—fancies himself marvelously amusing by sending these notes, but I assure you, there is no phantasmal force haunting this establishment."

"Just so," said Richard.

"If there is nothing else, gentlemen, I'll take my leave."

He turned again to leave, but Moncharmin called after him, his voice overly-loud (no doubt the strain was getting to him), "Vicomte, you don't have the list!"

"List?"

"The employee list Monsieur le Comte requested."

Raoul scowled, suppressing the urge to glance at his watch again. Leave it to Philippe and these two amateurs to ruin a perfectly good seduction. "Yes, yes, hurry and give it to me so I can be on my way."

"It's in our office."

Raoul sighed and strode off towards the stairs leading the managers' office. Moncharmin instructed the nervous stagehand to take the latest copy of the script to the props department (the script had been revised by the managers and unrevised by the so-called "Phantom" several times already) and begin construction of the Cretan backdrops. Both managers hastened to catch up, but Raoul refused to slow down; he was late, so inexcusably, ungentlemanly late—

Suddenly an angelic figure crossed the hall a distance away, a stunning blonde vision in a skimpy white tutu. Raoul halted in his tracks and stared after her, admiring those delicious curves and wondering if he really was in a hurry. After all, he was already late; surely a few more minutes wouldn't matter to Dominique, would it?

Richard and Moncharmin barely managed to avoid running into him. "Vicomte, what is the matter?" demanded Richard.

He jumped, startled out of his trance. "Nothing, nothing...who is that rare beauty?"

"Who? Oh, that's Madame Giry's daughter. What was her name again, Moncharmin?"

"Margaret. No—Meg. Yes, Meg."

"Meg," repeated Raoul, savoring the taste of the name. It was short, innocent, unpretentious.... And what a sweet, childlike little thing she was.... "What do you know about her?"

The managers shrugged. "Not much," said Richard. "She's very pretty—"

"A good dancer," interjected Moncharmin.

"—and under the stern protection of her mother—"

"I'm sure I can reason with her," said Raoul.

"She's a good friend of Mademoiselle Daaé, I think—"

"Yes, she and Meg are always chattering during rehearsals."

"Oh." Raoul frowned and rapped his cane against the floor disappointedly. He couldn't risk Christine finding out that she wasn't the only girl to enjoy his affections. Normally he enjoyed living dangerously, but Christine was more than just another seduction—she was the _magnum opus_ of his career. Or at least, she would be soon. He supposed, for the moment, darling little Meg Giry was off-limits. What a shame.

"Why do you ask, vicomte?" Moncharmin wanted to know. "Do you have a specific part in _Idomeneo_ you think she would be good for?"

"If Mademoiselle Daaé is absent much longer," frowned Richard, "we may be forced to choose someone else for Ilia."

"No, no, don't do that!" exclaimed Raoul. "No being on earth could possibly match her exquisite beauty, her heavenly voice! You can't replace such an angel!"

The managers agreed, though rather reluctantly (Christine wasn't trying very hard, always skipping practice and forgetting her lines, so Raoul couldn't entirely blame them), and after voicing his adamancy of Christine's perfection, Raoul realized that not Meg—nor any other woman—could measure up to Christine Daaé. The thought assuaged his disappointment. "Nevermind, gentlemen," he said. "I'll just pick up that list and be on my way."

The fourth day after Christine's dinner at Les Ambassadeurs found her back at the opera house. Though her hangover had only lasted for two of those days, she had thoroughly enjoyed the reprieve and managed to convince herself that she wasn't entirely well yet. But after three days of indolent absence, the managers had sent a note explicitly stating that she would lose the part of Princess Ilia if she missed any more rehearsals. This seemed overly harsh at first, but then she remembered all the days she'd missed when she had been down in Erik's caverns and reluctantly admitted that maybe it wasn't so unfair after all.

Raoul had delivered the managers' message, but Mamma refused to let him see her. She blamed him for Christine's ailment—not entirely unjustly, Christine thought—and had staunchly endured his fiery speeches and endearments to Christine, finally convincing him that she wasn't well enough to have visitors. And indeed, it _was_ Raoul's fault that she had gotten such a terrible hangover—he should have warned her that the wine was so potent! Admittedly, he was probably used to dining with other nobles who were well-accustomed to the effects of various drinks, but it was much easier to blame someone else than to admit that it was her own fault that she had drank so much.

The rehearsal had not gone well, as she had missed the choreography for the second act. Carlotta had stood in for her, apparently, and had probably proved to the managers that she would make a better Ilia than Christine. Fortunately for Christine, the part required a sweet, gentle demeanor that Carlotta simply did not possess. And the opera was too well-known for the managers to corrupt Ilia's character without the critics taking exception. Besides, as the opening night of _Idomeneo_ was to commemorate the one hundredth anniversary of the opera's first performance, they were especially loathe to change anything.

After an exceptionally long and aggravating rehearsal, Christine fled to her dressing room in shame. Besides not knowing the choreography, three days of inactivity had faded her previously-memorized lines into a muddy blur. Even though she had tried to apply herself—working hard to keep from daydreaming about her future as a vicomtess, as she usually did—she had only succeeded in embarrassing herself over and over until Mercier had cut the rehearsal short. She wasn't looking forward to seeing Erik, either—not just because he'd probably seen her dismal rehearsal, or because she never wanted to see him again now that she knew what a fiend he was, but because he would ask her where she had been for the past three days. And that was something she had absolutely no desire to answer.

Before the rehearsal she had interviewed more potential instructors, but there was still no hope. No one could hold a candle to Erik's genius. She was starting to wonder if it was worth her time to look for a way out of his tutelage. Erik, despite his monstrous appearance, didn't seem like a very violent type, and he was very useful. She wasn't sure what to do.

On top of everything else, she had been worked so hard during the rehearsal that she had sweated a great deal of her makeup off and she was certain she smelled disgusting, so on her way to her dressing room she had been forced to dash into a broom closet to keep Raoul (coming down the hall with the managers) from seeing her in such an ugly, unattractive state. It wasn't the first time she had had to hide from him, either. It was absolutely exhausting having to keep in full and perfect makeup all the time and be constantly vigilant of Raoul's arrival at the Garnier. But it would all be worth it when he proposed.

Not that she wanted him to propose right away—she was enjoying his courtship very much, and besides, she had to become a world-renowned diva first. She was already a diva, yes, but she had only performed as a diva in one opera at this point (and she had botched most of those performances), and while she was becoming marvelously famous in Paris (she took walks around the city and entered shops and restaurants just so she could be recognized, which was becoming increasingly common), she couldn't stop until the entire world worshipped her as the Goddess of Music, the Empress of the Opera—and if she married Raoul too quickly, she'd have to give it up. It would be improper for a wealthy aristocrat's wife to work, even if the world clamored to hear her fabulously beautiful voice. So she had decided that if she kept Raoul madly in love until after _Idomeneo_ —anxious and amorous but quite to the point of proposal—she would be able to have it all.

She entered the room as quietly as she could, glancing quickly about for any sign of Erik. There was no reason for him to be there, of course, but she was too nervous to think straight. It had taken her several hours the previous day to come up with a believable excuse for her absence; she finally decided that, as the managers had assumed she was ill, Erik probably had too. It was as good a reason as any. And she _had_ been feeling poorly, even if it had been from an excess of alcohol.

It was a perfectly believable explanation. But somehow that didn't quell the knot of unease in her stomach. It wasn't that she really minded lying, especially in this situation; he had made her promise not to see Raoul, which was such an unreasonable request that she felt he deserved to be lied to. What worried her was the possibility that Erik might discover that she had broken her promise. She would lose her ticket to divahood. Worse than that, Erik might order the managers to dismiss her altogether.

But if she married Raoul, she reasoned, fixing a loose pin in her hair, she'd be leaving the Opera Garnier anyway. But then, she wasn't sure if she wanted to give up her father's dream. He had spent the last years of his life training her for stardom. He would be so disappointed if she gave it up for anything, even the title of vicomtess and a mansion overlooking the Seine on the Champs Élysées, the most aristocratic and exclusive street in Paris. What would she do? What if she had already lost her chance for divahood already by going to dinner with Raoul?

She pushed the thought away, annoyed by it. "It's too late for thoughts like that," she lectured her reflection sternly. "You've already done it, and that's that."

"Already done what, Christine?"

Christine nearly fell off her stool. Whirling around, she saw Erik surveying her from the empty frame of the trick mirror. His expression was more enigmatic than usual, and she unintentionally blushed. What would he think if he knew the reason behind her absence?

He was wearing a perfectly tailored black suit and an equally black silk cravat. It was all so dark that it seemed to absorb all the light around it, a sharp contrast to the glowing white of his mask. It would have been quite striking if she could make herself forget about his face—but that was quite impossible.

She shuddered and tried to forget the gruesome image that had been indelibly imprinted in her mind. She knew she could never tolerate, let alone like, something so disgusting. She could bring herself to appreciate him as a tool working towards her ascension to divahood, but nothing more. She still wondered if he was some sort of troll from the Ironwood or a botched experiment of the dark elves' magic.

"Christine," queried Erik, breaking into her thoughts, "have you been ill?"

"What?" she yelped, having forgotten all about the situation at hand. "What?" she repeated, before she realized what was going on. She'd put many hours of thought into the moment, and now she'd ruined it! "Um, yes—yes, I've been quite sick!"

Erik nodded gravely. "I am sorry to hear that. You are better now, I trust?"

"Y-yes." Christine could not discern the nature of his mood, and she immediately jumped to the conclusion she feared—he must know about Raoul and Les Ambassadeurs! With a wail of despair, she covered her face with her hands. "I'm sorry!" she cried. "It was all my fault! It will never happen again, I promise—"

Erik instantly crossed the room and gently pulled her hands away from her face. "Christine, what is wrong? You have done nothing to be ashamed of."

She frowned, confused. She had been so certain that if he knew about Raoul, he would be angry. This made no sense at all! Dabbing at her ruined makeup with a plain, white handkerchief that Erik handed her, she asked, "What do you mean?"

"Sickness is not something we can control, Christine. Your unfortunate absence will make catching up in _Idomeneo_ harder, of course, but you have no cause to apologize to me."

Oh. Of course that was what he meant. About her illness. Her lie.

But it wasn't a lie, she told herself firmly. I was as good as sick.

Oblivious to her turmoil, he studied her with a puzzled (and yet slightly amused) air. "You cut your hair," he observed.

She fingered the ragged edge of her new bangs, rather embarrassed. "Yes, I—well—a fringe is in style now." The memory of the noble women at Les Ambassadeurs, laughing at her ridiculously out-dated clothing and hairstyle, burned like acid in her stomach. She knew she would have to wait until she received a diva paycheck to afford fashionable gowns, but she had decided that she couldn't wait on her hair and had rashly cut it herself. It had been a terrible mistake. Why, _why_ couldn't she have waited and paid a hairdresser?

Erik rubbed his chin, seeming unsure whether to laugh or to scold her. "If fashion is what you're after, shouldn't it be curled, then?"

"Yes, yes," she admitted miserably. "But I realized too late that I don't have an iron to curl it with."

"I will procure you an iron, if it will keep your hair out of your eyes. But the absurd whims in vogue with the nobility are not as important as you think. Besides, Ilia would not have modern-day bangs."

"Yes, yes, I know," she sighed. "At least I left the rest of it alone."

# Chapitre Dix-Sept: Las Incertitudes

Christine closed her eyes as she sang, enjoying the beauty and brilliance of her own voice. Even the stagehands had stopped talking when she had begun her aria, and with such little sound besides the music, it was easy for her to imagine that the empty seats were filled with the highest of nobility, all dumbstruck by the marvelous seraph whom the gods had generously allowed to grace the opera house. The music of the orchestra swelled, and she sang louder so that the audience would be sure to hear every single Italian syllable. Though Erik had written translations on her script, it was all still gibberish to her—but it didn't matter; the glorious beauty of the music was everything. She was an angel, she was a muse, she was a goddess—

Suddenly she realized that she had reached the last note of the tiny eight-line aria, and, though disappointed that it was over so soon, she poured her heart into that note.

As the music ended, the stagehands resumed their work; all the clanging and clattering as they constructed the sets, as well as their continual conversation and laughter, made Christine grit her teeth to keep herself from screaming at them to make less noise. How could anyone be expected to work under such conditions?

"You've done very well with 'Padre, germani, addio,' mademoiselle," said Monsieur Mercier. "You have all the syllables and notes correct."

"Of course I do," she said, rather irritated. Couldn't he come up with something more complimentary than that?

Mercier ignored her. "But you don't seem to understand the emotion of the aria. King Idamante has just defeated Troy, your country, mademoiselle! And though you love Idomeneo—"

"I know, I know," she snapped. Erik had told her all this already. "Idomeneo is Idamante's son, so Ilia doesn't want to admit that she loves him because he's just conquered her country! I know!"

"Well, then," said Mercier, less than patiently, "why don't you sing it as if this were happening to you?"

"Because the music—and my voice—are too beautiful to be downtrodden by the hesitance of Ilia's character, that's why!"

"Mademoiselle, you are on the verge of sounding like Carlotta!"

"WHAT?! How _dare_ you say that!"

"You are threatening to destroy Ilia's character—"

Suddenly a man's voice spoke out from the empty seats. "I must side with the lovely mademoiselle."

Mercier whirled around to confront this new opponent. "The Garnier is not open at this hour, monsieur!"

The man stood, and Christine gasped at the beauty and expense of his clothes, every bit as bold and fashionable as Raoul's. "I am fully aware of that," he said mildly. "But I could not resist hearing Mademoiselle Daaé's voice give life to _Idomeneo_ before the rest of the world has a chance."

She giggled and fanned herself with her script, quite flattered, but Mercier thrust his baton in the direction of the exit. "You will leave at once."

The man ignored him, and instead jumped down into the orchestra pit, stacked one chair atop another, and gracefully stepped up onto the stage. His actions reminded Christine of a noble knight, braving the moat to reach the beautiful princess in the castle.

He kissed her hand. " _Bon jour_ , pretty mademoiselle." He wasn't handsome, but his obvious wealth almost made up for it. His dark brown suit and forest green silk cravat were of the finest make, and Christine saw a slight sparkle at his wrists of what she believed to be diamond cufflinks. "I am Maurice de la Durantaye, _chevalier, duc de Saint-Simon, pair de France_. And you are absolutely the most beautiful creature I have ever laid eyes on."

"Why thank you," she murmured, looking down in a coquettish fashion, pretending to hide her blush. Erik had explained the aristocratic hierarchy of France several times, and she was fairly certain that he had said _chevalier_ was a very rare and distinguished title borne by only the most noble families. This was fabulous!

"Would you be interested in accompanying me to supper tonight, mademoiselle, and grace me with more ethereal words from those resplendent lips?"

She giggled again, and allowed him to continue to hold her hand as she said, regretfully, "I am very sorry, Monsieur le Duc—"

"Maurice, please, mademoiselle."

"Maurice," she said with a smile. "I'm afraid I have a prior engagement." If only Raoul hadn't asked her to dinner tonight. Of course, she should be faithful to Raoul, so perhaps it was for the better.

"A great shame," he said, with a charming, perfect smile.

After that, a very irritated Mercier started up the orchestra again, and Christine was forced to bid the wealthy nobleman good day and continue with the rehearsal.

Christine cursed as horribly as she knew how as her fingers, shaking with angst and anticipation, fumbled the eyeliner pencil and she drew a hideous line across her cheek. How could she possibly be so nervous? Raoul obviously thought she was marvelously beautiful if he was so anxious to see her again that he couldn't even wait until she had been back at the Garnier for two days. In fact, the moment he had seen her after her recovery, he had kissed her hand and begged her to allow him to escort her to dinner again. After glancing all around for Erik she had ecstatically agreed, on the condition that they go somewhere besides Les Ambassadeurs; she had made such a spectacle of herself the other night that she would never be able to show her face their again. He had suggested the Pavillon Ledoyen—just as renowned and expensive as its more ornate competitor, though contained in a smaller building—and set the date for the fifth. When she asked him why they had to wait until tomorrow, he'd said something vague about a prior engagement, and that his only free night was the fifth. His hectic dinner schedules seemed to be a regularity, and usually it didn't matter to Christine, who was free every night anyway, but on the fifth Mamma was having one of Christine's father's old friends over for dinner. Mamma had been very upset when Christine had told her she couldn't be there. It was a shame; the man was only going to be in town one night, and she wanted to see him very much, but she couldn't say no to Raoul—what if he lost interest?

She licked her finger and rubbed it furiously across her cheek, but she only succeeded in widening the black line into a muddy trail of grey. She threw down the pencil in disgust. She could wash it off in a minute, she supposed, as soon as she left the costume rooms.

She hated the dingy, cracked mirror in the costumery, and the room was cold and disgusting, filled with rats and cobwebs, but she had no choice—she couldn't let Erik know that she was skipping rehearsal to go out to dinner with Raoul. Still, she would have to compromise herself to go beg some lipstick from Madame Giry; she hadn't realized that she was all out. Perhaps she could just borrow some from the ballet rats' dressing room after they all left for the stage. It was a safer plan—Erik seemed to use Madame Giry as a messenger between himself and the managers quite regularly, after all; the ballet mistress might mention it to him if Christine appeared at her door in an evening gown instead of her Ilia costume.

She grabbed the costume that she had selected after an hour of deliberation and shook it violently, hoping there were no spiders in it. Spiders were almost as bad as rats. She had a hard time getting it on—the skirts, rich, maroon velvet, were so long and full that she kept tripping on them. The V-neck was trimmed with a thick band of gold that met fairly high on her chest and travelled down to the golden belt in a band of the same gorgeous fabric. The sleeves that had looked so pretty on the rack were very baggy and annoying, and as she studied herself in the mirror she kept having to push them back up so her hands were visible. The skirt was also ridiculously heavy, she discovered, and fell in a heap, gathering the dust from the floor. She frowned and picked them up, wondering if there was some kind of petticoat or farthingale to give the skirt shape. It was Florentine, according to the label on the hanger (whatever that meant), but she had no idea what century or even what opera it was from. She was sure that Erik would know the answers to all these questions—he was quite well-informed in just about every possible subject—but of course she couldn't ask him.

She grimaced and bit her lip as she scrutinized her figure, finding to her dismay that the thick fabric—though clingy—made her waist appear slightly larger than normal, and for a moment she was afraid she could see the tiniest bulge of her stomach. She turned sideways and straightened her back, staring intensely at the mirror, but she couldn't see anything but a perfect waist.

Just the same she stripped off the gown and set to tightening her corset even farther than she normally took it (after she had broken her corset the night she had first played Marguerite, she'd had to plead with Erik before he'd agreed to fix it. He still didn't approve, but his replacement laces were stronger than the originals, so she could lace it even tighter now). She couldn't just be her usual beautiful self—she had to be a goddess. Raoul could choose any bride in France—in Europe, for that matter—and she had seen the noble women Paris deigned the fairest of all when they came to the operas, with their sparkling jewels, perfect hair, gloves so white they shone in the light, and figures made to die for by the most expensive corsets money could buy. She couldn't compete with any of that, despite her matchless beauty. And she not only had to be able to compete, she had to win! She gasped in pain as she tightened the laces to their very limit, repeating to herself, _it's worth it, it's worth it_ —it didn't matter if her ribs hurt or if she couldn't talk during dinner for lack of breath—she would be the most beautiful woman in Paris if it killed her!

It was very inconvenient having to lace up her own corsets without the help of a servant; it was doable, but it took longer and she couldn't achieve quite the level of tightness that she would have otherwise. When she was a vicomtess, she would have a maid hired just for that purpose.

She checked a small, dingy clock she had brought with her and squeaked in surprise as she realized that she only had a few minutes. Racing as quickly as possible, she threw on the dress, fixed her hair, stashed her things in a corner in case someone came in while she was gone, and opened the door to the hallway. She didn't see anyone, and she hurried down towards the chorus dressing room to secure a new lipstick from that snooty Anastasie—she had plenty; she wouldn't miss it.

She successfully traversed the halls without encountering anyone, and when she reached the dressing room, she eased open the door an inch or two to see if there was anyone inside. She saw only Meg, seated on a chipped, wobbly stool and reading something from the piece of paper in her hands.

"Hello, Meg," said Christine, stepping into the room and making a beeline for Anastasie's dressing table.

Meg considered her for a moment—Christine supposed she was still angry about the whole Tannenbaum thing, though they had been on speaking terms again for a little while now—and then apparently decided to be polite. "Hello, Christine. I hardly get to see you anymore."

"Ah yes, well, that's the price of fame," she said distractedly, rifling through Anastasie's makeup tins. She was glad Meg wasn't ignoring her anymore. It hadn't been that big of a deal—Tannenbaum had been released, hadn't he? It was so annoying that Meg was making such a fuss about it.

"Are we doing dress rehearsals already?" asked Meg.

"Oh, no, this isn't for a rehearsal."

"What are you doing?"

Christine, unable to find any lipstick, muttered an impatient curse and began to throw everything out of the drawer in her search. "I'm going out to dinner. Don't tell anyone." She didn't want it to somehow get back to the managers (she didn't want them to realize that her "sick headaches" were actually just an excuse to go to dinner with Raoul during rehearsals), or worse, for it to get back to Erik.

"Oh."

"Anastasie said I could borrow a lipstick. Just pretend I'm not here. Read your letter. Who's it from, anyway?"

Meg looked up, pressing the letter to her heart, and said with a soft, dreamy smile, "It's from Hulbert."

"Oh, him again." Christine moved to throw a particularly pretty pair of earrings out of the drawer, then paused and pocketed them. "You simply have to tell that man that his poetry is awful and to stop bothering you." Meg had only shown her one letter, a while ago—she couldn't remember when—but it had been absolutely abominable. If Raoul had written her something like that, Christine would have ended their relationship on the spot.

"I think he's wonderful," said Meg defensively.

"Oh, come on, he practically can't spell his own name, let alone all the flowery garbage he writes to you. Aha, here's a lipstick—drat it, it's some ridiculous orange color. What is wrong with that stupid Anasta—"

"I don't go around insulting the Vicomte de Chagny, do I?" demanded Meg.

"All right, all right, I'll stop. As Mamma always says, there's no accounting for—" She stopped to examine another lipstick. This one was empty. "For taste."

Meg ignored her and continued to read Hulbert's absurd poem. Christine could work faster without talking at the same time, and she quickly found two lipsticks of a decent color. She washed the eyeliner off her cheek with the water from a nearby carafe, scrubbing so hard that the skin concerned turned a furious, throbbing red.

"Well, good night, Meg," she said when she was satisfied that the treacherous eyeliner was fully gone, concealing the lipsticks in one hand and striding to the door.

"Christine, wait!" called Meg, who had turned around in her chair.

"I'm in a hurry."

"There's something I need to tell you."

Christine, halfway out the door, sighed and folded her arms. "What is it?"

Meg set down the poetry, biting her lip. "I was talking to Mercier, and he said that—you told me that the Vicomte de Chagny was going to marry you, yes?"

"Yes, yes. So?" Christine was impatient to leave. Raoul was waiting, and Meg was stalling her departure.

"Well, I was talking to Mercier and he said that the vicomte was already engaged to someone else."

"That's ridiculous."

"He said her name was Veronique de la Musardiere," pressed Meg, "and that she was a comtess."

Christine swelled in rage, the heat of her anger broiling in every limb, every vein. "How _dare_ you repeat such a vile lie?" she demanded.

"But it's true!"

"You—you're just trying to get revenge for what I did to your precious Hulbert, aren't you! Well, it's not going to work! And I'm never speaking to you again!" Christine stepped into the hall and slammed the door behind her with such force that she was showered with bits of plaster from the ceiling.

She cursed several times and raced back to the costume rooms. _Now_ she had to redo her hair! Gods, gods, she was going to be late! Curse that stupid Meg! She was jealous, just jealous—she, with her plain looks, was stuck with some stupid stagehand while her breathtakingly-beautiful friend was worshipped by Paris _and_ being courted by a vicomte. Jealous, that's what she was!

Once she had redone her hair and applied and reapplied her makeup—her hands were shaking so badly from rage that she kept smearing it—she gave herself one last intense inspection in the cracked mirror. She was now ten minutes late, but she had gotten her makeup perfect. She prayed to every god she could think of that Raoul would be pleased.

When she met him in the main foyer, breathing terribly hard from having raced all the way, Christine was gratified to see Raoul's expression turn thunderstruck as he caught sight of her beauty.

" _Mon ange, mon precieuse,_ you are absolutely radiant!"

"Oh...Raoul...thank you," she said in between gasps, trying to smile despite the horrible and insistent pounding in her ears.

"But, my bewitching belle, you are quite out of breath!"

"Yes, I didn't...want to...be...late!"

"Well, you are actually quite late, but I think we'll barely keep our reservations." He smiled at her dashingly and offered her his arm.

As they drove to the restaurant, Christine tried to keep herself focused on the intense happiness of knowing that Raoul was pleased with how beautiful she looked, but she couldn't keep Meg's words—or her sad, hurt expression when Christine had yelled so furiously—out of her head. All the way there she had to keep dismissing the thought of asking Raoul about it. It wasn't that she feared the answer—of course she didn't!—but it was such a poor subject, and she didn't want to insult Raoul. He was a gentleman! Obviously he wouldn't be courting her if he were already engaged! And how could he possibly be engaged to anyone else? She was the most beautiful, most radiant, most perfect woman in Paris!

In the midst of her worrying, they arrived at the Pavillon Ledoyen. Raoul exited the carriage first and offered his hand to Christine as she descended. The heavy fabric of her dress made it difficult to move, but with a little help from Raoul, who was all too willing to support her, they approached the restaurant. The façade, though not as impressive as Les Ambassadeurs, spoke of untold wealth and prosperity. Glass windows stretched across the front of the building and, just above the entrance, an arc of glass fanned out from the building, which reminded Christine of the rising sun.

Inside, a waiter in an immaculate white suit met them. He asked for their reservations, and Raoul handed him a small red card with gold filigree. He then led them through the foyer, past the grand staircase to a dining room, to an isolated table for two next to one of the large windows. It was all fabulously expensive, but Christine, though she tried enjoy the splendor, felt so sick that she couldn't really appreciate it. Once they had been seated and Raoul had so kindly ordered for both of them, Christine glanced out the window. Outside was a beautiful courtyard that rivaled the interior design. Great trees formed bowers over benches that were separated from each other by an array of flowers and bushes. Little butterflies flew from flower to flower. Christine hoped that her worrying would go away quickly, so that she could value its beauty if Raoul asked her to take a stroll around the courtyard after dinner.

Small talk transpired between them, mostly about the beauty of the evening and how amazing their surroundings were. Raoul seemed uninterested on the latter note, but Christine, despite her worrying, couldn't help being enthralled. Compared to the grandeur of Les Ambassadeurs, the Pavillon Ledoyen had a subdued charm. The walls were covered with incredibly soft brown velvet that glowed gold in the lamplight. Supple red curtains hung on either side of each pair of windows and a bouquet of red roses graced the center of each table. Christine was charmed by the flowers' subtle scent.

During her visual wanderings, their first course arrived. She wasn't entirely certain what _Feuilleté Brioché de Truffes Noires_ was (it looked like bread to her); though it was quite good, she ate little, and refused to touch the wine. Raoul seemed puzzled by her lack of appetite, though he did not mention it. The second course—some type of exotic fish—made her feel even sicker, and she refused to eat any of it.

Halfway through the dinner, which, despite how wonderful, magnificent, and expensive it was, Christine simply couldn't manage to enjoy, she couldn't stand it any longer.

"Are you engaged to a comtess?" she blurted.

Raoul choked on his _bouillabaisse_ , and while Christine waited for him to recover, every passing second made her feel weaker, sicker, and more regretful of her stupid outburst.

"Where—where did you hear that?" managed Raoul, taking a large swallow of wine to clear his throat.

She panicked for a moment, not wanting to implicate Meg—Raoul could easily have her fired—and trying furiously to think of a way to close the whole issue before it ruined her relationship. "Just some stagehand," she said hurriedly. "But it's not important and I'm sure you're not and I'm sorry to have brought it up especially during dinner—"

"No, no, my plum, it's quite all right; I am more than happy to lay your unreasonable fears to rest. This buffoon of a stagehand is very stupidly—or maliciously—mistaken. I am not engaged at all." He took her hand and caressed it gently. Her sleeve, absurdly large and awkward, trailed in a bowl of sauce, but she didn't care. "I have eyes for no one but you, my angel, my precious, my darling!"

"He said her name was Veronique de la something-or-other, and that she was a comtess," continued Christine tentatively, not quite reassured.

Raoul smiled—a large, rather forced smile—and patted her hand. "Ah yes, the Comtess de la Musardiere. She is my _brother's_ fiancée."

"She is?"

Raoul nodded. "Of course. Perhaps this man simply confused mine and my brother's titles."

"Oh, of course," she echoed, the relief taking all the strength and tension out of her muscles and allowing her to sit back in her chair.

"An honest mistake, I'm sure."

"Yes. I'm so sorry, Raoul."

He waved a hand. "No apology is necessary, my heavenly Helen, my vision of a Venus—a simple misunderstanding. But surely you have more faith in me than that?" He smiled to let her know he was jesting.

"Yes, yes, I'm sorry! But wait—this means Veronique and I will be sisters!" she exclaimed, clapping her hands in sudden delight.

He looked confused for a moment, then said suddenly, "Oh, you mean when we're married! Yes, I suppose you will be."

"When can I meet her?"

"After we're married, my brilliant beauty. She's simply frightful. I wouldn't want her to scare you off."

"There isn't a chance of that," she said. "Give your brother my congratulations!" After a moment of relieved cheeriness, Christine hesitated, thinking back on a conversation she overheard a week ago. "But I was certain I heard the managers say that your brother was too shy around women to ever get married."

"Well, he's shy around most women, but he admires Veronique's intelligence, or something like that." She noticed that his frown had deepened. "Let us return to our dinner, my pet, and forget all about all of this."

She smiled brilliantly and returned to her food, able to appreciate its exotic and marvelous flavors now that the absurd shadow of doubt had been erased. She would have to apologize to Meg for being so mean; obviously the poor girl had heard Mercier wrong. Well, Meg never had been the brightest; it was an easy mistake. In her light and bubbly happiness that everything was right and wonderful in her world again, she decided generously to forgive Meg and forget the whole thing.

# Chapitre Dix-Huit: La Attaque de Buquet

Seven days after Christine's return to the Garnier found her skipping down a hallway towards the opera's tiny chapel in the best of moods. Nothing could ruin her day. She had just passed La Carlotta in a side foyer, and the ex-diva, snarling in jealousy, had screeched something foul in Spanish at her. Christine, having no idea what any of it meant, just smiled her best saccharine smile and flounced past. The role reversal gave her a giddy feeling of absolute power. Being able to play the haughty, unimpressed diva, ignoring the insignificant screaming ballet rat—she felt like a god. _Ah, Hel,_ she sighed, _is this what it felt like to listen to the almighty Aesirs' cries, pleading with you to release their beloved Baldr—to listen to those who cast you down to the Underworld beg for mercy—and laugh in their faces?_

Once inside the chapel, she pirouetted across the small room towards the altar she had constructed out of loose stones. "Oh, Father," she cried, addressing the photograph upon the stone surface, "it is a magnificent day! Everything is absolutely wonderful! I couldn't be happier if I were a guest in Asgard itself!" She struck a match and lit the wax stump atop the stone slab, then began to kneel in front of the altar, but she was so excited thinking of her success that she had to stand. "I'm a diva and now even the great Carlotta Torres has to bow down to me! The managers let me do whatever I want—well, not as much as Carlotta could get away with, but still, chocolates and dresses and pearls and everything else I want! Except rehearsal postponements. I somehow can't convince them to let me push the show back a few months. It would give me time to relax and appreciate my finery, you know, instead of just practicing all the time. And they won't let me give Meg the part of Elettra; I know the cast has already been set, and that Elettra is the evil lady and sweet little Meg doesn't fit the part, but I really wanted to make up for the mean things I've done and I figure since I've become such a huge success that it was the least I could do to help her a little, you know? But the managers wouldn't go along with it. I finally convinced them—with Erik's help—to let her have this one small part, so at least she's more elevated than a pathetic, line-less member of the chorus."

She twirled over to the tiny window and pulled back the dingy curtain to let in some light. But it was already quite dark outside. Where had the day gone? It was mid-November, yes, but it shouldn't have been dark so soon! "Erik may be frightening to look at," she continued, "but I'm fairly used to it by now and he's a _marvelous_ instructor—better than any I can find, actually—and everyone is absolutely breath-taken with the progress I've made as a singer!"

Actually, now that she thought about it, the Norse translation her father had used when speaking of the Angel was _Skrípi av Songr_ —which, as closely as it could be translated, meant "Phantom of Song." She smiled at the irony. Then she remembered what she had been about to say and continued, "And don't worry, Father—with all the money I'm going to be receiving I'll build you a proper altar, right in the middle of the main lobby, with a statue of you playing your violin and a gold plaque that says, 'Gustave Daaé, Master Violinist and Father of Christine Daaé, Diva Extraordinaire'! And then everyone that comes to the opera will see it and think, 'Goodness, this Monsieur Daaé must have been a great man to be the father of the marvelous diva, Mademoiselle Daaé!

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "I forgot to tell you! It's not going to be 'Mademoiselle Daaé' for much longer, Father—I'm going to be Madame le Vicomtess de Chagny! Can you believe it? I mean, I always knew he loved me—who wouldn't—but just think, me, a vicomtess! Of course, he hasn't exactly proposed yet, but he's showered me with all kinds of expensive gifts and taken me out to dinner three times, and he constantly teases me with talk of 'when I live in his mansion.' Look!" She offered her hand for her father to see. "Just look at this ring! It's a half-carat diamond! I'm not sure what a carat is, but Raoul said a half-carat is worth lots of money. And that's what counts! He didn't say it was an engagement ring, but what else could it possibly be? And when Raoul's brother—goodness, I can't even remember his name—when Raoul's brother dies, I'll be a comtess! You never imagined that your poor peasant daughter would become a French comtess, did you!

"But don't worry, I'll still become a world-famous diva before I marry. Raoul says it wouldn't be proper for a comtess—I mean, a vicomtess—to be a singer, you know? I'll still sing at parties, certainly, but the world will just have to learn to live without its Diva Extraordinaire."

She had been chattering on without really listening to herself, but suddenly she realized what she was saying. "I'm not giving up your dream, Father," she told the photograph hastily. "I'm going to see it through. But after a few months, I'm going to retire to my mansion by the Seine." His eyes stared up at her, looking disappointed and accusing. Suddenly the giddiness of her wonderful day—like sparkling, ephemeral bubbles floating inside her chest—froze and crashed at the bottom of her stomach.

"It's not as if I'm failing you," she protested. "I'll make our name famous. But after that, I'm going to fulfill my own dreams. That's all right, isn't it, Father?" It wasn't as if she didn't want to be a diva—she had wanted it so badly since she was hired at the Garnier that it had dominated her thoughts during every practice, every performance, like a burning ache in her stomach that attacked with pangs of shame and desperation whenever she dwelled upon her own wretched poverty and sub-standard talent. And even now, so close to fame and divahood, she felt as if she were being suffocated under the weight of her father's expectations.

She looked away, unable to bear his gaze any longer. "It's not as if I'm marrying some penniless oaf—he's a vicomte! He lives in the Champs Élysées, for Odin's sake! His family name goes back to the time of Charlemagne! Don't you want your daughter to live in comfort?"

Her father didn't reply. Strangely, even after all these years, she still half-expected to hear his voice. When she was a child, she would have given anything to hear it again—but now...

She sat for a while, thinking about her life and how many years she had wasted concentrating on music—her father's love more than hers—when she could have been married, wearing fancy dresses, attending balls....

Finally she realized that, for the first time in her life, she was facing the truth about her father's dream—and the dark, tiny chapel, which had seemed like a safe haven for so many years, suddenly felt like a prison to her. Sitting there, trying to explain to her father that she didn't want to follow his dream anymore, made her feel like Loki, chained under Jörmungand, the world snake—a member of his own family—who would steadily drip poison on his face until the end of time.

The religious reference brought forth another problem to mind, one that she was unwilling to face. "They can't both be true," she murmured, more to herself than to her father. Meeting the Angel, listening to his purely Christian descriptions of Heaven, had shaken her religious convictions more than she had originally realized. Even though he wasn't really the Angel, she couldn't smooth over the chasm that had so irreconcilably divided the two religions: the pantheon or monotheism; eternal darkness or Heavenly bliss; daughterly loyalty or treachery.

The picture stared blankly, and suddenly she couldn't take any more of the prison or religious thought. She stood abruptly, and blew out the candle.

Christine tried to speak, but couldn't form the words, and turned and ran out of the chapel.

She walked through the hall in a much more somber mood than when she had entered. She hadn't felt any anger from her father, but she also hadn't felt any forgiveness. She couldn't feel anything.

She headed out to the back alley. She didn't want to see anyone on her way back to her dressing room. She needed to think.

Now that she had Raoul, and Erik, and her position as a diva of the largest opera house in the world, she had been thinking about her father less and less. He had been the center of her life for so many years, around which her every thought, every action revolved, but now—she found that, for better or for worse, she couldn't bring herself to cling to the past anymore. But she couldn't bring herself to feel either joy or sorrow from her liberation. She wasn't sure what to think.

She was so engrossed in her thoughts that she didn't notice the man approaching from the other end of the deserted alleyway. It wasn't until she was less than five feet away from him that she finally looked up.

Joseph Buquet grinned at her. "Top a' th' evenin' t' yeh, missie diva ex'trordinaire." He took a swig from the foul-smelling bottle he was holding, uncaring of the beer dripping down his chin. His words were slow and slurred, indicating the extent of his inebriation.

"Hello," she said shortly. She didn't like Buquet. Not that she knew him well—she didn't know any of the stagehands—but he seemed like a very offending, uncouth sort of man, and he was always drunk. One of the teachings handed down by Odin, chief of the gods, was that intoxication was among the greatest humiliations a man could bring upon himself.

"Hear yer gettin' awful chummy wi' tha' vicomte fella."

"Yes—we're going to be married," said Christine, rather annoyed. "Not that it's any of your business."

Buquet's laugh was cut off by a loud belch. "It mos' certunly is, girlie." His S's dragged until they became almost snakelike, and he kept pausing between words to allow his affected thoughts to catch up with his mouth. "I s'pose you won' want nothin' t' do with yer fellow...employees...when y' got someone like th' famous Vicomte de Ssssh-agny."

"That's absolutely right." Christine stuck her nose in the air and started to stride past him.

Suddenly he leapt forward and pinned Christine to the grimy wall with strength that defied his drunken state. His voice became vicious and loud. "See, when little rats like you gets too big for their skirts," he said, his foul breath making Christine choke, "an' start thinkin' they're too good for us poor stagehands, tha's when we gotta step in an' set 'em straight."

"What are you going to do?" Christine gasped, realizing that her fingernails would do no good against Buquet's thick jacket. She tried to wrench his arm away, but she couldn't even budge it.

He laughed at her pathetic attempts to free herself and downed the rest of the bottle.

Suddenly he smashed it against the brick wall, sending shards of glass flying like shrapnel. He held the bottle's neck up to her face, letting the jagged edges rest against her trembling skin. "I'm goin' t' carve a few lines in t' that pretty little face a' yers, missie diva ex'trordinaire.... Tha' vicomte sure's Hell won' be int'rested in yeh then."

"No, no, you wouldn't! You couldn't! Help! Help! Somebody!" Christine screamed, trying to kick Buquet in the shins.

"Tha' won' work, girlie. Th' kinds a' people that're roamin' th' streets a' this time a' night"—his laugh sprayed beer and spittle all over Christine's face—"ain't likely t' be helping yeh. An' if'n anyone is, they'll be too late."

"Odin! Thor! Forseti!" she whimpered, whipping through the names of all the gods, praying for a miracle. Surely the Aesir would not refuse to aid one of the few loyal followers left in the world! But despite her desperate faith, no mounted valkyrie flew down from the clouds to save her; no dwarven forged hammer swung down at Thor's command to her rescue. _Raoul,_ she cried silently, _where are you?_

She screamed with all her might as she felt the glass start to press into her skin.

Suddenly a rope materialized around Buquet's neck, violently jerking the man backwards. In the dim light, she could see a black-shrouded figure tightening the rope, and Buquet's disgusting, pockmarked face turn a dead white as he gasped for air. She could feel rage emanating from the mysterious figure, and she saw his eyes blaze in the light of a distant streetlamp. She recognized those emerald eyes with a shout of joy.

Suddenly, just as she was certain Buquet's neck would snap, the man released his grip, and the stagehand fell unconscious to the muddy ground with a thump.

"Why didn't you kill him?" she demanded as Erik unwound the lasso from around Buquet's neck.

Erik straightened up. "Why on earth would I do that?" he asked, obviously surprised.

"He was going to disfigure me! Cut up my beautiful face! He deserves to die!"

"Believe me, Christine," he said seriously, a pained expression reinforcing his words, "I wanted nothing more than to kill him just now. But what would that lead to? He didn't cut you, did he?"

Christine felt her cheek with a shaking hand. Strangely, she felt nothing but sweaty, unbroken skin. "N-no. But he was going to!"

He was silent for a moment, apparently searching for a reason that she would accept. "If I kill him, he will be immortalized in the Parisian newspapers as a martyr, a victim of the Opera Ghost. If he stands trial for attempted assault, it is _he_ whom the world will despise for his crimes."

"Who cares what the world thinks?" she snapped. "You're letting him get away with a crime worse than murder!"

"I'm not letting him get away with anything, Christine—he'll go to prison for this."

"That isn't good enough!"

"Then I'll invent a few crimes to add to the severity of his sentence."

"That's still not good enough!"

"Do you really want to soil the pure white of your hands with his blood?" Erik asked. His disappointment pierced Christine like an icy dagger.

"Well..." She rubbed her arms. "No," she said finally.

"Good. Then I will inform the police of the incident and have them send someone to arrest Buquet, and let Herr Blaise know this case holds my particular attention."

"You know the Prevote de Police?"

"He is an acquaintance."

She thought about it for a moment and recalled that it had been the _Prevote_ who had handed her Erik's note concerning Tannenbaum. She blushed as she remembered the incident and brushed it aside, returning her attention to Erik's proposition. "Oh...well...okay," she conceded at last, somewhat begrudgingly.

As Christine watched her masked rescuer secure Buquet's hands and feet with the lasso and roll him into the obscurity of the shadows, she thoughtfully chafed her hands in an effort to warm them. She couldn't be surprised that the gods had not saved her—they had foreseen that their intervention would be unnecessary, of course. What bothered her was that Raoul had not been her savior—a handsome knight who would prove his love in a show of valiant courage against a wicked foe, as she had heard in Mamma's bedtime tales. What was worse was that she couldn't tell herself that Raoul had been blocks away at his mansion, completely unable to rescue her, because she knew for a fact that he was here at this very moment: yesterday he had announced his intention to inspect the entire building from the lowest cellar floor to the statues gracing the roof terraces. He should have rescued her. And anyway, he told her he'd requested a list of all employees for inspection last week; why hadn't he fired a man as worthless, drunken, and evil as Buquet?

Erik stepped closer. "Will you be all right now?"

Her breathing was still faster and shallower than usual, but she could feel the adrenaline starting to fade. "Yes."

"Good. I'll see you safely home before going to the station."

"What if Buquet escapes?"

Erik glanced at the bound lump in the shadows. If the seriousness of his expression didn't countermand it, she could have sworn she saw something akin to faint amusement glint in his eyes. "Even if he regains consciousness before the police arrive, I doubt very much that he'll be able to free himself."

"Oh—alright."

The roaring fire of strength and fury in Erik's eyes ebbed to a soft, almost wistful candlelight as he looked at her. Christine was surprised as the icy fear she associated with Erik's hideousness could only offer a lukewarm revulsion, warmed by the light in his beautiful eyes. Slowly he reached up with one black gloved hand to touch her cheek; at the last moment he hesitated and withdrew it.

For a long moment she just stared up into those eyes, wondering what she thought of him. As she basked in the obvious love and concern he held for her, she decided that he wasn't a troll or a goblin—he was a fellow human being. A gruesome, hideous one, certainly, but a human being nonetheless. She realized, with a mixture of emotions, that she didn't fear him anymore—she could depend upon him to come to her aid no matter what.

Of course, that didn't make him a match for Raoul by any means. And thinking about the face under that white mask still made her feel ill. But she felt that they could be friends for a while—she was a big enough person to put aside her disgust and be kind to him. Yes, they could be friends. Until she married Raoul.

" _Bon jour,_ Monsieur le Vicomte!" greeted Richard the following day, shaking Raoul's hand amiably. "Absolutely wonderful timing—Moncharmin and I were just engaged in a debate over box seating prices."

"I'm afraid I know very little about economics, gentlemen," replied the vicomte, with a genteel smile. "That would be one of my brother's many fields of expertise."

"Well then, we'll simply have to call upon the comte."

"Won't you sit down, monsieur?" interposed Moncharmin, looking up from a mountain of interspersed letters and bills.

"I don't believe I've met him but once," Richard continued.

"He's a bit of a recluse," said Raoul apologetically, seating himself in the expensive rosewood chair in the forefront of the managers' office. The whole office smelled of paper and ink, and piles of bills and letters towered precariously atop every piece of furniture and even the floor. In a quick glance he saw several complaint letters, one piece of paper with the letterhead of the _Préfecture de Police_ (probably an excuse as to why they had not discovered the identity of the Phantom), an itemized list of the Garnier's inventory, and numerous bills for cloth, lumber, furniture, arrangements of flowers, ballet shoes, and everything else imaginable.

"Is he still interested in patronage of the Garnier?"

"If you seem to recall, gentlemen, it is much more his patronage than mine."

The two managers exchanged a rather surprised glance. It was Moncharmin who spoke first: "He seemed quite enthused about it when we met with him in September, but he has only attended one performance—just once during _Faust,_ isn't that right, Richard?—"

"I believe so."

"—since our acquisition of the opera house."

Raoul tapped the gold cap on the bottom of his cane against the floor, somewhat agitated, as always when making excuses for his misanthropic brother. He liked his brother well enough, certainly, but it was positively humiliating to have such a hermit in the family. Philippe was a fount of knowledge concerning mathematics, philosophy, science, finances, history, and even societal conventions, but everything he knew was purely theoretical—he never got a chance to practice even his strict adherence to traditional etiquette except with the servants, because he rarely suffered to go out. The man was so afraid of women that he could never marry, but he would never be able to enjoy the freedom and pleasures of bachelor status, either. It was pitiful.

"That is correct," he said, placing a sharp, almost angry accent on the last T that conveyed much more of his impatience than he had intended.

Apparently Moncharmin thought a change in subject was in order, for he said, "You rushed out in quite a hurry yesterday during the inspection of the costumery."

"I apologize heartily, messieurs—I suddenly remembered a pressing appointment." _An appointment named Margot,_ he thought with a small, satisfied smile. _So beautiful, so brainless, so absolutely—_

"You wired three days ago to tell us you had finished reviewing the list of employees, Monsieur le Vicomte."

"Yes—I'm sorry I didn't keep my appointment on Tuesday to discuss the list, but I had important matters to attend to."

"You have no need to apologize to us," Richard assured him. "There would be no Opera Garnier without your family's generous support."

"Yes. What was I saying?" Thought of the sumptuous Margot had erased all thought of business matters from his mind.

"You had reviewed the employee list."

"Ah yes—or, rather, my brother has. He finds immense dissatisfaction with the stagehands, and frankly, so do I. I've talked to a few of the chorus girls, and they assert that the hands are, for the most part, sloven drunkards."

"Yes, we've heard," Moncharmin said, pressing his lips together unhappily. "But we looked into hiring more able men—"

"And found," Richard finished, "that we can't hire anyone more respectable without increasing their weekly wage by at least one-third again as many francs."

"The ballet girls complain these men pursue them with objectionable vulgarity, especially that Buquet fellow," Raoul objected, feeling that his Chagny heritage required him to bring up this point.

"And the girls pursue the men with equal vigor," said Richard dryly.

"You can at least dismiss Buquet."

"No, monsieur, we really can't—Buquet might be a heavy drinker, as we've heard, but he knows the sets and rigging better than any man living."

Raoul shrugged. "Very well then, gentlemen—it doesn't matter to me." He stood and shook hands with both men. "Good day, messieurs."

Christine was walking to practice when she ran into Raoul coming out of the managers' office. " _Bon jour,_ Christine!" He kissed her hand. "How is my ravishing rose today?"

"Terrible," she snapped, removing her fingers from his grasp. "Where were you yesterday while _I_ was being _attacked_?"

He gripped her shoulders, perfect azure eyes suddenly wide and frantic. "You were attacked? _Mon Dieu_ , my darling, my precious, what happened? Are you all right?"

"No! Look at me!" She pointed at her face angrily. "I was so terrified that I've broken out! Look at these horrid pimples! How could you do this to me?!" Suddenly her eyes widened and she clapped her hands over her face to hide the disfiguring blemishes, as if they were visible through the vast amount of makeup she was wearing. "No wait, don't look at me! Don't look!"

"Who was it?!" Raoul demanded, not seeming to have heard her. "I'll kill him, Christine, I swear I will!" He clapped a hand to his belt, grasping for a weapon that wasn't there. "Damnation!—oh, sorry, my love, I didn't mean to curse in your presence!—I'll just have to fight him without my rapier!"

Without waiting for her to reply, he threw open the office door and shouted to the managers, "A scoundrel has attempted to attack Christine Daaé! Inform the police! Summon the army! I'm going on ahead to challenge him!" He turned back to Christine. "Where is he, _mon_ _precieuse_? I'll slaughter him for what he's done to you!"

"No!" Christine wailed, tears of frustration coming to her eyes. "Why can't you just listen to me?! It's already been dealt with! While _you_ were sitting in that office"—she jabbed an accusing finger towards the managers, who were staring at the scene from the other side of the doorway—"doing absolutely _nothing_!"

"I'm sorry, Christine, I didn't know you were in danger, how could I?"

"Why didn't you fire Buquet?" she whined, feeling the terror as Buquet held the broken bottle up to her face, the frustration as she realized that no one was coming to save her, the disappointment that Raoul had not been the one to rescue her—the emotions raged in her chest, mixing and fighting and augmenting into a rage so large that she felt her stomach threaten to revolt. "You _knew_ that this would happen!"

"How the devil should I have known?" Raoul demanded, starting to get angry.

"Why didn't you fire him like we asked you to?!"

"You didn't say a word to me!"

"But the chorus girls did! I didn't think you needed me to spell it out too!"

"I told the managers to fire him!"

"Now wait just a minute," Richard interjected hotly. "You said—"

"Shut up!" roared Raoul.

"If you fired him, then why did he attack me yesterday?!" demanded Christine.

" _Buquet attacked you?"_ the managers exclaimed in unison.

"Yes! And he would have cut up my face if Erik hadn't saved me!"

"Erik?" said Moncharmin.

"Yes, Erik—" She cut off as she realized her mistake. She couldn't admit that she was on first-name terms with the Phantom, bane of the managers' existence. And what would Raoul do if he found out how much time she was spending with another man, even if it was just business? "Just one of the stagehands, messieurs, that's all," she said quickly.

"Where is Buquet now?" Raoul slammed his gold cane into the floor. "I'll see that he is executed for this outrage!"

"He's already been taken to the police," she snapped.

"Oh." Raoul was silent for a long moment, his anger draining. When he spoke again, he had regained his composure. "Thank God you're all right, my darling. I'll have to thank this—what was it? Erik—personally." He turned to the managers. "Good day, messieurs."

He closed the door and escorted Christine down the hall, holding her close, and murmured in her ear, "I'll have this man Buquet's head on a platter for you, if that is your desire."

"Oh, yes, Raoul, that would be—" Suddenly her mind recalled Erik's words: _"Do you really want to soil the pure white of your hands?"_

"Yes, my enticing enchantress?"

"That is—I did want—I don't know," she moaned, confused and uncertain of what she wanted. "He doesn't deserve to live, not after what he tried to do, but..."

"But what, my blossom?"

"I—I don't want to have his blood...on my hands." The words sounded foreign to her, as if they had been spoken by someone else. "I don't know what I want."

"You won't have any blood on your hands, my precious one—he _deserves_ to die. You said it yourself. You would be in the right to demand his death."

"But, after all, he didn't even cut me—"

Raoul grabbed her shoulders, shaking his head emphatically. "It doesn't matter! He fully intended to destroy your ethereal beauty, the most precious thing you or anyone can ever possess."

"Yes, but—"

"Don't worry, I'll arrange everything. He'll never bother you again!"

In a daze, Christine walked with Raoul to the west doors where his cabriolet was waiting, unsure of what she wanted. She felt giddy from the power Raoul offered her—she held a human life in her hands, and only she could decide if he lived or died.... She wanted to lash out in revenge against Buquet, a feeling heightened by Raoul's insistence on the matter, but she could still feel Erik's steadfast presence, calming the vengeful fire pounding in her chest.

"No," she said finally. "It's fine."

He shrugged. "Well, if you're certain." He climbed into the coach.

"Can we go to dinner tonight?"

"No, my luminous lily, I have a prior engagement. But I am free tomorrow, and I shall pick you up here for lunch."

He kissed her hand and rode off before she could ask him what exact time he had meant. "Yes, Raoul," she called after him, but he was too far away to hear.

# Chapitre Dix-Neuf: La Infidélité du Vicomte

Christine tapped the golden knocker against one of the enormous double doors. _They're large enough to be doors of Valhalla_ , she thought, admiring the intricate patterns carved into the wood. _The gods must be very jealous of this mansion!_

One of the doors opened to reveal an affluently dressed doorman, who bowed to Christine most gravely. "Good day, mademoiselle."

"I'm here to see Raoul," she said, striving to effect the powerful, condescending tone of a noblewoman.

The doorman blinked slowly, and Christine squirmed uncomfortably, self-conscious of her stage makeup, which she had palpably overdone in an effort to please her future husband. She could tell what he was thinking: _Should I let this poorly-dressed girl who asks for my master—and so informally!—into his house?_

"I mean, I wish to speak to Monsieur le Vicomte de Chagny," she corrected, biting her lip. She shouldn't have come. Raoul had told her to wait at the opera house. But she'd grown so tired of waiting, and it was only a short drive from the opera.... Oh dear, she should have been more patient; Raoul would have come! How would she explain to Mamma that she had spend the grocery money she had been entrusted with to get here?

The man continued to deliberate, and she considered leaving before Raoul found out that she hadn't been patient enough to wait for him. But she had no money for a coach home, so now that she was here, she would have to stay. "I am Christine Daaé," she added tentatively. "Diva of the Opera Garnier."

After a moment more of intense scrutiny, the man stood aside to allow her ingress. "Very good, mademoiselle," in a voice that said just the opposite.

He led her into a heavily furnished sitting room, bedecked with ancient tapestries depicting the various conquests of the ancestors of the Chagny line. He motioned for her to sit. "If you will give me your card and kindly wait here a moment, I will see if the vicomte is at home."

"My...card?" she repeated stupidly.

"Yes, mademoiselle."

She blushed, unwilling to admit to this judgmental man that she was just a poor peasant girl who didn't have use for expensive calling cards. Now that she was a diva, she would have to have some made. "He doesn't need my card; he knows me quite well. And shouldn't a servant know if his master is at home or not?" she added, a bit condescendingly.

The man bristled at her comment. "I am not _just_ a servant, mademoiselle, I am the _butler_ of the Chagny house. And when I say 'if the vicomte is at home,' I mean that I will see if he is receiving visitors at the present time."

"Oh." Christine looked away, trying to appear haughty and uncaring of her blunder; in truth, it hurt her to realize just how far behind Raoul's social status she was, and not just in terms of money.

With a clap of his gloved hands, the butler summoned another flawlessly-dressed servant and whispered something in the his ear. Both pairs of eyes flickered towards Christine, with an insulting mixture of distrust and disdain. Then the butler departed, his uniform and formal stride reminding Christine of a toy soldier. She walked closer to the doorway to see him ascend the grand staircase and disappear through a doorway on the left. Slowly, she sat down again.

The other man had stayed, hands clasped stiffly in front of him. Christine leaned back into the couch, pondering as to the man's intent. Suddenly it hit her, and she gasped in anger: this man was making sure she didn't steal anything!

"Who do you think I am?" she demanded, standing abruptly, hands clenched and shaking.

"I'm sure I don't know, mademoiselle," the servant replied, in such a formal, mechanical way that he seemed almost an automaton.

"I am Christine Daaé, Diva Extraordinaire of the Opera Garnier!"

"Of course, mademoiselle."

"I am! Raoul even had it inscribed on a gold nameplate for my dressing room door!"

"Yes, mademoiselle." The man was visibly uncomfortable. She couldn't tell if he believed her or not—but she decided to give him the benefit of the doubt; he was only following orders, after all. It was that butler who had insulted her. She would have Raoul fire him.

At that moment, the butler in question returned. "Monsieur le Vicomte sends his apologies, but he cannot be disturbed."

"Can't be disturbed for his own fiancée?" Christine exclaimed, momentarily forgetting that Raoul hadn't actually proposed yet.

The butler's eyes widened considerably. He coughed, seeming quite distressed. But his answer did not change—"I'm sorry, mademoiselle. Perhaps you could leave the vicomte a note?"

Christine fought to control her anger. It would not do for Raoul to hear of her acting in such an unladylike rage. "Y-yes." She followed him out into the main foyer to an ornate table.

"You may write a message on the back of your card and leave it here," he instructed, gesturing to the silver tray resting on the oak surface.

"I—I forgot to bring them," she lied.

Disgust made itself even more evident through the butler's polite mask. "Very well, then. Sébastien, please fetch Mademoiselle Daaé a sheet of paper." The servant bowed and retreated through a doorway.

The longer Christine waited, the more her fury mounted. It was absolutely ridiculous that she was being turned away. She doubted that the man had even bothered to speak to Raoul—there was no way that Raoul de Chagny could have anything more important to do than to attend to her needs. Of course—it made perfect sense! Raoul didn't even know that she was in the house! That butler was trying to ruin her marriage!

She glanced toward the butler, who was partially turned away from her, staring, soldier-like, into the air. Now was her chance.

Without any advance warning, she suddenly turned and bolted up the grand staircase. She heard the man shout angrily for her to desist this moment, but she only ran faster. With a jerk she threw open the door she had seen the man go through earlier.

When she saw Raoul, she felt her heart stop.

There was her fiancé, seated on a velvet loveseat, laughing merrily and kissing the giggling nymph in his arms, the buttons of whose dress were opened all the way down to her chest, giving the vicomte a teasing glimpse of her charms.

"Raoul!" she cried, unable to believe the horror before her eyes.

The vicomte jumped as though she had struck him with lightning. He shoved the protesting girl aside. "Christine!" he exclaimed.

"Master!" The butler grabbed Christine's arm.

"I said I was busy!" Raoul shouted.

"Yes!" Christine shrieked. "And never would I have dreamed that you were busy with—with— _that_!" She started to point towards the husband-stealing creature pulling the shoulders of her dress back up to their proper locations. The butler roughly secured her other arm.

"Jus' what d'you mean by that?" the woman in question snapped, tossing back her mussed golden hair. She was beautiful enough to be a valkyrie. Her clothes were as worn and poor as Christine's own, and from that and her lower-class accent Christine guessed her to be a flower girl. From her neck hung a shining opal—that, more than anything else, kindled Christine's rage.

"That should be mine!" she shrieked, pointing an accusing finger at the necklace.

"Christine—darling—precious—you don't understand—"

"I understand perfectly!"

"No, you don't! Anceline is my cousin!"

"Oh, is that how it is?" the flower girl demanded, hands on her voluptuous hips.

Raoul scowled and, stepping over to Anceline, whispered something in her ear. Christine thought she caught the word "francs" in the middle. Anceline's eyes lit up greedily. "Whatever you say... _cousin_ Raoul," she said, with an obsequious grin.

"I'm not stupid, Raoul!" Christine suddenly became aware that there were tears pouring down her face, carving chasms in the makeup. She couldn't allow Raoul or that woman to see her so upset! "Let me go!" she snarled, stomping her heel into the man's boot.

At a nod from Raoul, the butler released her. Christine flew down the steps and out of the house, crying madly.

How could he—? How could Raoul even look at another woman? It was impossible! IMPOSSIBLE!

She didn't stop running until she had reached the Rue Notre-Dame-Des-Victoires. As she started into the tenement building up to her small apartment, the tears started flowing afresh as she viewed the cramped, narrow hallways and peeling wallpaper that surrounded her. She was nothing—a simple, stupid, penniless waif. A godlike figure such as Raoul, with his millions of francs and title of nobility, would never demean himself by marrying a thing like her. She was just another flower girl to him. A toy—a plaything!

She collapsed on the stairs. "No, no," she sobbed, beating her forehead into one of the steps. "It can't be true—it just can't. He loves me! He has to love me!"

She stayed on the staircase for a long time, until another tenant chanced by and concernedly helped her up to her apartment. By that time, she had made up her mind—if she couldn't be the Vicomtess de Chagny, life held no further interest. She'd throw herself off the roof of the opera house—that would show Raoul what a mistake he had made!

# Chapitre Vingt: Le Suicide Manqué de Christine

Christine shivered as she peered over the edge and drew her shawl closer about her shoulders. It was several stories to the pavement below. The height had never bothered her before, but now, as she imagined the drop and the sickening splat that would follow, she felt intensely ill. But she had to go through with it—she had to punish Raoul for the terrible crime he had committed.

She smiled dizzily as she pictured the faithless Vicomte de Chagny at her funeral, collapsed against her coffin, uncaring as his silk garments were ruined by the cold, muddy ground. "I loved her!" he would cry, tearing at his clothes in a grieved frenzy. "I loved her more than any man has ever loved! How could I have been so stupid as to turn away from her, even for a moment? And now she's gone— _gone_ — _gone forever_!"

She laughed aloud, savoring the power of the moment as she condemned Raoul to a life of sorrow and regret, wandering Europe, seeking the happiness he had thrown away. Yes, he would be sorry for his mistake!

Filled with renewed conviction, she stepped up to the edge. "Goodbye, cruel world!" she proclaimed, throwing off her shawl.

A freezing wind struck her, and the resulting spasm of shivers robbed her of her balance. Before she could register her situation, she tumbled off the ledge.

No, no, she didn't want to die! _Oh, gods_ — _!_

Suddenly she felt a rope snap around her waist, jerking her upright. She was still screaming hysterically, too terrified to form a coherent thought. It took her a long moment to realize that she could still feel the roof's sharp edge through her shoes.

A moment later there was a strong, comforting arm around her, guiding her away from the precipice. She turned and clung to her rescuer, sobbing uncontrollably. "O-oh t-thank you, thank y-you," she cried, her words barely comprehensible through the tears.

"What were you _doing_ , Christine?" Erik's voice was soft and gentle, despite the tense urgency she could feel radiating from his body.

His calming presence washed over her, and after a few minutes of frantic weeping, she regained enough composure to raise her head. "I was going t-to kill m-myself."

"But _why_? What's the matter?"

"I—" But she couldn't tell him about Raoul. Desperate to maintain the small amount of pride she had left, she merely said, "It doesn't matter."

"But it does!" he protested. She could feel his muscles tense beneath the cotton shirt, and she realized that he was fighting the desire to hold her more tightly. "Tell me what's wrong, Christine," he pleaded. "I'll do everything I can to help you."

She sighed and buried her face in his shirt, exhausted by the flurry of emotions that whirled in her dizzy head: desperate relief, confusion, embarrassment, teary gratitude, and cold shock. She just wanted to relax in a strong pair of arms and forget about the horror she had almost experienced. "It's not important now," she sighed, suddenly very tired. "I want to go inside—I'm cold."

As he led her across the rooftop and out of the frigid wind, she thanked the gods that Erik had been there to save her. It was better that she hadn't killed herself; that would be as much a punishment to herself as to Raoul. She'd just have to think of some other way to take her revenge.

"Mademoiselle Daaé!" Mercier exclaimed. "Where have you been? Practice began an hour ago! Most of the cast has already left!"

"Oh, I'm very sorry," she said as she walked onto the stage, smiling brilliantly in the hopes of avoiding a lecture. "You see, I had a problem with my costume—"

"Mademoiselle, Monsieur le Costumer is not in today and we are not practicing in costume!"

"Oh, fine then," she snapped, throwing her script down onto the stage. "You want to know the truth? I figured it would be a waste to come to practice because I had planned on killing myself at ten-o'clock!"

Mercier pursed his lips and tapped his baton angrily on his music stand. "Stick with the first story, mademoiselle, and take your position. We'll start the second act with a skeleton crew, and you!—yes, you stagehands!—go fetch everyone back here!"

As the employees in question meandered rather drunkenly away, not bothering to hurry in the slightest, Christine felt her hand tremble, and she would have dropped her script if it hadn't already been on the floor. It had been a few hours since her near death experience, and though she had calmed down quite a bit, she still felt numb and she was suffering from spasms of shakes. She had already thrown up twice, but she still felt a little nauseous as she thought of that sickening drop. Thank the gods for Erik.

" _Zut,_ mademoiselle," continued Mercier sourly, "it will take at least another hour to get all the cast assembled again! Where's Idamante?"

"Right here," a young man called, striding up to stand near Christine.

"Good morning," she said, eyeing the handsome singer appreciatively. He was tan and dashing with a thin, wiry figure. His untidy hair fell over his eyes, making him look rather adorably like a sheepdog.

" _Bon jour,_ mademoiselle," he said, with a shy smile. "I don't believe we've met."

"We haven't, no. What happened to Alain?"

"He was fired. The managers hired me this morning."

"How splendid—I'm sure you'll make a dashing Idamante," she said, fluttering her eyelashes. She decided she liked him; something about him struck her as being innocent and subservient, like a farm boy.

"Oh—thank you. My—my name is François Rousseau. Like the philosopher."

"Oh, how fascinating—any relation?" She had no idea what philosopher he was talking about, but she thought it would flatter him to show interest. Unlike Raoul, he did not seem to possess the polish and in-charge nature that made Raoul seem so aristocratic; but this man was genial and polite, and very good-looking.

"Alas, no," he said with a smile.

"Ah, what a shame! Oh, I haven't introduced myself, how silly of me—I am Christine Daaé, Diva Extraordinaire." She heard a muffled chuckle from Mercier's direction and pointedly ignored him.

"It is an honor, mademoiselle," François said, kissing her hand.

She giggled and looked away, feigning shyness. It was perfect—what a marvelous revenge this would be. Raoul would be absolutely furious when he heard about her affair with a penniless singer (he must be penniless—no millionaire would look like a farm boy on purpose). And in a month from now when they performed _Idomeneo_ together, Raoul would be forced to watch her shower this boy with love on stage in front of all of Paris, raging and unable to do anything to stop her! It was brilliant!

"Sing something, François," she begged.

"Oh mademoiselle, I couldn't interrupt rehearsal—"

"Please, just a short something."

François bit his lip and sang a line from one of the arias. He was quite talented, and his voice fit the part well.

"Oh, François, that was absolutely beautiful," she cooed, placing an admiring hand on his arm.

"You really think so, mademoiselle?"

"Of course! You are magnificent!" His voice was good, it was true, but it was so far beneath Erik's that it was like comparing Asgard to the dank hells of Niflheim.

She heard commanding footsteps at the back of the stage, and she turned to see Raoul eyeing François, looking furious already. Her anger flared, disrupting her planning, and she turned sharply away. "Monsieur Mercier, if you please?" she prompted tersely.

"Very well, mademoiselle. We'll start with scene two. You and Monsieur Rousseau are alone on stage. There are a few recited lines before the aria. Mademoiselle says, _'Se mai pomposo apparse sull'Argivo orizzonte il Dio di Delo, eccolo in questo giorno, oh sire, in cui l'augusta—'_ What is the matter, mademoiselle?'"

She blinked slowly, not wanting to look foolish in front of either handsome man, and yet she was unable to find a way around admitting, "I'm sorry, monsieur, but I lost you after 'say-tie.'"

Mercier sighed. "It's ' _se mai_.' Pick up your script, if you please, mademoiselle, and study the line while we go on to Idamante's reply."

"Please, mademoiselle," said the farm boy, "let me get it for you."

"Oh, why thank you, François." She accepted her script with a sweet smile.

"Now, Monsieur Rousseau, your line is, 'Principessa gentil, il bel sereno anche alle tue pupille omai ritorni, il lungo duol dilegua.'"

François repeated it perfectly. Perhaps her farm boy theory was incorrect.

At this point, the vicomte interceded. "I see the managers have replaced Idamante again."

"Indeed, monsieur," Mercier said, with an ill-hidden sigh.

Raoul drew near François, seeming oblivious to Christine's presence, and shook the man's hand. "I am the Vicomte de Chagny."

"François Rousseau. Pleased to meet you, sir."

"A pleasure."

Christine, thrilled that her plan had already been thrown into gear, interjected, putting admiration into her voice, "François is a marvelous singer, you know—absolutely godlike."

Raoul cast a glance her way. "How nice. Tell me, François, is she not the most radiant angel you have ever seen?" He gestured grandly towards Christine, a brisk efficiency in his manner.

"Why yes, monsieur, she is—absolutely beautiful."

"Oh, why thank you—"

"You're fired," Raoul informed François coldly.

"I beg your pardon, monsieur?!"

"You heard me," Raoul bellowed, gesturing wildly with his gilded cane. "Out! Out!"

Poor François, face a picture of hurt confusion, rushed to comply.

"What are you doing?!" Christine screamed.

"Firing a country bumpkin who had the effrontery to look at you!"

By this time, the managers had heard the uproar and appeared. As Christine stormed off the stage, both were loudly protesting the vicomte's outrageous pronouncement. In her fury, she ignored them and Raoul, who was still shouting, striding to her dressing room to lock herself in and fume over the failure of her perfect plan.

Later that day, Christine was still in her dressing room at her vanity when a knock sounded on her door. She squeaked in surprise, startled out of her thoughts. "Yes?" she called, hurrying to stuff the necklace she had filched from the costumery into a drawer.

"It's Raoul."

She slammed her hairbrush onto the vanity. "Go away! I'm very busy!"

"Please, Christine, I need to speak with you!"

"I don't care!"

"But you don't understand!"

"I understand perfectly! You were having an affair with a _flower wench_!"

There was a long silence, and Christine realized that since Raoul had never actually proposed to her, he technically couldn't be having an affair. But it didn't matter—he was still being unfaithful to her!

"Please, Christine, just open the door! I won't even come inside!"

"Oh, fine!" She shoved the stool back and stomped over to the door. As she flipped the catch on the lock, she set her face in a haughty, uncaring expression, trying to summon up all the diva poise she could muster.

She opened the door a crack. To her irritation, while Raoul looked terribly distressed, it had not affected his appearance at all. He couldn't be too agonized if he had still bothered to arrange his hair. "What do you want?"

"I want to explain yesterday's unfortunate misunderstanding."

"Misunderstanding! Is that what you call it!"

" _Yes!_ Christine, in your haste, you misinterpreted a perfectly innocent meeting between myself and my cousin!"

"Cousin! Bah! You were kissing her!"

"Of course I was—she's family!"

"What about her dress?"'

"What about it?"

"It was down past her shoulders, that's what!"

"It was an accident, Christine—right before you came in, she tripped on the edge of her dress and fell. I caught her."

"Don't be absurd! Even if it had happened that way, you wouldn't have a penniless cousin!"

"Poor Anceline was disinherited," he said desperately. "Because her cruel sisters were jealous of her beauty. She's forced to sell flowers to keep from starving."

"I'm not stupid," Christine snapped. "If that were true, she could just sell that necklace and be set for life!"

"It isn't real; it wouldn't bring much money. Besides, she can't bring herself to sell it—it's the only thing she has that belonged to her late mother."

"Really...?" Her grip on the door slackened as she thought it over, but she suddenly shook her head. "I know what I saw."

"But Christine, darling, splendorous rose, you don't! How could I ever be unfaithful to a beauty such as you? Especially with Anceline—she is nothing compared to your beauty!"

"You—you really mean that?" she demanded, struggling to keep up the anger that had raged in her stomach for the past twenty-four hours.

"Of course!" He kissed her hand and held it fervently, gazing into her eyes with love and desperation. "You are my goddess, my nymph, my skylark!" He kissed her hand again, closing his eyes as if savoring the feel of her skin. "A life without you is like a life without the sun—dark, cold, meaningless!"

"She—she's your cousin?"

"Yes!"

Her staunch, unforgiving posture slumped as she started to give in. But then she remembered about François and resolutely revived her anger. "And what about François? You had no cause to fire him!"

"My sweet, my precious, I was so jealous I couldn't help myself!"

"You were?" she repeated. The sudden thrill made her giddy. Her plan had succeeded! It hadn't been as...well... _punishing_ as she had intended, but it didn't matter. The sense of power almost overwhelmed her.

"Of course! I couldn't sit by and watch my beauteous bijou fall into the clutches of a farmhand!"

"Really?" It was stupid to try to keep herself angry when he was just as much a victim here as she was. He couldn't possibly have been having an affair. He loved her. But she had to make sure. "Then you're still going to marry me?"

He blinked, and for a single, horrible moment she saw her world falling apart in the stare of those ice-blue eyes. Then he smiled. "Of course, _precieuse_ —how could you have ever doubted that?"

She released the door and allowed him to enter, feeling so giddy with relief that she had to sit down. As Raoul, kneeling at her feet, continued to lavish her with praise, she raised her eyes to the sky and thanked the gods for returning her perfect world.

# Chapitre Vingt-et-Un: La Madeleine

Moncharmin frowned, circling Christine and studying her with an uncomfortable intensity. "I don't know—isn't Ilia's dress supposed to be Greek? It's too...too..."

"Frilly," finished Richard with a nod.

Monsieur Bertrand, the head of the costume department, folded his arms in displeasure. "Yes, messieurs, _Idomeneo_ takes place in ancient Greece." His tone was clipped and rather self-important, his eyes narrowed into haughty slits. "But in case you have forgotten," he continued coldly, " _I_ am the costume expert in this opera house, and I have been for twenty-six years. And I'm certain that, if you will pardon my frankness, you will find more costuming knowledge in my little finger than in both of your heads combined."

Richard and Moncharmin glanced at each other, eyebrows raised, both highly offended. Christine watched them mildly from her position atop a chair, clothed in a half-finished wedding gown. With interest she noted that the managers knew each other well enough to confer without actually speaking. Richard's face had reddened slightly, and his eyes flashed with anger at Bertrand's pompous remark. It was clear to Christine that he wanted to fire the man then and there. But Moncharmin gave a small shrug, as if to say, _He_ is _the expert, and we need him._

Richard nodded reluctantly, saying, "We do not contest that, Monsieur Bertrand. We simply ask that the one-hundredth anniversary of _Idomeneo_ be _accurate_."

Bertrand gave a pert bow. "And so it will be, monsieur, if you stop badgering me and allow me to get on with my work."

" _Allow me_ to remind you," said Richard furiously, "that we pay your salary!"

"Let—let's not become unpleasant, gentlemen," begged Moncharmin, dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief, looking rather pained. "Monsieur Bertrand, is there any way we could try to...ah..."—he fumbled for the right word, seeming loathe to voice something so distasteful—" _minimize_ costs? If I am not mistaken, the Greeks wore much simpler garments than this one is turning out to be."

"Audiences don't appreciate accuracy," Bertrand refuted with an air of superiority. "They appreciate _extravagance_. To send Mademoiselle Daaé on stage in anything less than the latest fashion would be catastrophic." He insolently turned from the managers, fishing a box of buttons out of a mountain of bows and lace. "Monsieur le Vicomte de Chagny knows nothing about opera production, and even he realizes that simple fact—he especially requested that we spare no expense in her costumery. You can't risk offending your patron." Christine flushed with pride at hearing Raoul's title and his command. It had been a week and a half since his apology—which had ended with her apologizing for jumping to ridiculous conclusions—in which time he had showered her with flowers and gifts and constant praise of her beauty. She had never felt happier or more in love.

"Technically," said Richard loudly, "our patron is the _Comte_ de Chagny, who would undoubtedly take our side on this matter, both in terms of taste and economy."

"Ha!" Bertrand jabbed a needle into the dress with unnecessary force as he threaded a pearl button. Christine yelped.

"Did he stab you?" Richard demanded.

"Um—well—no—I just thought he was going to—"

Bertrand kept right on talking. "How would you know what the comte thinks? He doesn't even venture out of his house, let alone come to oversee anything. He'll just have to live with whatever we decide. And by that, I mean what _I_ decide."

As the managers glanced at each other again, obviously considering firing the haughty costumer, Madame Giry entered the room. Carefully stepping over the haphazard mounds of fabric and lace littering the floor, she surveyed Christine's costume with something akin to amusement. She had the tact not to say anything rude, but the flicker in her eyes conveyed more than words.

"Shouldn't her dress be more Grecian?" she asked at length.

"Aha!" exclaimed the managers in unison.

Upon hearing her comment Bertrand angrily threw down the box. Buttons scattered everywhere, but he didn't seem to care. "No one asked you," he spat, lip curling to reveal a set of narrow, overly-white teeth.

"Well then," Madame Giry replied calmly, "why don't you ask Mademoiselle Daaé? It is _her_ dress."

All eyes turned to Christine, who had been forgotten in the heat of the proceedings. She stared at her reflection in a nearby mirror, hurriedly trying to decide. Accuracy _was_ important, but the dress was very pretty as it was. Though it was only partially complete, the pure, ghostly white of the gown and the shimmer of her collar of diamonds made her seem almost like an ethereal being. In years past she would have thought immediately of Skadi, the Norse goddess of winter who gave Scandinavia its name, and would have wept as she recalled her father telling her of the beautiful goddess and her castle of ice in the mountains of Jotunheim. But now she wasn't sure what to think.

She hadn't set foot in the Garnier's chapel since she had realized that her own desires were more important than her father's plans for her. Even the stories—her father's beloved stories—had become less and less mystical and cherished to her as the weeks went on. She still prayed fervently to the gods at least once a day, but she couldn't bring herself to feel the same way about religion anymore. She wasn't certain what to think about anything.

She suddenly realized that everyone was waiting for her answer. As the silence dragged on, she wondered what Raoul would say—surely he would know which was more important. _'Why, my perfect angel,'_ she could imagine him saying, raising a surprised eyebrow at her ignorance, ' _of course fashion is more important. Fashion reflects what people like_ today _, rather than what they liked thousands of years ago. What does it matter if the play originally called for Grecian garments?'_

But Erik would say the opposite—he would probably say that accuracy took precedence over the latest fashion. In fact, she could hear his voice as well: ' _Christine, the beauty of music and opera is that they open a window to a previous time, to a life that is far different from our own. Would you destroy that by blotting out their culture with our own simply to impress the shallow masses?'_

"Um, I—I don't know," stammered Christine, angry at her inability to decide. "It's very pretty—"

"Ha!" interjected Bertrand.

"—but still, um..." About to state that the composer had called for accuracy, she realized that she didn't know who the composer was. "Um, the composer—"

"Mozart," supplied Madame Giry.

"Yes, Mozart. If he wrote that the costumes should be Greek, then I think that's important too."

Moncharmin nodded decisively. "Well, that settles it. Mozart was one of the greatest composers of all time—and I do believe his opinion supersedes yours, Monsieur le Costumer."

"But that's not what she said!" Bertrand snapped. "She said that she liked the dress—that means you'd like it better than a Grecian one, right, mademoiselle? Yes," he continued, without waiting for a reply, "she most certainly would. And may I remind you that our audience is made up of _modern_ people, monsieur, not ancient Greeks."

As a heated debate ensued, Madame Giry said quietly to Christine, "I just came to tell the managers that they sold fifteen more seats for the opening night than there are available."

"How terribly embarrassing!"

"Indeed. And what's worse, the health officials are suggesting—almost demanding—that the managers cancel the performances to combat the spread of the pneumonia."

"Has it gotten that bad?" Christine asked, surprised. She had heard very little about the epidemic lately; she had assumed that it had begun to wane.

"Good heavens, yes—it's dreadful! It's creeping up from the proletariat to the bourgeoisie and into the very nobility."

"Bwah-gher-what?"

"That's it!" Richard shouted, slamming his cane into the floor. "Monsieur Bertrand, consider this your notice! Have your things out of our opera house by tomorrow morning!" Madame Giry and Christine paused to watch the scene.

"Or you'll do what?" the costumer sneered, equally as loud.

"Or we'll charge you with trespassing, that's what!"

"You'll never survive without me!"

"Ha! You aren't worth the clothes on your back!"

"How dare you!"

Madame Giry shook her head. "Perhaps I'll speak to the managers later. You might as well leave too—no point wasting your day waiting for those three to stop fighting."

"...so I said that if Mozart wrote that the costumes should be Grecian, then it would be a terrible crime to ruin the perfection of his opera—a window to another time, you know?—just to impress the masses."

Erik, who was cleaning out her closet, straightened up with a pile of clothing in his arms. "That's wonderful, Christine," he said with a smile, making her swell with pride. She felt slightly bad that he was doing her cleaning for her, realizing that she was treating him like a servant, but she certainly didn't want to do all that work, and he seemed happy to help her with anything, even picking up her dirty clothes, so she allowed him to keep cleaning while she sat at her vanity. Cleaning was a waste of time anyway—she was only doing it because he had lectured her on the virtue of neatness; it had been easier to say she would clean, and then get him to do it. She felt perfectly justified in her plan. _It isn't as if he keeps his caverns neat and tidy_ , she thought righteously. _The man is as much a slob as I am!_

Well, almost. Sort of.

Not really, she finally admitted. But still, he could learn a thing or two from his own lecture.

She assuaged her slight guilt at his servitude by fiddling with the clutter on her vanity, throwing the obvious rubbish into the wastebasket and cramming everything else, including the rubbish she wasn't sure she wanted to throw away, such as chipped buttons and empty tins of blush, into the overflowing drawers.

"Then Bertrand objected," continued Christine, "and they all started yelling, and completely forgot about my dress."

"What shall I do with this?" queried Erik, holding up a broken hairbrush that had quite evidently been stepped on.

"Throw it out," she said, pulling a disgusted face as she dumped a moldy remnant of pastry into the wastebasket. How could her dressing room have ever gotten so messy? It would take hours to clean up the mountain of junk and dirty clothes that had taken over her floor space.

Casting a despairing eye over the dresses strewn everywhere—all either costumes, patched, stained, or too small to fit—she wondered when she would be able to get new clothes for herself.

Erik moved to the table to place yet another plate atop the growing pile of trays, bowls, and cutlery from the kitchens, and the movement caught Christine's eye. She took a moment to study his attire, formal and unadorned, as usual. She would have to get him to procure some clothes for her of the same quality—their plainness notwithstanding, they were a much higher quality than her own. When she married Raoul she would have all kinds of gorgeous gowns in the latest fashion, with lace and pearls and all kinds of extravagant fineries, but for the moment, she needed something besides the patched dresses Mamma had made for her. It was ridiculous that the managers had not paid her yet; she had been a diva for a little over a month now. But the contract she had so stupidly signed (before either Raoul or Erik could examine it) stated that she would receive her salary upon the successful completion of the performance of _Idomeneo_ , and that she would receive only chorus wages until that time. According to Erik, the late date of payment was due to the combination of Christine's refusal to work on two operas at once, the possible return of Carlotta, lack of funds due to gross misspending by the managers, and Christine's proclivity to miss rehearsals—making her, apparently, in the managers' eyes, a potential liability when the opening performance came around.

It was absurd—but even she had to admit that she had missed a fair share of rehearsals, what with her alleged kidnapping, post-Ambassadeurs ailment, and numerous dinners with Raoul during practices. So she would just have to make do with plain clothing until she received her first paycheck. With that thought in mind, she resumed her examination of her instructor's attire.

Though the garments looked very good on him (as long as she didn't think about the mask), she couldn't appreciate them—they weren't expensive, they weren't ornate, and they weren't the latest fashion. Still, she couldn't picture him in anything ostentatious; it just wouldn't become him.

For a moment, as she observed him gathering up the hangers from the floor and placing them back in the closet, she was so struck by the elegance—a strange, plain elegance—of Erik's serviceable clothes that she wondered if they were not somehow equal to Raoul's glorious flamboyance.

Raoul's handsome face and golden raiment were absolutely divine, blinding in their brilliance, reminiscent of Baldr, god of beauty, of whom no mortal could look upon without being instantly blinded by his beauty. Every living creature in all the Nine Worlds loved him.

It seemed to Christine that Baldr had a brother. What was his name? She had never thought much about him, always preferring to hear about the more famous of the brothers. Hodur—yes, that was his name. Instead of the golden rays of the sun, Hodur's aura was soft and cool, like the faint light of the moon. His sightless eyes were pale and cold, seeming like the muted shadows of bluebells; they were gentle compared to the burning azure fires that made up Baldr's eyes. Hodur was rarely mentioned, even by her father, who had loved to tell her stories of the gods, but from what she could remember of him, he had been good and kind. She had always ignored Hodur; but now, in that fleeting moment of clarity, she thought that he was, in his own way, perhaps even more beautiful than his brother.

But that was ridiculous. She couldn't question the legends—and the legends said that Baldr was the most beautiful, and that the whole world cried when he was murdered. Who had cared when Hodur was killed? No one. That's what the legends said. If they said Baldr was the better one, she believed it.

"And Monsieur Bertrand gave in?" prompted Erik, bringing her back to the present.

"Well, no," she admitted, shoving her makeup tins, loose change, and dirty handkerchiefs into a drawer. "But the managers won that particular battle."

"I'm very proud of you," he said, and she smiled happily. If he was pleased with her, maybe he wouldn't make her help clean. "The managers decided to fire him," she added, hoping to distract him into tidying more of the room for her. "Of course, they couldn't go through with it."

"They should—he's talented, I'll give him that, but not enough to counterbalance his arrogance." He suddenly noticed what Christine was doing. "Christine, shoving clutter into a drawer does not constitute cleaning."

"But I'm just going to drag it all out again."

"Nevermind the makeup—it can stay on the vanity. But hand me those handkerchiefs so I can see to it they're washed." She opened the drawer to extracted the wad of dingy fabrics.

When he saw the drawer's contents, he shook his head in disbelief. "Just what is all this?"

"It's my collection."

"Collection of what, exactly?"

"Stuff I've found—you know, in the halls, under seats, that sort of thing. You wouldn't believe all the wonderful things I've found! Look at this," she said, pulling a handful of trinkets out of the drawer. "An army button! And here's a cuff link! It's a bit worn, and it's not even real gold, but it's still pretty.

"Oooh!" she squealed, holding up an earring for him to see. "This is the prize of my collection: a ruby earring!"

He examined the gold-set gem with a disapproving frown. "This is a garnet. But Christine—"

"What's the difference?"

"Garnets are not anywhere near as costly."

She scowled at the earring, feeling slightly betrayed. "Oh, rats."

"But it doesn't matter what it is—why haven't you taken it to the managers? The unfortunate lady will probably come looking for it."

"Well, if it's just a worthless garnet, what difference does it make?"

"It's not worthless, Christine, and it probably has sentimental value. It isn't right for you to keep it. You have to take it to the managers."

"It's two years too late," she informed him in a superior tone.

He continued to frown, and she set her face in a heartrending expression of loss and despondency. She had spent years perfecting that look, and now, so complete, with its wide, glistening eyes and trembling mouth, its power could not possibly fail her. "You wouldn't make me throw out these few little things, would you?" she asked, looking up into his eyes.

"They belong to other people," he said, but she could tell the look was already getting to him.

"But there's no way to get anything back to them now," she pleaded. "And most of it is absolutely worthless—just little trinkets that make me happy."

He sighed and handed her back the earring. She jumped up with a cry of joy and embraced him, then twirled around the room, looking so absolutely happy that he couldn't possibly change his mind. "Oh thank you!"

"Just promise me that you'll give anything more that you find to the managers."

"Oh, I promise!"

"Good."

She smiled radiantly at him and made for the door, hoping he was sufficiently distracted to allow her to escape the room before he remembered about the cleaning. "Well, I've got to get to practice, I'll see you later—"

"Christine, come back here. There isn't a rehearsal today—it's Sunday."

She took her hand off the knob with a feignedly self-conscious giggle. "Oh yes, of course, how silly of me. I meant that I was going home—"

"After you've finished cleaning up this mess."

"But it's the Sabbath! You can't force me to work on the Sabbath!"

"That's not going to work, Christine. You aren't even a Christian."

"You're mean!" she said loudly, pointing an accusing finger at him.

He didn't seem to take her declaration very seriously. "Yes, I'm very mean. Now, what I'm most concerned about is those trays." He shifted the mountain of clothing to one arm and gestured to the heap of trays, silverware, and food from last week's meals molding on the table. "They're attracting ants."

"It's more convenient to take them a week's worth at a time."

"I'm sure the kitchen staff do not appreciate scraping week-old food off their trays."

"It's not a big deal—it's not like they can have me fired or anything."

"Christine, it's a matter of consideration."

She arranged her face in a pout before stepping forward to take the trays. "Oh, fine then."

"Good. Before you go, tell me which of these to put in the wash." He offered her the mass of muslin.

"Goodness, how should I be able to remember? Just wash them all."

"Christine, that's—"

"Alright, I know, I know, extra work for the washwoman. I'll figure it out when I get back." She dumped the food and silverware onto the first tray and stacked the rest of the trays beneath it. She had started for the door when Erik said,

"As a matter of interest, La Madeleine is celebrating its fortieth anniversary as a church today. Madame Giry has informed me that they've purchased several carts filled with fireworks for the occasion."

"La Madeleine? That temple a few blocks away?"

"Yes."

"You mean it hasn't always been a church?" she asked, trying to balance the hefty pile of pewter as the bowls, poorly stacked on top of the molding food, threatened to slide off the tray.

Erik set the clothing down and took the stack from her. Within moments he had rearranged the tray's contents in a stable fashion. "Napoleon had it built during his reign as a 'Temple of Glory.' Years after his second exile it was converted to a church."

"How nice." Christine hadn't even known that Napoleon was exiled a first time, let alone a second. How strange. Why had he been exiled, since the French people loved him so much even now, decades after the end of his rule? But it had all happened so long ago, she supposed it didn't matter. "Isn't it kind of stupid to have a celebration for some old building?"

"Well, this year is also the sixtieth anniversary of Napoleon's death."

"That's great. Fireworks, is that what you said?"

"Yes—and since it's so close, the celebration will be easily visible from the roof."

"Marvelous, fireworks!" She started for the door, thrilled with the idea of free entertainment and heavenly bursts of colored light.

"Christine, wait."

"What for? Let's go watch the fireworks!"

"But it's three o'clock."

"So what?"

"They won't start the fireworks until nightfall. There's no need to go up to the roof yet."

"Oh," she stammered, blushing. How incredibly stupid of her. "Yes. I knew that. I was just going to—uh—return these dishes!" She grabbed the trays out of his hands.

She met but a few people in the halls on her way to the kitchens. It made sense, she supposed; all the Christians took Sundays off. She didn't really understand it—the majority of the rats, stagehands, and other unimportant persons did not attend church; why would the managers give them the day off for worship if they weren't going to use it? On the other hand, she had no desire to attend church either. When she had first been hired at the Opera Garnier, she had obediently gone with Mamma to Mass, Communion, and all the rest of it, but after a while she had point-blank refused. They never said anything about the Angel of Music there and had even gone so far as to deny his existence—not that she was even sure of it herself anymore. In any event, it was a waste of time to attend the services of a religion she didn't believe in, and even when she had used the time to pray to the true gods, she could always think of better things she could be doing. She could pray to the gods any time.

There was a lone worker in the kitchen preparing supper for the boarding rats; he scowled when he saw the extra work she had brought for him. She ignored him and flounced away, filled with the ecstasy that came with absolute power. She could do whatever she wanted, and none of her fellow workers, now so below her divine status, could say anything! She could use as much gas as she wanted for the lamps in her dressing room; she could order outrageous meals; she could demand gifts from the managers (well, she was still working on that one); she could—

"Christine!"

"Hello," she said cheerily, suddenly noticing Raoul coming down the corridor. He looked particularly dashing as he strode towards her, wearing a double-breasted overcoat and top hat, and carrying his gloves in the same hand as his cane. She hadn't seen this particular cane before—a black wood with a mother-of-pearl cap. It was simply beautiful!

He bowed and kissed her hand. "My fetching faerie, how are you on this lovely day?"

"Simply marvelous! I can't wait for the fireworks!"

"Fireworks...?" Suddenly he scowled. It did nothing to diminish his radiance—the way his eyes, so light, so beautiful, glittered like ice in the gaslight; the way his hair, so immaculately styled in the latest of fashions, shone like beaten gold.... "Oh yes," he said, sounding slightly annoyed, "that's what Veronique was going on about this morning—some anniversary of Napoleonic something-or-other. It seems the peasantry of Paris will use anything as an excuse for a party."

"Yes, it's the anniversary of the— _who is she?_ " she demanded suddenly, willing herself not to be suspicious. She didn't think she could stand to feel jealousy ever again. "Oh, wait," she said, a wave of relief washing over her, "she's your brother's fiancée. Nevermind." She was slightly embarrassed now. "Are you going to watch the fireworks?"

"I'm afraid I have no choice in the matter. Veronique wishes to go—the historical significance, or something like that—and so I must as well."

"Why?"

"Because...well...my brother is so uncomfortable around other people, you know, so even with his fiancée there, he still made me promise to come with."

"What a wonderful brother you are!"

"Yes, I suppose."

They talked for a few minutes more before Raoul bid her goodbye and continued down to the managers' office (apparently to reprimand them for over-selling tickets to the first four performances). Christine skipped back to her dressing room, in good spirits on account of the fireworks and the fact that she could just relax for the rest of the day.

She was sadly disappointed, therefore, when upon her return she learned that had Erik unearthed her _Idomeneo_ script from where it had been languishing under a pile of costumes in a corner. Handing it to her, he lectured sternly, "If you're going to prove that you'd make a better diva than Carlotta, you need to know your lines."

Christine folded her arms, intending to look daunting and superior so he wouldn't address her like a procrastinating pupil. However, judging from the amused flicker in his eyes, the effect she achieved was closer to that of a pouting child. "But I have the most wonderful mentor in the world to teach me," she said, smiling flirtatiously. "I shouldn't have to memorize lines."

His amusement was replaced by a more serious look. "Christine, no amount of talent can make up for a lack of dedication."

She scowled. "Fine, fine," she groaned, eyeing the script with loathing. Raoul wouldn't lecture her like this. He'd accept her decision without question. _Then why does he order dinner for you when you go out, instead of letting you decide?_ murmured the voice in the back of her mind. Her scowl worsened as she pushed this thought away. Raoul was helping her. _But so is Erik,_ the voice pressed, _and over something much more important._

Christine, unable to decide which side was right, decided that she didn't have to come to a decision at that exact moment and dismissed it with a sigh of relief. She took the script Erik was offering her, and, in an attempt to avoid cleaning, sat down to memorize her lines.

Christine shivered as she reached the top of the stairway, pulling her shawl tighter about her shoulders. The late-November air was crisp and cool, and the icy breeze, full of swirling leaves from the gardens of the Champs Élysées, where Raoul lived, easily pierced the shawl's thin wool. The sky was clear, without a single wisp of cloud to mar its pristine depths. The stars were just starting to appear, seeming like luminous diamonds against the Prussian blue of the firmament.

Slowly she walked out onto the roof, wondering if Erik was already there. She couldn't see him; the only figures visible were the angels of gold and marble, forever watching over the great city with loving eyes. Fortunately there was no snow—the last thing Christine wanted was to spend a night freezing on a rooftop.

She sat down on the stone base of a statue, thinking mildly. It was too bad she couldn't watch the fireworks with Raoul. He would have taken her to the Madeleine and made sure she had the best view in the whole city. He would have treated her to dinner and purchased more fireworks if they ran out too soon. But the evening would still be enjoyable. It wasn't that she minded being around Erik. He was wonderful to her—he had saved her life twice, he was a marvelous teacher and he catered to her every whim. He met almost all of the requirements on the list she had written up for the perfect man qualifying under devotion, subservience, strength and connections. Except where money and looks were concerned, he was a rather wonderful man.

She heard footsteps, and she looked up to see Erik. "Good evening, Christine."

She smiled brightly. "When will the fireworks start?"

"Soon," he replied, walking out onto the roof. "But I'm afraid you won't see much from where you're sitting."

Christine frowned and looked about her. "Why not?"

"Because the Madeleine is over there," he informed her kindly, gesturing to a part of the city obscured by a protruding section of roof near where Christine was sitting.

"I knew that," she protested, though she knew it was pointless to lie.

His smile was affectionate. "Of course. Where shall we sit?"

She thought for a moment, scanning the rooftop for a good vantage point. "Can we sit up there?" The place she was pointing to was a higher echelon of the roof. There did not seem to be an easy way up, but it seemed to Christine that it would provide the best view.

As Erik helped her up to the lofty place she'd chosen, a cold wind reduced Christine to prolonged spasms of shivers. It had been a mistake not to wear warmer clothes.

"Do you want me to fetch your coat?" he asked her.

About to refuse, Christine sat down on the roof and immediately felt its freezing touch through her thin dress. But it would be unfair of her to send him on an errand, just when the fireworks were about to start. "No, that's fine," she said, teeth chattering in contradiction to her words.

Wordlessly Erik removed his jacket and draped it over Christine's shoulders. She started to thank him, but a burst of scarlet light cut her off.

"It's beautiful!" she cried, clapping her hands together in childish joy at the explosion of fireworks. The entire sky had been lit by that first red blaze, followed by silver waves of sparks that melted away into the darkness. Even the lights of the city, usually so bright, appeared weak and diminutive compared to the opening blast of the Madeleine's celebration. After a few seconds of serene darkness, the sky exploded into an infinity of colors. Christine forgot all about the cold, completely entranced by the erratic flashes of electric blue and emerald green that illuminated the blackness. An audible cheer went up from the crowds gathered near the Madeleine, who had momentarily stopped their celebration in awe of the spectacle.

Christine gasped as a blinding flash of light gave way to a shower of golden sparks. "How is such beauty possible?" she gushed. Erik seemed content to sit in silence, so she continued, "My father told me that they were fallen stars that had been caught before they touched the ground, so they wouldn't die. Their light would be put in bottles and thrown into the sky, so the star could return to the heavens. The jar would explode, and the star would escape—but it would give us a beautiful flash of colored light, to thank us for saving its life. But..." She paused sadly, about to give voice to a terrible blasphemy: "But that's not true, is it?"

Erik shook his head. "I'm afraid not."

"What are they really?" She wasn't certain she wanted to know—it would be much easier to keep her father's story intact; it was horribly painful to admit, even to herself, that he had been wrong, even about something small like this.

"If I recall correctly," Erik said thoughtfully, rubbing his chin, "saltpeter, sulfur, and charcoal are ground together into a powder, to which various metal shavings are added to produce colors—strontium for red, copper for blue... I can't recall the metals. A ball of slow-burning powder is used to..."

She listened intently, trying to force herself to accept the truth; it was difficult, because she understood little of what he was saying.

"...the powder is made to burn, but not to explode," Erik continued, seeming to warm to his subject. "When it's lighted, it burns slowly, you see, giving the firework time to shoot up into the sky before the fire reaches the inflammant—"

"Please," she interrupted, unable to keep herself silent. "What does all that mean?"

"Well, put simply, you take a paper tube and fill it with saltpeter—"

"What's that?"

He thought for a moment, searching for a simple explanation. "Gunpowder, basically. Then you add metal shavings to produce the colors."

"How?"

He opened his mouth to tell her, and she said hastily, "No, wait, nevermind. I'm really not _that_ interested."

Christine thought for a long while, too busy digesting this revelation to appreciate the sublime display lighting the sky. She didn't really want to contemplate it—the last thing on earth she wanted to do was discover anything incorrect in her father's wonderful stories.

She slid closer to Erik, realizing that his body was much warmer than hers was. Erik noticed that she was shivering, and he hesitantly wrapped an arm around her shoulders. He still loved her passionately, which made her feel a little awkward, but he was too much of a gentleman to try anything, so she welcomed the buffer against the icy winds. As her shoulders and arms grew warmer, so did her disposition.

A dozen fuchsia orbs burst in the night sky simultaneously, forming a vast crown above the roof of the Madeleine. As their vibrant rays grew longer, they turned a dazzling silver and fell to the earth. The effect was so beautiful that for a few moments Christine decided it was even better than Les Ambassadeurs.

# Chapitre Vingt-Deux: La Beauté Importe Plus

Christine stared desperately at her script, futilely trying to ignore all the clamor on the stage and concentrate on her lines. She wished miserably that she had a music stand so she could have her hands free to plug her ears—she simply couldn't block out all the crashes, the swearing, the laughter, and shouting that constituted the stagehands' contribution to the rehearsal. The managers had decided (at the last minute, as usual) to start the third act today, and they had pushed up the date of the performance again as their need for performance profits grew more intense. Christine was the only person who was pleased by this decision, because, having yet to memorize her lines for the last half of the second act, she was the only one who stood to gain today as they shoved all the sets, costumes, and music for the second act out of the way in favor of the final act. She would be on equal footing with the rest of the actors again.

Hers was the very first aria of the third act, and she was trying to read over the translations Erik had written above each line. His elegant writing was fairly legible, but he had been forced to write so minutely in order to fit both the translation and pronunciation above each line that she could barely make it out. He had procured her a better script with these necessary items printed in accompaniment with each line, but she had (to her unending embarrassment) lost it three days after he had given it to her. She couldn't bring herself to tell him, so she had resigned herself to the headaches she got from staring at the tiny ink script in between the lines.

" _Solitude-ini amee-chay_ ," she muttered, closing her eyes and trying to imprint the syllables into her memory. It was part of a small paragraph she was just supposed to say before she began the aria; spoken words were nice because she didn't have to try to remember the stupid words _and_ the notes at once. " _Solitude-ini amee-chay, our-ay amor-oh-say, piahn-tay fee-or_ —what is that? _Fee-or...ih-tay_." It wasn't even a third of the first sentence, but no matter how many times she tried, she couldn't manage to remember it without looking. Erik was spending countless hours trying to teach her Italian pronunciation—he had a sublime and endless patience which she did not deserve—but this was just too hard! " _Solitude-ini amee-say our-hey amor—amor_ —blast it!" she snapped, throwing the script to the floor. "Stupid, stupid Italian!"

"You shouldn't say that," chided Raoul. She whirled to face him, face coloring a horrible shade of scarlet when she realized that he had just witnessed her childish tantrum. Gods—was her hair okay? Was her makeup still perfect? He shouldn't be allowed to appear without giving her forewarning!

"Italian is a beautiful language," he continued, oblivious to her panic. "Far beneath French, of course, but still quite distinguished."

"Oh, yes, of course—I love Italian," she said hurriedly. "I'm just not very good at it."

"That's because you've never had the proper instruction, my pet. Let me teach you."

He retrieved her script from the floor, brushing the sawdust off from it (imagine the nerve of the stagehands, so lazy that they couldn't even move the sets off the stage to work on them). "You were working on this line, correct?"

"Yes."

"Good. Listen carefully: 'Solitudini amiche, aure amorose, piante fiorite, e fiori vaghi, udite d'una infelice amante i lamenti, che a voi lassa confido.' Now you repeat it back to me."

She stared dumbly at his mouth, which had just uttered the string of gibberish so quickly that she hadn't even caught a single syllable. "Can you say it again?"

He repeated it, but still too quickly. When she pleaded with him to slow it down, he sighed and pointed to the first two words. "Let's just do these. Now listen: _solitude-ini amee-chay_. You say it."

"Solitude-eenie amee—amee-chee."

"No, no, _amee-chay_."

" _Amee...chay_ ," she said slowly.

"Good. Now put it with the first word."

"Solitude-eenie amee-say."

"No," he groaned, shaking his head in exasperation. She blushed and hung her head, wishing miserably that she were smarter. "Look, Christine," he said, "nevermind about this. I'm sure you'll get it before the performances."

"Oh—all right!" she said, more than happy to quit. Then she remembered that she had wanted to ask him about Mamma. "Have you talked to the managers about hiring Mamma yet?"

"Well, as a matter of fact, I've been most terribly busy. But don't worry, I'll talk to them when I see them tomorrow. I came to ask you to accompany me to dinner tonight."

She clapped her hands together, barely able to keep herself from bouncing with joy; bouncing wasn't becoming of a lady, and she wanted to be a perfect vicomtess. "Okay!"

"I'll pick you up in a half hour."

She opened her mouth, but he cut her off: "I know rehearsal doesn't end until ten o'clock, but I can't possibly wait that long. I'll pick you up at seven, and if anyone objects, they'll be looking for employment elsewhere."

"But a half hour—that isn't enough time for me to—"

"Now now, my little nymph," he chided, with the air of a humoring parent, "I refuse to hear any protests. I'll see you at seven."

She bit her lip as he strode off, her mind suddenly awhirl with all that she had to do to prepare. She couldn't make herself perfect if given half a day—what could she possibly do in half an hour?

Christine yelped as the hairbrush snagged a particularly ugly snarl. With an agitated cry she tried furiously to rip it out, but it was inextricably ensnared. "Damn it—to—Niflheim," she cursed, hopping around on the one shoe she had managed to put on and trying to untangle her hair and avoid all the shards of glass on the floor at the same time. Things couldn't possibly be going any worse. As if it weren't bad enough that she'd lost the costume earrings she'd been planning to wear, dropped the glass bottle of perfume she'd appropriated from Carlotta (she was practically gagging from the power of the scent, and she'd already cut her foot in two places), _and_ her hair was an absolute disaster, she couldn't find a costume that was half-decent, in her size, and that she hadn't worn on an evening with Raoul already. And she couldn't pick out shoes until she'd chosen a costume. Thinking about shoes, she realized sickly that she wouldn't be able to jam her bandaged foot into anything her size. She had been on several romantic excursions with Raoul that had been absolutely wonderful; why was this one going so badly?

She glanced at the clock on the wall by the door and gasped. But surely that clock was wrong—it had been broken since she had moved into the dressing room.

Then she remembered that Erik had fixed it a few weeks ago, and she moaned in horror: she only had seventeen minutes! Oh gods, what could she do?

The brush dangling from her head, she hopped over to the mirror, shoved it out of the way, and rushed down the stairs as quickly as she could on one foot. The brush ripped out hair with every bounce, but she needed both her hands to steady herself down the stone staircase. She almost slipped at one point and had to grab a torchbracket to keep herself upright. Finally she made it to the bottom of the stairs and pulled the secret lever that allowed her to bypass the underground lake.

It had seemed like such a dark, endless journey when she had accompanied the Angel down to a mysterious cavern, but now, though her throbbing foot emphasized every step, it felt as if Erik was just a few steps away.

She threw open the secret door and looked wildly about before spotting him near the piano. "Erik!" she cried, hopping over to him. "Erik, I need your help!"

He was instantly by her side and helping her into a chair. "What's the matter? Is there another piece of glass in your foot?"

"No, my foot's fine now thanks to you, and I'm sorry to bother you again, but I can't get this blasted brush out of my hair!"

He couldn't completely suppress a smile as he set to freeing the brush from the snarl. She yelped a few times, anticipating the tugs of pain, but his fingers were so deft and so gentle that she couldn't feel anything but pleasant caresses along her tangled locks.

"How long is this going to take?" she asked, fidgeting in her seat. "I'm kind of in a hurry and—"

"Here you are," he said simply, handing her the traitorous brush.

"Stupid brush," she snapped at it, jumping to her feet. "Ow!" she cried as her injured foot hit the floor. "Stupid foot!"

She started for the doorway at a sort of hop-skip that allowed her to move faster. "Thanks, Erik!"

"Do you want me to carry you back to your dressing room?" he asked concernedly.

"No, that's—ow!—that's fine, I'll be okay," she called back to him as she hopped past the tapestry.

She made it back up to the surface as quickly as possible, ignoring the pangs in her foot in favor of speed. "Oh, gods!" she exclaimed as the clock came into view. She only had four minutes!

She threw off her hideous peasant dress (wincing as she heard the seams rip in her haste) and reached for the best costume she had been able to find. Then she remembered that she needed to tighten her corset if she was going out with Raoul, and she hurriedly set to undoing the knot. Her fingers fumbled over the little ball of cord, unable to unravel it as her mind raced through everything she still had to do: put on the dress, find some larger shoes and some earrings, apply her makeup, fix her hair, locate her gloves—

She was practically in tears by the end of the list. She wrestled wildly with the cords, but only succeeded in tightening the knot. Hel curse it all, if she only had a decent corset this wouldn't happen! Oh gods, Raoul would take one look at her—hair tangled, dress rumpled, makeup-less, ugly, unadorned and fat—and turn away in disgust!

She looked at the clock again—two minutes.

Christine fell to the floor and started weeping. She was a failure, a hideous stupid failure, and Raoul would hate her when he saw her. She would lose all the jewelry and silks and noble titles and everything else worth living for.

She sobbed into the cheap imitation rug, her knees aching from the fall against the unforgiving floorboards. She was nothing, she was nothing, she was nothing—

Then, out of nowhere, a figure in black knelt in front of her, and two familiar hands gently pulled hers away from her face. "Christine, why are you crying?" asked Erik softly.

"I-it's nothing," she managed, her voice made thick and ugly by all the congestion her tears had brought.

He handed her a handkerchief, and she blew her nose, feeling ashamedly like a child.

As he procured another handkerchief from his shirt pocket and began drying her eyes, she blurted out all the terrible troubles of the past half-hour, unable to meet his concerned gaze because she knew how ridiculous her problems would seem to a man. She wanted to stop herself, but she couldn't keep from pouring out all her frustrations to him. She managed not to mention Raoul, but, in her distraught and muddle-headed state, she couldn't keep from telling him everything else.

When she had finished, she continued to stare at the floor, certain that he would start to laugh, or perhaps chide her about the triviality of her troubles. Instead, he wiped a fresh tear off her cheek and said quietly, "I'm sorry, Christine—I wish I had known you were suffering under so much pressure this evening. I could have helped you."

"You did help me," she sniffled. "A lot."

"What else can I do, then?"

"I—I can't find the earrings I was going to wear—they're big and silver with little fake diamonds. I set them on the vanity and now I can't find them."

He stood and began searching through the clutter on the vanity. She hung her head, certain that he would reprove her untidiness, especially after he had spent so much time cleaning her dressing room, but he said nothing about it. "Who is it you're meeting tonight?" he asked, dropping a half-eaten slab of molding cheese into the wastebasket.

She stared at him stupidly, panic racing in her mind like a whirlwind and scrambling up all the excuses she had so carefully planned. "Uh—well—" She suddenly remembered the story she had settled on: "The Comte de Chagny—Phillip, or whatever his name is. He loves operas, especially _Idomeneo_ , and he's interested in how I plan to play Princess Ilia." It was a good lie; Raoul had told her of his brother's avid interest in the arts a few weeks ago—if Erik knew anything about the comte's character, it would corroborate her story.

Erik looked rather surprised. "He's only been to the Garnier a handful of times in the years I've been here," he commented, as he continued to search. "I'm glad to hear that he's interested in his patronage. But my point was that the comte wishes to speak to _you_ —not the lavish costume and jewelry you'll be wearing. I'm sure he'll be just as pleased to converse with you in your usual, practical attire."

"I only own ugly clothes. I can't go out in public—amongst the nobility of Paris!—in any of that!"

He was about to speak, but she interrupted: "Nevermind the earrings—I'll have to wear something else. Gods, I'm so late!" She rushed to the vanity and began hastily lining her eyes with a black pencil.

Erik gently grasped her wrist, stopping her before she could pick up a tin of eye shadow. "Christine, you don't need any of this. It's character and kindness that constitute beauty, not blush and lipstick." He smiled, a kind of grave, fond smile, and said hesitantly, "You're more beautiful than any woman I've ever seen, even without elaborate makeup and costumes and filigree."

She stared up into his eyes, so touched that she was afraid she might start crying again.

He was right, she realized; Raoul loved her, and therefore he loved her for her own beauty, even unenhanced by all the splendorous wealth that made her more beautiful than a goddess. She didn't want to face the aristocracy without this sublime beauty, but all that truly mattered was that Raoul loved her.

As she basked in the warmth and happiness of this revelation—that she was beautiful even without it all—she continued to stare into Erik's face, so kind, so devoted—

She realized suddenly that she was standing there in front of him wearing only a chemise and underskirt. "Oh gods!" she exclaimed, snatching the costume off the chair and covering herself. "Get out, get out, get out! I mean, thank you so much for everything you've done and I feel so much better because of what you just said but get out while I dress!"

He apologized (in a rather embarrassed fashion) and started for the mirror, but she said hurriedly, "Come back after I'm dressed and help me stuff all these bandages into my shoe!"

As she raced to throw on the gown and run the brush through her hair a few times, she felt a great weight lifted from her shoulders; since Raoul had come back into her life, she had been sweating under the constant, unrelenting pressure to look absolutely perfect and richly adorned every moment of the day, for fear that she would run into him unprepared. Erik was so wonderful—when he came back she would have to thank him again.

She felt the tiniest bit of guilt over lying to him—she'd never even seen Raoul's brother—but what else could she do? She couldn't jeopardize her marriage or her divahood.

Christine smoothed the front of her gown as she waited in front just inside the Garnier's doors; it was far too cold to wait outside. This year's harsh winter was highly unusual—it usually only snowed around a dozen days per year in Paris, according to Erik, but it had already snowed on eight days, and it was only late November. It almost never reached the freezing point throughout the winter, either (again, according to Erik, whose vast and varied knowledge never failed to astonish her); but November had been so cold that she feared every day of December would be plagued by freezing temperatures.

As she stared through the glass out at the few, isolated flakes drifting down from Asgard, she recalled to mind one of her father's stories that had so frightened her that she hadn't slept for a week after he had told it to her for the first time: just before Ragnarok, the end of the world, three winters would ravage the nine worlds in succession, without intervening summers—first the Winter of Winds, then the Winter of Wolves, and then the Winter of Swords, together called by the Norse peasantry, in low, fearful voices, "Fimbulwinter".... Then the great Wolf would rise up and swallow the Sun, and Ragnarok would begin. She shuddered as she thought about the death of the gods and the destruction of the nine worlds and every being upon them. A few gods would survive and reign over the new world of peace that would be born out of the ashes, but that did not comfort her. As she shivered and stared out at the threatening snow, she murmured the words that had been passed down from age to age in the north:

Brothers shall strive and slaughter each other...

An axe-age, a sword-age, shields shall be cloven;

A wind-age, a wolf-age...ere the world totters.

She shuddered and tried to force it out of her mind. It was all so frightening, and it might not be true anyway.

She glanced over her shoulder as she thought it, nervous and unsure about the gods.

Suddenly the door she was behind opened to reveal Raoul, a few solitary snowflakes clinging tentatively to his top hat. "Oh, Raoul, you're here," she said happily, glad to put all thought of Fimbulwinter out of her mind.

"Yes, my sweet, but why aren't you ready?" he asked, looking rather perplexed.

"But I am ready."

"Don't be absurd! You haven't any makeup on—no jewelry—nothing—and your hair isn't even combed!"

"I did the best with the time you gave me," she said, rather annoyed. "Besides, you should love me no matter what I'm wearing."

He stifled a laugh. "Christine, my alluring ingénue, don't be ridiculous! I know you're impoverished, so I could excuse the lack of jewels, but surely you could make enough of an effort on my behalf to put on a little makeup! I have to live with these aristocrats, you know—I can't allow them to think poorly of me!"

She stared, dumbstruck, her mouth opening and closing frantically in a mute attempt to form a response. "How—how—how can you say that? I thought you loved me!"

"I do! But for God's sake, I want you to look decent!"

She hung her head as the tears began to trickle down her cheeks, hot with agony and humiliation. How could she have been so stupid?

"Look, Christine," he said, his voice once again gentlemanly and calm, "you're obviously not feeling well tonight. Perhaps you should just go home. I can take you out tomorrow night."

Erik closed his eyes and allowed his fingers to dance across the keys of their own accord while he enjoyed the soft, sad melody of Beethoven's Sonata No. 8. It rose and fell in beautiful, sorrowful swells, moving his heart as it always did; though with Christine to live for, he no longer identified with the sonata's despair as he once had.

As his hands played on, he let his mind dwell on her. The lambent candlelight shone through his eyelids, and in that warm, soft gold, he could see her face even with his eyes closed. The roaring fire of shame and worthlessness that had raged in his heart since his birth was barely a flicker now, just like that candlelight, soft and distant, warm rather than burning. He could still recall it to mind if he tried, but every time Christine thanked him, or smiled, or laughed, the rage and the pain lessened and grew ever more distant under the cooling rain of her companionship. The love he felt—the yearning, the adoration, the impossible desire to hold her close, to touch those beautiful lips, to kneel at her feet and beg her never to leave—had only strengthened with time, but it wasn't the fiery, desperate passion that _Don Juan Triumphant_ had embodied; in fact, he was so embarrassed by the fire and lust of his opera—once the sole work that had kept him alive in the dank, cold Hell of the caverns—that he had gathered together all the pages and buried them under the books on the bottom shelf of an obscure bookcase in the corner.

He had never really held any hope that she could come to love him in return; it still took his breath away to think that she had let him remain as her instructor after she had come face to face with his hideousness. But, much as it hurt to dwell on his disfigurement, the un-crossable chasm that would always keep them apart, having even just Christine's friendship made him feel alive and filled him with a happiness he had never dreamed he would experience. Even if he never got to hold her, to kiss her and swear his undying devotion, and to hear her whisper that she loved him, it made him so gloriously happy just to be at her side that the dim, wistful hope for her love—however distant and impossible—did not rage in his chest with writhing, piercing agony as it had when he had been forced to speak to her through the mirror in the guise of an angel.

He sighed as his fingers continued to play, feeling winds of love and despair whirl wistfully around him, both warm and cool at once, and he tried to empty his mind of it all.

"Erik?"

The music stopped abruptly as he was jarred out of his thoughts. He looked up to see Christine standing in front of the piano. She looked tired and despondent, though she smiled—albeit rather cheerlessly—when their eyes met.

"Good morning," he said, quite surprised that she was at the Garnier so early.

"Good morning," she said glumly, seating herself in a chair.

"How did your discussion with the comte fare?"

"I didn't go."

"Why not?"

"He—cancelled."

"I'm sorry."

She ran a finger along the carvings in the chair's arm, giving a rather bland shrug. "I was wondering if you'd play something for me."

"What did you have in mind?"

"Not something from the opera. Something light and happy. You play so beautifully and I only get to hear it when we're practicing, so I don't get to appreciate it."

"Very well," he said, rather puzzled, though touched that she enjoyed his music. After a moment of consideration, began to play Handel's "Music for the Royal Fireworks."

After every piece she begged him to play another, and then she asked him to sing, until the early morning had gone by and he finally had to insist that she attend rehearsal. She stood without protest and he walked with her back to her dressing room, observing that she seemed no longer sad, but thoughtful and filled with awe at the beauty of his music.

When they reached the mirror, she thanked him earnestly and set to applying twice the amount of makeup she usually used. When he asked her about it, she looked at him sadly and refused to answer. He stayed in the mirror's frame long after she had departed, pondering her actions and wondering if she was all right.

# Chapitre Vingt-Trois: Le Anniversaire Triste

The days seemed to fly by so quickly that Christine felt she couldn't grasp a single moment between her fingers; each night she fell asleep wondering what had happened to the past twenty-four hours. Before she knew it, several days had gone by since the celebration of the Madeleine—and as beautiful and glorious as the fireworks had been, the moment had been so ephemeral that she could barely remember it now.

What she did remember was the warmth of Erik's arm around her and how wonderful it felt to have someone so strong, so devoted, sitting next to her. She enjoyed the time she spent with him; he was a mentor, a protector, a servant, and a friend. The longer she knew him, gaining pieces of his vast knowledge, being influenced by his calming nature, the more she appreciated his presence. She knew she wasn't outrageously smart (as much as she hated to admit it, even to herself), and she became flustered so easily over every little decision that she hated to have to make any by herself; but Erik's presence—his strength, his love, his support—always calmed her, and his unconditional love made her less afraid of saying or doing stupid things, because she knew that he would never ridicule her. In a moment of introspection she realized that, though she worshipped Raoul, she couldn't relax or be herself around him for fear of embarrassing herself.

She couldn't love Erik in return—he didn't have much money or even a house, and they wouldn't even be able to go out to dinner without attracting horrible stares—and she felt a little guilty about it, but he was still the greatest friend anyone could ask for.

By the time she came to realize all this about Erik, she had been avoiding the Garnier chapel for almost two weeks. She felt so guilty over her selfish abandonment of her father's dream that she had thrown herself into the rehearsals, working from dawn until dusk to memorize lines and choreography; but though the exhausting work kept her from thinking about her father for the majority of the day, it did nothing to assuage her guilt or solve her problem. She loved music, certainly, but she had the chance of a lifetime before her—and to throw away the title of vicomtess for a dream that wasn't even her own.... It seemed like foolishness to her now—though the disrespect of the thought made her cringe whenever she thought about it.

Still, with the anniversary of her father's death drawing near, she couldn't keep neglecting him. So she took Erik with her to the chapel, uncertain of just why she thought it would help. But he always managed to come up with a brilliant and logical solution whenever she came to him with a problem—like how much time to spend practicing or what dress to wear—and he didn't treat her problems as trifling, like most other people did. And if worst came to worst, he could argue her case for her; surely her father would listen to Erik—he was a marvelous and very persuasive speaker.

As she lit the numerous candles surrounding the altar, she managed to occupy herself in rearranging them so she didn't have to look into her father's eyes, though the daguerreotype stared at her with an inscrutable expression. "I'm sorry to take you away from your composing," she said to Erik, trying to fill the accusing silence.

"You don't need to be sorry, Christine—I'm very happy to help you."

She smiled at him and hesitantly turned her eyes back to her father's memorial. She opened her mouth to speak, but the speech she had prepared fled her mind as she looked at her father's face.

She panicked and whirled away from the portrait. Oh gods, what was she going to do? How could she explain to her father what her decision was if she didn't even know herself?

To cover up her panic, she hurriedly spoke to Erik—it didn't matter what she said as long as it kept her from facing her father. "I don't think I've ever told you just how much I appreciate all the trouble you go to, teaching me and all," she said, her nervousness making her speak very quickly. "Thank you."

"...You're welcome," he said warmly. Though he hid it well, she knew he was puzzled over the whole odd scene. While she was waiting for the first line of her speech to come to mind, she could explain the situation to him—he had no idea about her inner turmoil.

"You know all about my father's promise and the Angel of Music and everything," she prattled, wiping her sweaty palms on her dress, "but I've never told you just how unhappy it's made me."

Erik's expressions were subtle, and though there was no palpable change in his features, she could see the happiness drain from his face. "Christine, I'm so sorry I—"

"No no, it's not you—you're much, much more wonderful than any angel ever could be—you're so smart and nice and strong and—well anyway, that wasn't what I was saying," she said, talking even faster as a faint blush threatened her cheeks. "It's just that my whole life I've been trying to live up to my father's dream but I don't want to waste my life on something I don't want."

His expression was still inscrutable, but she saw that her words troubled him. "You don't want to be a diva?"

"Well I do—I want to prove to everyone that I'm not worthless—and the music is so beautiful—and I want the fame and the pretty costumes and the applause—and everything—but it's just—" She twisted her hair between her fingers, biting her lip and cursing herself for not knowing how to say any of it.

"It's all right, Christine—just tell me what you're feeling."

She tried to smile at him—his patience, his unconditional acceptance meant so much to her—but she couldn't make a smile come to her lips. "I don't know how to say it," she said woefully, seating herself on the altar steps and staring at the floor.

Erik came to sit next to her.

"Just talk to me," he pleaded, and she could hear concern in his low, beautiful voice, so soothing that she almost felt better.

He waited patiently for her to form the words, and for a long moment they sat in silence.

Finally, she spoke. "I don't want to spend my life following someone else's dream. But I don't want to disappoint Father and I really don't want to disappoint you, not after all the work you've put into my divahood!"

"Christine, don't waste your life because of that!"

She looked up at him. "You—you won't be angry if I don't want to be a diva?"

"Of course not—I'll help you with anything you want to do."

She was so touched that felt the slightest tickle of tears behind her eyes; but as she reached for the picture, still feeling the weight of her guilt and indecision, she said, "But Father..."

"Your father wouldn't want you to follow his dream if it condemned you to unhappiness," said Erik, his voice soft but adamant.

With his words she felt a great weight lifted from her aching shoulders, and when she glanced at the daguerreotype again, her father's eyes were warm and smiling.

She laid her hand on Erik's arm in gratitude, thinking to herself just how fortunate she was to have him around. She wasn't sure now if she wanted to be a diva or not; she loved to sing so much, and though she tried to get out of practice a lot, she really did enjoy Erik's instruction. The prospect of divahood seemed much lighter, more rewarding now that so much of the pressure was gone.

They sat again in silence. After a while she began to contemplate another terrible conflict—that of religion. But she kept it at a distance. So much had been resolved this afternoon; she could think about her uncertainty about the gods some other day.

Before she knew it, it was November thirtieth—and with the anniversary of her father's death the following day, she still hadn't made any preparations to visit his grave. At first she shrugged it off, thinking it would be the same as every year; she would have to secure Madame Giry's permission to miss practice, and then she would catch a ride with someone headed out towards Perros, where her father was buried (it was sixty miles outside of Paris—an inconvenience that had never bothered her until now). However, unlike her previous trips, there were two very important differences this year: firstly, since she was now a diva of the opera house, she would have much more trouble getting out of practice than usual. Surely the managers wouldn't deny her something so important, especially since her presence was saving them from having to deal with Carlotta—but just the same, she hoped that Madame Giry would speak to the new managers on her behalf. When Christine ever tried to talk to Richard and Moncharmin, they just smiled and politely told her that if she would supply the talent, _they_ would make the decisions. They'd have to take Madame Giry more seriously.

The second problem was significantly more pressing—would she ask Erik to go with her? She had never even considered allowing anyone to accompany her in her yearly mourning; it was just too personal. Even Raoul, her soon-to-be husband, wouldn't be able to understand the terrible grief that she felt. He would probably try to turn the event into a romantic excursion (to cheer her up, of course), which was terribly wonderful and dashing, but not what she wanted for this trip. Erik, on the other hand, would understand her need for solemnity and would not try to use the event to further his own standing in her eyes. It was a harsh realization, this striking difference between the two men, but she could not deny its truthfulness.

It had startled her to realize that Erik's companionship on this journey would strengthen her. She had come to depend on him for so much in her life—and she suddenly could not bear the thought of weeping over her father's grave without his shoulder to cry on. She wasn't sure what she thought of the fact that she was not the same mourning, solitary person she had been when she had first come to the opera house. The ubiquitous well of grief that had always been choked up within her chest was still there, but it was covered over, almost healed, and hurt very little now. Though, while making her plans, she felt a taste of that old sadness welling up behind her eyes; she pushed it away, amazed that she could possibly feel any sadness when so many wonderful things had happened to her. The nonexistent Angel hadn't appeared, of course, yet she still felt as if Erik's appearance in her life had been an act of divine intervention. It was an odd thought, but she could not shake it. And even though she had given up her father's dream, she still felt that her father would want her to be happy. And, for the first time since his death, she could feel happiness—just happiness, without the constant weight of all the sorrow and anguish—was possible again.

Her new happiness made it more imperative than ever that she visit her father's grave, to thank him for the wonderful thing he had done for her and to beg his forgiveness for allowing his dream to be fulfilled for so short a time. Even if Erik's entrance into her life had not been helped along by her father's spirit, she wanted him to know that she was happy.

And, since it was Erik that had filled the position of the "Angel of Music" and was therefore responsible for her happiness, she had decided that he should come with her. It had taken her four days of thinking to come to this decision, but she was certain it was the right choice. Erik certainly made her life much better than it would've been otherwise. Every so often she wondered how she was going to reconcile her happiness with Erik and her future as the Vicomtess de Chagny, but she brushed them aside; it gave her a headache to think about such big decisions.

And besides, there were more pressing things to contend with—such as her mode of transportation to Perros. She couldn't just hitch a ride if Erik was coming too; his mask would attract far too much attention. No, they needed a private coach. But she wouldn't even been able to afford a cheap one. She might be a diva, but she still hadn't received any sort of diva-like wages yet. She didn't want to have to ask Erik for help—he spent practically every waking moment working for her betterment as it was—but she couldn't think of what else to do. He had a salary, come to think of it—one from the managers. If they'd finally given in and paid him, that is. The last she'd heard they were still publicly denying that the Phantom even existed.

But because she had no time to think of an alternative, she finally decided she had no choice but to ask Erik if he'd pay for a coach. She couldn't figure out why she felt so bad about asking him—he would be thrilled to help her, she was certain.

She'd opted to ask him about it at the beginning of one of her lessons. It served a two-fold purpose, really: not only was he usually in an especially good mood when she was singing, but, if she handled it right, she could get out of her lesson altogether. It wasn't that she didn't appreciate Erik's guidance, and she loved to sing—it was the practicing part that she didn't care for. All that work of deciphering notes and trying to keep the rhythm correct exhausted her, and she absolutely despised the metronome that Erik insisted she use.

Christine smiled at Erik as he entered the room from behind the trick mirror, pretending to straighten her pile of sheet music while she tried to figure out the best way to bring the subject up. He looked nice today. He was dressed more casually than usual, with a simple white linen shirt and a pair of plain black pants, instead of his usual cravat and reserved overcoat. No matter what he was wearing, she realized, he looked strong and dashing, in a somber, formal sort of way.

"Hello, Christine," he greeted her cordially. "Did Monsieur Mercier get you another copy of 'Zeffiretti lusinghieri?'"

"Um, yes—yes, he did." Erik thought she'd lost her original copy. In actuality she'd thrown it in the trash, and the stupid maid whose job it was to empty it had noticed the music and had given it to Mercier instead, who had given it back to Christine with a stern chastisement about losing her music. She hated having to sing the horrible song—she couldn't even pronounce the title, let alone the rest of all that Italian garbage.

"That's fortunate," Erik informed her with a small smile. "Try to keep track of this copy, will you, Christine? It would be rather detrimental to your career, I think, if you had to ask the conductor for a third copy of an aria."

"Yes, I'll try," she agreed hurriedly, already sick of hearing about the stupid song. If it had been Carlotta singing Ilia's part, _she_ could've had "Zef-eer-eh-tee loo-sing-hee-eh-ree" taken out of the opera with a single stomp of her Spanish foot. But no matter how hard Christine tried, she couldn't convince either Monsieur Mercier or Erik that the opera was better without it. She suddenly realized she had to hurry and bring up the trip to Perros before he made her sing that horrible song. "Tomorrow is the anniversary of my father's death," she blurted out before he could speak.

Erik nodded somberly. "Do you need help convincing the managers to give you the day off?"

"No, but—well, actually, I wasn't going to bother you about it, but since you're offering, that would be wonderful, thank you—but what I wanted to say was that I want you to come with me to Perros."

The room fell into silence as Erik studied her thoughtfully, a troubled look on his face. Oh gods, what if he wouldn't go? She hadn't even considered that possibility. As the silence dragged on, she began to truly worry. No, he _had_ to go! It would be so terrible if she had to go alone!

Finally, Erik spoke: "Certainly, Christine, if that's what you want. I would be happy to accompany you."

Christine jumped up, beaming with joy and relief, and hugged him impulsively. "Thank you, oh gods, thank you! This is wonderful! You have no idea how worried I was that you'd say no! Oh, this is—" Then she remembered that she still had no transportation to Perros. "Oh, I forgot—I've always just managed to get a ride from someone going out that way, and it's always been fine, because I was alone, but with you coming too I think that—um—a private coach would—would be better, you see, but I, um—I can't exactly—"

"Afford one?" he finished amicably. "Don't worry, Christine; a friend of mine has a very nice cabriolet I'm sure he'll lend us."

"Really?" exclaimed Christine, delighted beyond words. "That's wonderful! This is perfect! Thank you! Thank you!" She clapped her hands together, overjoyed, and bounced out of the room, heading straight for the managers' office to tell them she wouldn't be able to attend practice.

Erik watched Christine skip away, considering the situation bemusedly. He certainly hadn't expected her to ask him to accompany her. If he were to mourn the passing of a loved one, he would most certainly want to be alone. But Christine probably wanted someone to support her—a position he was delighted to fill. Much as he hated to admit it, he had been a trifle worried that she'd ask that vicomte to lend her one of his fancy carriages, and that the damned fop would turn it into some sort of picnic. Still, it made him very happy that she would prefer his own company to that of the dashing and wealthy vicomte.

Well then, he would be sure to take special care to make sure that nothing went wrong. Turning slowly, still immersed in thought, he made his way back through the trick mirror and down the stairs. He'd have to hurry if he wanted to contact Darrius in time to secure his cabriolet for tomorrow.

"Well, of course, you can use my coach," said Darrius Bandari, with an shrug of indifference. "I can't figure out why you want it, but you're welcome to it." He shook his head in confusion, causing the ornamentation of his Persian turban to flash and sparkle in the firelight of the parlor. The foreign decorations that graced the silk of his turban meant nothing to the people of Paris, of course, but Erik knew the exact meaning of every thread and every colored bead; in essence, they proclaimed the wearer of the turban to be a retired official of the Persian government and testified as to his expertise, bravery, and loyalty to the ruling sultana.

Erik shrugged and replied, "Yes, well, it's not exactly me I want it for." He felt a little guilty that he rarely contacted Darrius for anything other than borrowing his carriage. The man was a good friend. But Erik had always felt safer if he kept everyone—including Darrius and Antoinette, who had only ever been kind to him—at a distance. Though after having so much contact with Christine for the past few months, he felt more at ease in the Persian's presence.

"Huh." Darrius helped himself to another Danish from the tray on the table. "You don't have to wear that, you know."

Erik fingered his mask. "I feel more comfortable with it on."

"If you say so. Are you going to tell me why you want to borrow it? Figuring that it's mine, I think I have a right to know what you're doing with it."

Erik studied the street below, through the crystal-clear windows of Darrius' luxurious flat, thinking about his answer. Though Darrius' apartment was only a dozen blocks away from Christine's, it could have been a world away. The floors were richly carpeted and the paint on the walls was bright and bold, so unlike like the faded, peeling paint that Christine hated. One could actually see out Darrius' large, perfect windows without laboring to do so. The Persian government took very good care of him.

He sighed inwardly; he wasn't certain he wanted to tell Darrius what he would be using the coach for—he had no desire to hear another lecture like the one from Antoinette. But Darrius was right, it _was_ his property. "I assume Antoinette has told you about Christine Daaé?" he began, hoping he wasn't making a mistake.

Darrius nodded, his mouth full of Danish, and gestured with his free hand that he only knew a little.

"She needs it to visit her father's grave in Perros."

"I see," said the Persian, raising a dark eyebrow. "And you're going along?"

Erik nodded.

Darrius grinned widely and grabbed another pastry. "Aha, so it's a date, then!"

"No," was the terse reply.

"Don't get mad," the Persian chuckled. "I'm thrilled for you!"

"I never said that I—"

"You didn't have to," Darrius informed him cheerily.

Erik shook his head. "Believe what you will." With a sigh, he stood and bid Darrius goodbye. He hoped that everything would run as smoothly as the Persian seemed to think it would.

As Erik sat in the driver's seat of the coach in an alley behind the opera house, awaiting Christine's arrival, he let his mind dwell unpleasantly on the Vicomte de Chagny. Just because the fop hadn't been invited to Perros didn't mean he wouldn't come. It wasn't exactly a secret that Christine was taking the day off; the managers had, predictably, thrown a fit when they learned that their leading soprano was skipping out on the first run-through of the entire third act. Even Antoinette hadn't been able to convince them to let her go. That is, not until a letter from the dreaded Phantom had mysteriously appeared in Richard's coat pocket. The two men had then argued for a good hour and a half over whether or not to give in to the Phantom's demands; fortunately for them, they had come to the correct conclusion that whatever the Phantom said was law. Even more serendipitous was their decision to postpone the run-through until the next day. Christine had concluded that this meant they felt they "couldn't bear the thought of a rehearsal without their fabulous new diva." This was partially true, he supposed, but he suspected the managers simply didn't want to have to deal with their _old_ diva as a stand-in. Well, so much the better for Christine.

Feeling very stiff, Erik shifted his weight on the hard seat. Darrius' cabriolet was a small, black, French affair, with two seats, one of which was for the driver. Such a coach was considered quite small by the ostentatious denizens of Paris, but it was perfect for Erik's purposes. Still, he wished the seats had been cushioned; if he was uncomfortable, then Christine would be utterly miserable. That is, if she ever showed up. She had kept him waiting for more than twenty minutes; perhaps he should go see what was holding her up. On the other hand, he didn't want to pressure her—he hadn't forgotten the vicomte's highhanded order of "two minutes." It was appallingly arrogant of the self-absorbed vicomte to dictate unachievable, imperious orders as if he were the president of France—an impression that Erik had no desire to cultivate for himself in Christine's eyes. He would wait a while longer.

There was nothing in the shaded, hidden alleyway to divert his attention, and his eyes fell on the worn violin case resting nearby on the seat. It was significantly larger than a violin case needed to be, necessary to conceal the Punjab lasso hidden next to the instrument. Given the nature of their trip, he hadn't dared bring his rapier, but he had no intention of being weaponless if the vicomte decided to show his face at Perros. He hadn't actually planned on bringing his violin—he hadn't planned on doing anything much on this trip, really, except protecting Christine from riff-raff and offering her what comfort he could. But that morning the poor girl had suffered a momentary break-down and had tearfully told him all about her father's illustrious career as a violinist. Erik hadn't been certain what to do, unused to seeing such abject despondency in the girl, and had thoughtlessly said the first thing that came to mind—that, if she wanted, he would play something for her.

Christine had immediately stopped crying and had looked up at him from where she was sprawled on the floor, smiling with a sort of wretched hopefulness, saying, "You'd do that? Really? Oh, you're so wonderful!" and proceeding to tell him the name of her father's favorite piece and just how happy she would be if he would play it for her father at his grave.

So there had been nothing for him to do but to rush back down to his music room and hunt for his violin, which had been gathering dust in its case on an obscure shelf. Christine's entrance into his life had greatly reduced his pursuance of music, and for a moment he had feared that he'd forgotten how to play the instrument altogether. What was worse, he had never played "The Resurrection of Lazarus" on the violin before; he had the sheet music for it, but it had been written for the organ. It had taken quite some time to find it in the vast library of music he owned, but fortunately he had managed it.

He'd had exactly two hours before they left for Perros to transpose the notes to fit a violin and to practice the unfamiliar piece, but he was confident that he could play it tolerably well. If only he would have anticipated that Christine would keep him waiting for a half an hour, he could have used the time to run through it a few more times.

This thought reminded Erik that Christine had still not appeared. Perhaps something had happened—maybe the detestable vicomte had held her up. Though the vicomte would certainly not try anything untoward with so many people around, Erik's blood boiled at the thought of the slimy little worm getting near her. Standing abruptly, he jumped out of the coach and began walking towards the door.

Just before his hand could touch the knob, the door opened to reveal a faintly smiling Christine. Even with her drab mourning gown and tearstained face, she was still radiantly beautiful, reminiscent of Desdemona in the fourth act of Otello, when she had prayed, crying, to the Virgin Mary. Just the sight of her was enough to send a wave of heat through his heart.

"Oh!" she said, surprised to find him on the other side of the doorway. "Do you need to go back in and get something?" He shook his head. "Okay. Shall we go?"

Erik nodded slowly, wondering if it would be advisable with her temperamental condition to ask whether or not she had run into the vicomte. _She probably didn't_ , he decided, studying her expression as she walked past him towards the cabriolet. Asking would only serve to upset her. It was doubtful that the vicomte would dare to intrude on Christine's mourning, but then, the stupid man didn't have much by way of tact. He sighed inwardly and proceeded to help Christine into the coach, thinking grimly that he would have to keep very much alert on this trip.

# Chapitre Vingt-Quatre: John 11:44

Raoul stood outside the main doors of the Opera Garnier, arms full of flowers and boxes of Belgian chocolates, growing rather annoyed. He had intended to show his devotion to Christine by showering her with gifts and asking her out to dinner again, but he had been confronted with a terrible situation that prevented him from doing so—an obstacle utterly insurmountable, even for a dashing vicomte such as himself.

The fact that there hadn't been a doorman outside the opera house during the daytime (due to budgetary constraints) since Richard and Moncharmin took over had never unduly concerned him before, because all the patrons came at night; however, it was proving a difficult situation at this precise moment in time. His arms were so full of flowers that he couldn't open the door in front of him—and he couldn't put them down without risking ruining the expensive arrangements. The largest bouquet, which contained roses and purple orchids, had been arranged by the most famous florist in Paris, and had cost more, he suspected, than the managers of the Garnier made in a month. It would be inexcusable to set such a bouquet on the dirty ground just to open a door!

On the other hand, if he couldn't get in, he couldn't present the flowers to Christine and his efforts would be wasted anyway. He had to complete his seduction soon (but not too soon, of course; after all, it was his grand finale) or he wouldn't have time to enjoy his seductive little diva before his marriage. When he had realized his predicament, he had glanced back at the carriage to ask his coachman to open the door, but the man had already driven around to the back of the opera house. Well, that was one coachman who would be looking for a new job.

If worst came to worst, he supposed, he could just discard the flowers and give Christine the other present he had brought, which was safely tucked away in his coat pocket: a heart-shaped gold necklace fitted with diamonds that spelled " _Ange_." The half-carat ring hadn't been enough to coerce her into his arms; perhaps a reference to her ridiculous Angel of Music would.

But just the same, the flowers had been highly inconvenient to procure. He sighed heavily, coming to the one logical decision he could think of: he would have to stop someone on the street and ask him to open the door.

He spotted a well-dressed gentleman strolling along the sidewalk and walked down the steps to intercept him. Oh God, he hoped the man wouldn't recognize him; what a terrible thing it would be to be caught in such an ignominious predicament!

"Excuse me, monsieur!" he called to the man.

The man turned, surprised, and studied him for a brief moment. " _Bon jour_ , monsieur." Raoul could tell that the man was wracking his memory for the identity of this stranger, made fully aware of Raoul's noble status by the crest embroidered on his coat. "Do I know you?"

"No," Raoul informed him, hoping that it was true. "Could you perhaps open this door for me?"

He gestured awkwardly towards the opera house, and the flowers threatened to fall out of his grasp. He scrambled to keep them from falling and nearly slipped on the icy pavement.

"Why—why certainly," the startled man replied, seeming rather amused by how absurd Raoul looked and the ridiculousness of his predicament. He started up the steps, and Raoul followed, forcibly beating down the embarrassment he felt with the knowledge that the man had no idea who he was.

It was not to be so for long. After the man had opened the door and Raoul had entered the main foyer, the blasted gentleman exclaimed, "Why, you're the Vicomte de Chagny, aren't you?"

Inwardly cursing, Raoul summoned up all the dignity he could and said, "Yes—yes, I am."

The man went away chuckling, and the very embarrassed vicomte slowly turned, his face deep scarlet and furiously set, and made his way up the grand staircase to find Christine.

" _What do you mean, she isn't here?!_ " demanded Raoul, furiously slamming the flowers down on the desk in front of him. He had been carrying them for almost a half-hour, and not only were his arms beginning to ache, but the moist stems of the flowers had started to transfer hints of green to his formerly-immaculate sleeves. Normally he would have considered this ridiculous search far too much effort and a waste of time he could be spending wooing more easily-found maidens, but Christine wasn't just another conquest anymore—with each passing hour she grew more and more beautiful, and other women, though still worthy of some small pursuit, grew dull and monochromatic. The insatiable passion in his chest to possess that ethereal beauty was raging hotter with every moment she was out of his sight—and after twenty-six minutes of being told "No, I haven't seen her" from half of the Garnier's employees, he had gone from annoyed to absolutely livid.

"Where could she _possibly_ be," he snarled, "except at rehearsal _as she is_ supposed _to be?!"_

Moncharmin stepped back involuntarily, though his surprise quickly turned to outrage. "Don't shout at _us_ ," he snapped, squaring his shoulders affrontedly. "She requested permission to visit her father's grave—surely we could not deny her that!"

Raoul faltered, suddenly remembering that it was the anniversary of Gustave Daaé's death. Blast it, how could I have forgotten such a thing?! What would Christine have thought of me if I had brought her flowers and chocolates, utterly oblivious to her grief?

He realized then that perhaps he shouldn't have been so rude to the managers, as it was not their fault in the least; but he certainly couldn't admit that to them. Affixing a dignified scowl to his face, he demanded, "And why did you let her take the day off, with such an important rehearsal going on?"

"There _is_ no rehearsal today, vicomte," Monsieur Richard informed him shortly.

"Why not?"

Richard and Moncharmin glanced at each other, seeming very loathe to give their reason. During this long moment of silence Raoul realized rather belatedly that if Christine was at Perros, she was out there alone. Why had she not asked him to come with, so he could protect her and offer her comfort? It was a personal matter, certainly, but she was madly in love with him—how could she insult him so?

Finally Richard spoke. "We received a rather... _portentous_ letter from the Opera Ghost implying that if we did not give Mademoiselle Daaé the day off, he would—" He faltered, making Raoul wonder what exactly it was that the Phantom had threatened them with.

"Well, it's not important," the frustrated manager finished. "In any event, we decided it would be better if we cancelled rehearsal altogether."

"A good deal of the choreography in the third act needs to be rewritten anyway," added Moncharmin.

Raoul sat down, aghast and unsure of what to do. Ignoring the managers' continued conversation, he tried to work out the best course of action. If Christine had not asked him along, obviously she did not _want_ him along and would become very angry if he appeared at Perros. But what reason could the girl possibly have for denying herself his charming company?

Ah, he knew what it was—she must think that, as a vicomte and the patron of the opera house, he would be far too busy to accompany her to Perros. She was correct, of course, but surely everything could wait if it meant furthering himself in the eyes of his temptress.

She could have at least told him of her plans—even if he couldn't have gone personally, he could've sent a trustworthy guard to keep her safe. With her out in the middle of the country, it would be easy for someone to—

Egad! Why hadn't he realized it sooner? She had been attacked by scum before, and in the middle of a bustling city—damn that Buquet! There was no scum greater than the stagehand, he was convinced, and they all most certainly knew where she was going. Imagine what a scoundrel could get away with no one around to hear her scream!

Oblivious to the managers' startled exclamations, Raoul leapt to his feet and raced out of the office. As he hurriedly located his coach and steered the horses towards the street, his mind filled with terrible thoughts of what a savage stagehand could do to the poor girl out there in the middle of a deserted cemetery. After yelling at his coachman that he was fired, Raoul whipped the horses to a gallop, and as they raced down the cobblestone street, he prayed that he wouldn't be too late.

Erik and Christine spoke very little on the way to Perros. Christine stared aimlessly out at the passing scenery, doubtlessly thinking of her father. Erik, wanting to respect her wishes, did not break the silence. It was just as well; driving was easy along the deserted roadway, and there was nothing to distract him from the pressing problem of the vicomte. He wasn't certain what would happen if the dimwitted aristocrat decided to tail them to the cemetery; he had no problem fighting the vicomte, of course, but what about Christine? Today was supposed to be about _her_ —giving her time to grieve, away from the troubles of the opera house. He supposed if the vicomte were to show up, he would just have to try to handle the situation without Christine learning of it.

However, it was not just the present situation concerning the vicomte that he thought about. He could handle today's problem, but what about the future? Christine had always lived in poverty, and an ostentatious life in a mansion as a vicomtess would certainly seem attractive to her. But surely Christine could see that the vicomte only wanted her because of her beauty. Just something to enjoy for a short while, like a cut lily meant to grace a vase for a week, then thrown out to make room for the next pretty flower.

He worried a great deal about how much the vicomte could hurt her, and as much as it dominated his thoughts concerning the blasted aristocrat, it couldn't completely obscure the sharp, throbbing pain he felt when he compared the vicomte's handsome countenance and wealth to his own hideousness and modest means. But what could he do? He had tried several times to warn her about the man, but she refused to listen; the most he could hope for was that his words would sink in eventually. Anything more than that—threats, intimidation, kidnapping, murder—the violence, lust and hatred that had raged in his heart throughout his life—Christine had cleansed it all from his soul with those beautiful, beautiful words in the darkness of his caverns, as tears had coursed down her face: "I can accept you." He couldn't be that cold, hateful man anymore; but this conviction put him at a terrible disadvantage against the vicomte.

Still, she had not asked the vicomte to come, she had asked him. Surely that was indicative of her feeling towards them both?

So caught up in these thoughts was he that he didn't even notice the town of Perros until it was right upon them. "Oh, look," Christine exclaimed, tugging on the sleeve of his shirt like a child and pointing towards a shabby, leaning house they were passing. "That's where Father and I used to live." Her sad, contemplative demeanor was still oppressively present, but Erik was glad just the same that she could smile, if even for a moment.

"He would sit and play the violin for hours," she said slowly, glancing around at all the passing buildings as if they held many distant memories for her. "People would come from miles away to hear him play. He would never accept any money, though; he felt that, because he had never been visited by the Angel, he did not deserve their appreciation."

Erik felt a stab of anger twist in his gut, and he gripped the reins more tightly, willing himself to keep silent. How dare Gustave Daaé deprive his daughter of a decent life, just because of a blasted superstition? How _dare_ he claim that he loved her, when he wouldn't even accept money to feed his child? It had affected Christine terribly, he knew—he had seen the way her eyes shone when she was wearing one of the sumptuous costumes of the Opera, the way her beautiful face slackened in hopeless longing as she watched a noblewoman pass by. Wealth meant more to her than anything in the world. And as if it were not a terrible thing by itself, it was playing her right into the vicomte's hands—the detestable fop could win her heart just with his riches alone.

You don't give her enough credit, the voice inside his head told him reproachfully. She does like ostentation, that is true, but if she desired it beyond all else, then why is she with you instead of with him?

Before he could decide whether or not to believe the voice, Christine tugged on his sleeve again, more insistently this time. "Aren't you listening to me?" she demanded. "I said, 'Isn't it beautiful?'"

Realizing guiltily that he had missed the last few sentences of her causerie, he hurriedly regained his composure and replied, "Yes, it most certainly is," though he had not the slightest clue what he was agreeing to.

"It belongs to Raoul's great-aunt," she continued, staring past him at the object of her conversation.

In confusion he turned to see what she was staring at. When he realized what it was, he shook his head disgustedly. To the east of the town was a large hill, at the crest of which rested a large semi-derelict castle from the days of the Dark Ages. It annoyed him somewhat that, though the vicomte was not tangibly with them, he was still present in their conversation.

Oblivious to these unpleasant thoughts, Christine kept on talking. "His ancestors defended that castle from waves of English invaders over the centuries, he told me, so the family has never remodeled it—historical preservation is very important to them."

It seemed to Erik that living in a drafty castle, impossible to heat in the winter, was a foolish idea, no matter how proud one was of one's ancestors. But if talking got Christine's mind off of her grief, he supposed he could endure hearing about the vicomte. "Is that so," he said stolidly, unable to think of anything more pleasant to say.

"It was part of the Battle of Agin-bort, I think it was. Raoul told me."

"How...interesting."

They travelled in silence again, this time for only a few minutes, and Erik could see Christine grow more and more depressed as her thoughts returned to her father.

Erik debated over whether or not to bring up a more cheerful subject, uncertain if she would appreciate the distraction, but before he could decide, she blurted out, "If it weren't for the Chagnys' valiant defense from the endless waves of British attackers, France would've been overrun!"

_The vicomte certainly must not think much of her,_ Erik thought furiously, _if he expects her to believe that disgusting perversion of history._ Of course, if he told Christine the truth—that the French had _lost_ the Battle of Agincourt, and that it had not even been in a fifty mile radius of the Chagnys' castle—she wouldn't believe him. "That's Agincourt," he said.

"Yes, that was it." She was again silent for a time, until she again spoke to distract herself from her sorrow: "I met him not far from here, in Trouville-sur-Mer," she said, watching the town's citizens go about their daily business. Fortunately not many of the people were staring at them. Erik had purposely taken a back road to avoid being noticed, but they couldn't avoid it altogether. He adjusted his mask, wondering distractedly if any of them recognized her.

"I was walking along the beach and my scarf got lost in the sea—and he rescued it for me."

Erik silently drove on, not trusting himself to speak. She was trying so hard to be cheerful.... He didn't want to make it any harder for her. Thankfully the cemetery was not far from town, located on a precarious cliff overlooking the ocean. Tumultuous waves crashed against the rocks far below, and the salty air had escalated into a chilling wind around them. The sun was not far from setting, but it was so veiled by dark, impenetrable clouds that it could hardly be discerned from the endless mass of grey. It was snowing moderately now. The cemetery itself stood out from its dreary surroundings like a ghostly beacon, its white marble seeming to shine amidst the darkness from behind the groves of pine trees and jagged iron bars that enclosed it.

Christine watched in surprise as he drove past the main gate and proceeded to steer the cabriolet around to the back. "What are you doing?"

"I—I don't want the coach to be stolen while we're away," Erik lied. In actuality, he was more concerned that the blasted vicomte would see it and know that Christine had not come alone. It would do his cause no good to alert the enemy to his presence. But there was no need to worry Christine about such things.

"That's a good idea," she agreed. "You think of everything."

He stopped the coach by the rear entrance of the cemetery, where it was obscured from sight by a small grove of stunted elm trees. Casting a quick glance around to make sure the vicomte was nowhere in sight, Erik helped Christine out of the cabriolet and proceeded to inspect the wheels, one of which he feared had been damaged by a particularly large rock when they had turned off the main road. By the time he had secured the horses and started towards the gate, Christine had already entered and was walking slowly through the headstones, as if in a trance.

Christine slowly approached the small, broken headstone, having completely forgotten about Erik, lost in thoughts of the past. The ethereal white edges of the stone slab were blurred in her tear-filled vision, and time seemed to slow to a crawl as she walked past dozens of neglected headstones. Marking the graves of the more distinguished personages were statues that seemed to stare at her, their blank, stone eyes mournful and yet coldly removed from humanly grief. She could vaguely feel the weeds poking up among the broken cobblestones through her worn slippers, but the sharp pricks barely penetrated her trance. She could not even feel the chilling wind, though her patched shawl was no match for its icy gusts.

The grave was located near the back, a ways behind the tiny chapel that marked the center of the ancient churchyard. Because his grave was a more recent addition to the somber place, it had but a few graves nearby. As she drew near, she saw nothing but the cold, chiseled letters in the cheap stone: _Gustave Daaé_. She had come to Perros trying to keep gladness in her heart, wanting only to tell her father of her happiness—but now that she was here, standing above his grave, all joy was forgotten as her clouded vision flashed with a thousand memories, each poignant with the loss and grief of the knowledge that her father was gone forever. Her legs shook, unable to bear her weight any longer; she fell in front of the tombstone, trembling with exhaustion brought about by the well of emotion locked within her.

As she wept in the rift of snow that had built up at the foot of the grave, she heard the sweet strains of a violin over the howling wind; she cried harder as she recognized the familiar melody of "The Resurrection of Lazarus." Despair pierced her heart with the cold, and for an eternity she could not move, nor speak, nor even summon a conscious thought. As the melody crescendoed to its height, she found words etched on the tombstone pouring unbidden from her lips:

"Jesus saith unto her, Thy brother shall rise again...I—I am the resurrection, a-and the life: he th-that believeth in me, though h-he were dead; yet shall he live... A-and when he thus h-had spoken, he cried with a loud voice, Lazarus—" Her voice broke as she crumpled in a torrent of sobs. "Lazarus, c-come forth! A-and he that...was...dead..." She trailed off, her heart sinking as realized that the last part of the verse, preserved in cheap stone, had crumbled away. "H-he that was dead..."

Filled with the heartbreaking memory of her father relating this story to her, Christine could not recall the ending. It was all she could do to keep from collapsing completely into the freezing snow that sapped her strength as surely as her terrible grief. She could not find the faint rays of hope that Christ had promised, that the dead would live again. She could see nothing but a cold, despondent tunnel, bereft of all hope and light.

Images of the underworld of Niflheim flashed before her eyes, cold and filled with veils of icy mist that obscured the dark realm. She saw Hel, the goddess of the damned, seated on her throne of bleached bones. The corpse-woman opened her arms wide, and Christine clapped hands over her ears to block out the terrible, terrible sound of wailing spirits, pleading, suffering—

Suddenly she felt Erik's presence behind her, and a comforting hand squeeze her shoulder. Then, as warmth flooded her, she saw the darkness melt away, replaced by a gentle light, and she remembered the final words:

"And he that was dead came forth, bound hand and foot with graveclothes...Lazarus...raised...from the dead."

# Chapitre Vingt-Cinq: Un Conversion et un Contusion

Christine blew out the burning match and stepped back. The candlelight was not very strong, and much of the small chapel was left in shadow. It did, however, make the picture of her father upon the stone memorial glow with an almost heavenly light. "Father," she murmured, bowing her head. The silence was broken only by the crashing of the waves below, which somehow soothed her grief. Erik stood unobtrusively in a far corner, unspeaking, but strengthening her; when he had helped her to her feet in front of her father's grave, she had clung to him for a long time, his presence giving her the will to stop crying.

She turned, feeling a sudden compulsion to confide in him. She had always kept her innermost grief to herself, not sharing it with anyone, not even Mamma. It had consumed her for years, and she had done nothing except mourn her father and her own misfortune; she had done absolutely nothing worthwhile. And yet, now that she had met Erik...she had _done_ something. She had become a diva of the greatest opera house in Europe. But he had helped her accomplish something much more important; it was the least she could do to let him know how much he had helped her.

"Erik?"

He stepped forward, looking very somber. "Yes, Christine?"

Christine, unsure of how to begin, crossed to one of the windows and raised her eyes to the grey, dreary sky. The stained glass in the other five windows had long since been broken and swept away; only this one remained. It was wrought in a likeness of Gabriel, the great archangel. The soft moonlight, partially obscured by a thin veneer of clouds, gave the colors of the glass a glowing, ethereal quality that made the angel seem to radiate the light of heaven itself. The light cast a veil of subdued blue from the angel's wings to Christine's pale face as she gazed at its beautiful, heavenly image. Somehow, it made her very happy that this one window had survived.

"My father...he told me a great many stories," she began, not taking her eyes from Gabriel's divine face. "The same night he would tell me about the theft of Freya's golden necklace, he would tell me about how God saved Daniel from the lions by sending angels to close their mouths." She smiled mirthlessly. "Christianity and the Norse gods became very confused in my mind. Since his death, I...I've always believed more in the Northern gods than in the Christian one. I couldn't bring myself to abandon all the things he believed in so dearly....

"But Niflheim...I couldn't bear to believe that he was in such a terrible place.... That I might...might never find him again...."

Erik said nothing; he did not move, did not even seem to breathe in the chapel's dim light. She knew he did not yet understand what she was trying to say, but he did not interrupt or try to hurry her to the point. It was a small thing, but she appreciated it more than she could possibly say.

"I _wanted_ to believe in Christianity, that one's soul rises into the sky and lives forever in happiness. But I could never make myself believe it. It was just wishful thinking that I would see Father again. But...being with you...I...I think I finally know the truth."

She turned suddenly to face him, ignoring the tears spilling down her cheeks; oddly, though, the tears did not feel the same as they always had. Instead of being hot and shameful, and clouding her sight to the point of blindness, they were cool, and her sight perfectly clear; it was as if, as they flowed, a great weight was falling from her shoulders. "For the first time in my life, I can let go of the stories my father implanted in me. I didn't fully realize it until just now, but...I _don't_ believe in the Angel of Music anymore."

For the space of an instant Erik's expression changed, but returned so quickly to its original neutral state that she could have imagined it. But she thought she saw, in that instant, a strange conglomeration of confusion, guilt, and, oddly, hope. She couldn't fathom it.

Uncertain of how to continue, she returned to staring through the window. The dark clouds were visible even through the glorious colors of the undimmed glass. "Because of you...when you played 'The Resurrection' just now, I think I could finally see the truth."

There was a long, strange silence. Erik blinked slowly, and said at last, "Christine, I cannot tell you how happy I am for you, but I didn't play it. My violin is in its case in the carriage."

Christine froze. "You—you d-didn't play it?"

"No."

At a loss for how to take such a revelation, Christine stared out the window for several long minutes without speaking.

Before he could stop himself, Erik had crossed the dingy chapel with the intention of comforting her; but when he reached her, he hesitated. He wanted so badly to hold her, to comfort her, but as relaxed as she acted around him, he was afraid that she was still disgusted by his disfigurement—and he didn't want to add to her grief. So instead of embracing her, as his body screamed for him to do, he simply squeezed her shoulder. She put her hand on top of his, still staring out at the broken headstone, barely visible under the mounds of snow. She was so beautiful in the blue and gold light that trickled, like a mist, through the stained glass, rivulets of tears glistening silver down her cheeks; it was all he could do to keep from taking her in his arms. But he wouldn't stoop to the vicomte's level. Besides, Christine's eyes shone with newly found happiness, not sorrow—she did not need comforting as she had when they had arrived.

Casting about for something to say, he inquired, "Do you still want me to play?" He did not want to encroach on Christine's vigil in the chapel; it would be better if he waited outside.

"Yes—hearing his favorite song might show Father that I still love him, even if I can't believe in his stories anymore."

He'd meant to comfort _her,_ not her father, but if that was what she wanted, he would oblige. As Christine knelt in front of the altar and began addressing her father, he slipped outside. He glanced around (the idea of a violin-playing spirit—if that was what it had been—was rather disturbing to him), but saw nothing. The snowstorm had subsided somewhat, now a moderate fall of dazzling white, though the wind still beat against the ragged trees and crumbling tombstones with a brutal ferocity.

He strode back to the carriage and, unlatching the violin case under the protection of the coach roof, scrutinizing the instrument for any lingering precipitation that would prove it had been played since their arrival. The inspection yielded nothing. He shrugged off the chill creeping up his spine and returned to the chapel.

He chose to sit on the thick granite railing that lined the chapel steps, where his violin would be somewhat protected by the overhang of the roof. He brushed the snow off the railing, then sat down and unlatched the case. Quietly he touched the bow to each string to check that it was still in tune and removed the glove from his left hand so he could play the chords unhampered. A few flakes of snow settled on his skin, sapping the warmth from his fingers. Sweeping them off, he began to play.

Raoul jerked the reins, calling the foaming horses to a stop in front of the iron gates of the Perros cemetery. Drawing his rapier, he scanned the snowy ground around the entrance for a sign of Christine's mode of transportation. He saw nothing; but how else could she have gotten here, save hiring a coach? She couldn't walk all the way, and even she wouldn't be stupid enough hitch a ride with dangerous ruffians. He jumped down and scrutinized the fallen layer of snow and was shocked to find that there weren't even any footprints. Had she not made it to Perros? Perhaps she was staying in town, waiting for the storm to subside. She had always been very finicky about the weather—if there was any kind of wind or precipitation at all, she had refused to go outside. But if the blizzard here had been anything like the one on the road, he couldn't blame her for waiting it out indoors.

Still, he ought to make sure she wasn't trapped in a snow drift somewhere. Or worse, in the clutches of a villain. He could just picture it: Christine, cowering against a frosty tombstone, half-frozen in a wet, translucent cotton gown clinging to her slight but sensuous curves, begging the evil man for mercy as she wailed for the Vicomte de Chagny to rescue her!

It took more effort than he had anticipated to open the iron gate, as he had to contend with old compacted snow as well as that from today; it had never snowed this hard in all his recollection, and whomever had constructed the gate had built it tantamount to the ground, obviously assuming that snow would never be a problem. It was obvious that Christine had not come through before him; her delicate arms would not have been able to move the weighty, gelid bars. _Well, she must be waiting for me in town,_ he thought with a shrug, and he turned to leave.

Suddenly he heard a series of high, tremulous notes carry on the wind. It sounded almost like...like a violin. But there was no one here but himself—the untouched snow and unopened gate had proved that. He felt a cold shiver race down his spine as the notes spiraled higher and higher, drawn out like the plaintive wail of a ghost. But that was ridiculous. There were no such things as spirits. He forced his fingers to loosen their rigid grip on the hilt of his sword, telling himself that he was a vicomte, descended from a long line of fearless nobility, and therefore had no need to fear anything—especially nonexistent spirits. Willing himself to be unafraid, he stepped into the cemetery and firmly closed the gate behind him.

He could grasp vague snatches of melody over the harsh cry of the wind, and he walked down the clear ground marking the pathway with slow, measured paces, trying to use the music's volume to determine if he was getting closer. His arms, protected only by his jacket and a thin suit, were freezing; he had not bothered to fetch a coat in his haste to aid Christine. He tried to ignore it, but it was convenient to tell himself that the goose-bumps forming on his flesh were from the cold and not from unease.

The music seemed to be coming from the center of the graveyard, near a crumbling chapel framed by statues of the Madonna. He approached it in a roundabout fashion, sneaking to the border of the cemetery and edging along, assuring his quivering pride that he was merely sneaking up on the specter and not avoiding it. When he drew within thirty paces of the tiny building, the song suddenly died away. Gripping his rapier more tightly, he edged closer and peered through one of the broken windows.

He caught only a half-second's worth of sight, but it was indelibly imprinted in his mind: there, kneeling at the altar, was the ghost! Her gown was the ethereal white of hoar frost, her hair a deep brunette under the shimmering frost that clung to its lengths. She had her back to him, so he could not see her face, but he was certain it was as phantasmally pale as the rest of her skin. _Mon Dieu_ , she was beautiful.

She turned her face slightly in his direction, and he gasped—it was Christine!

After that brief instant, he felt a sharp crack of pain in the back of his skull, and as his world dimmed into blackness, he tried to face his assailant. In the fleeting moment before unconsciousness engulfed him, he saw the fiend—a tall, dark-haired man wielding a violin case, with a white mask concealing the right half of his face. In the fiend's haste, its mask had slipped a little, and as Raoul collapsed in the snow, he caught a horrific glimpse of monstrous visage underneath the porcelain....

By the time Christine left the chapel a few minutes later, smiling joyfully as she rewrapped her shawl to combat the chill of the icy air, Erik had hidden the vicomte in a small shed on the edge of the cemetery, moved the conspicuous coach to the other side of a grove of concealing pines, and swept some of the aristocrat's more salient footprints from the path. Erik had resumed his seat on the railing and was putting his violin back in its case as she stepped down to meet him. "Why did you stop playing?" she asked, treating him to a brilliant smile, beautiful eyes light with tranquility.

"I'd reached the end of the song," he lied, adjusting his mask.

"Oh—I guess I was so busy talking to Father that I didn't notice. Well, let's go!" she jumped down to the next step. "By the way, did you hear something? A clunk somewhere?"

"I couldn't say." He probably shouldn't have knocked out the vicomte; there would be negative repercussions from his hasty decision, he was certain. But Christine had just gone through a very difficult transition, and the last thing she needed right now was a confrontation, especially with that brainless fop.

"Oh. Nevermind then. Goodness, it certainly got dark quickly!" she remarked, noticing the darkness and the moonlight playing off the ocean waves. "...You know," she added after a lengthy pause, "Yesterday I believed—at least, I told myself that I did—that the sun was truly the demi-god Day, who rides through the air in his fiery chariot, led by his horse Skinfaxi—that means 'Shining-Mane'—whose mane is so bright that it illuminates all the earth." Her laugh was small and embarrassed. "I...I suppose not." She skipped down the rest of the steps.

Erik breathed an inward sigh of relief at her obliviousness to the vicomte's presence as he stood and started after her. He hadn't used his lasso on the meddlesome fop, much as he had wanted to. But he supposed it was for the better; Christine might have heard if there had been a scuffle, and if the vicomte had been found dead anywhere near Perros, she would connect it with their visit. And besides, he wanted so badly to be a good man—worthy of Christine's love, or at the very least, her friendship—that he didn't want to clandestinely dispose of the aristocrat, though it would probably be in Christine's best interests. But perhaps with this warning, the vicomte would take the hint and leave the girl alone—but he doubted it.

Suddenly she stopped and turned, and he had to step quickly to one side to avoid colliding with her. "I—um—that is—" She frowned and pulled angrily at the lock of hair she was twisting around her finger, silent while she tried to figure out what she wanted to say. "I want to thank you. For everything you've done for me."

"You're welcome," he said, as much surprised as pleased.

"And I want to say I'm sorry for being so mean to you."

"You have no cause to apologize."

"I really do! I haven't been very nice to you, and—well, nevermind," she said, looking flustered. "Let's go."

She hurriedly turned and began to stride away; when she was about ten paces from the chapel she paused, looking confusedly around the cemetery. "Which way is the carriage?"

Erik gestured to the back wall, and she hurried along the snowy path, oblivious to the few footprints that he had missed.

All the way back to Paris she was singing and chattering and laughing, happier than he'd ever seen her. She'd insisted on sitting in the driver's seat with him, and she was sitting so close it was taking all his strength to keep from sweeping her into his lap and kissing those beautiful, beautiful lips.

She was oblivious to his predicament, however, and sat tantalizingly close to him as she talked the entire way back to the city. She informed him several times that she'd told her father all about _Idomeneo_ and being the new diva, and about Raoul and the new managers. "The candles you'd lit for me almost went out when I mentioned Raoul," she said cheerily. "Father must've been very surprised that Raoul was the opera's patron!"

Erik had never believed in ghosts—though now he wasn't certain—but if the sudden gust of wind affecting the candles _was_ Gustave Daaé's doing, he suspected that it was an indication of disapproval, not pleasant surprise. "Is that so," he replied, fighting to keep his voice amiable.

"And of course I told him all about you, too. He likes you."

"Is that so."

"Yes—the candles flashed and the flames got really big!"

He wasn't certain how to respond to that. It was probably just a trick of the light; despite her recent abandonment of superstition, she was apparently still easily influenced by coincidental occurrences. Still, what if she was right? Was Gustave Daaé pleased with his daughter's mentor?

Suddenly annoyed with himself, he shook his head and applied his concentration to driving the cabriolet. Thoughts like that were pointless to dwell on.

Raoul's eyes fluttered a few times and finally stayed open, and he lifted a shaking hand to his head, where a pounding ache had taken residence. It took him a few moments of semi-conscious thought to register that he was lying on something hard. For a few moments he thought indignantly that he would have the maid fired for providing him with such a hard mattress. But then he remembered that he wasn't at home, or at any inn. He had been in a graveyard. _It must be the frozen ground_ , he thought. _But then...why isn't it cold?_

In fact, despite the snow and howling wind which he was certain were still around him, he felt quite comfortably warm. Very odd. And as he stared upwards, trying to reason out this conundrum, he realized that there was no stormy sky above him, but a thatched—albeit leaking—roof. That certainly didn't make any sense. The only roof in the cemetery was the stone one belonging to the small chapel.

Then he heard a high, feminine voice squeal, "Oh, Mamma, look—'e's awake!"

His first thought was that it was Christine, but then a face bounded into his vision, only inches from his own, and he realized with a burst of disappointment that it wasn't her. This girl was nowhere near as pretty as his Christine was. As a matter of fact, she was downright ugly. She looked to be about Christine's age, certainly, but she was not attractive in the least. Her hair, the color of muddy straw, fell in braids like grimy, frayed ropes. He could tell from the redness of her skin that her face had just been meticulously scrubbed, but her profuse acne was still quite apparent. She was smiling excitedly down at him, and he saw that her teeth were rather crooked.

Raoul fought the urge to close his eyes. He considered himself an excellent judge of beauty and deemed himself entitled to only the best—a category that this peasant wench didn't qualify for in the least. But he would be courteous towards her, as was his duty and devoir; a Chagny was a gentleman at all times, even to such an ugly, no-account girl. "How do you do?" he greeted her, as politely as he could manage.

"Oh, Mamma, 'e's _wun_ -derful, ain't 'e?" she said, swinging her head to speak to her mother, causing her braids to whip Raoul across the face. _Good God._ The sooner he got away from her and back to women like Christine, the better.

_Christine._ The thought of her caused him to sit bolt upright as his woozy mind recalled the scene at the graveyard: a ghost, bearing his darling Christine's appearance, in the chapel.... And that monster! How could God allow something so hideous to exist on this earth? It hadn't even had the courage to fight him man-to-man!

"I must rescue her at once!" he declared, reaching for his rapier. His hands grasped only air, and when he looked down he received a shock. Excepting his undergarments, he was completely unclothed.

A peasant woman—presumably the girl's mother—handed him a wooden cup filled with some sort of drink. She was stout and as unattractive as her daughter. She spoke in a rough country accent: "You certun'ly would'a died if'n tha' man ridin' out'a town 'adn't'a mentioned seein' your 'orses wanderin' around outside the cemet'ry."

Raoul wondered briefly who the man could have been, and why he couldn't have taken the time to rescue him himself. He might have been persuaded to give the man a reward for saving his life.

"Lucky the storm 'ad died down enough so's me 'usband could go find yeh," the woman continued. "You was 'alf froze, an' we thought at first you was dead. Lucky you managed to crawl into tha' tool shed."

Raoul blinked a few times, confused, then shrugged and cautiously inhaled the pungent scent of the brew he had been offered, identifying it as hard cider. "Then it seems I owe your family a great deal, madame."

The uncomely girl bounded back to his bedside and, sitting down with an unrefined thump, began shaking his shoulder, causing him to spill cider on the patched quilts. "So what was it that hit'cha, mister?"

He touched a hand to the aching spot on the back of his head, horrified to find a grotesque lump. "Some cutpurse, no doubt," he told her. It was a long enough story that he shuddered at the thought of having to endure looking at her while he related it. It was none of her business anyway.

"I bet you're a prince, ain't'cha, mister?" She was actually batting her eyelashes at him.

"I am the Vicomte Raoul de Chagny, mademoiselle." He ignored her giggle at being addressed in such a polite manner. "Might I have the pleasure of knowing your name?" Her name was of little consequence, but his faultless breeding demanded that he be formally introduced.

"Shucks, mister—I'm Prunellie." She leaned towards him, doing her pathetic best to be alluring. "Are y'married, Mister Raoul?"

He choked on the fiery cider he was tentatively drinking, and she thumped him on the back a few times. He kept coughing for a few moments longer, hastily debating over the best course of action. "I'm engaged," he finally settled on. It was true, despite his wishes to the contrary.

"Aw, that's too bad," she informed him. "But we can still 'ave dinner t'gether, right?"

He shrugged noncommittally, drinking the cider—as poor-quality as it was—as an excuse not to reply. As gratifying as it was to be adored as he deserved, he wished she could be just a little bit prettier. A lot prettier, actually. The sooner he returned to civilization, and beautiful women like Christine, the better off he would be.

This observation prompted an unwelcome thought to appear in his mind: Christine had been inside the chapel when he had been attacked by a monster. He had failed to protect her!

He leapt to his feet, uncaring that his cider sloshed everywhere. "My clothes, quickly!" he ordered the girl. "Christine might be dead by now!"

Nonplussed, Prunellie handed him his shirt. "Y'mean Christine Die-aye, mister?"

He froze, one arm in his shirt. "How did _you_ know?"

"Ah, she n' me was friends, back when she lived here. She passed by las' night." Suddenly she frowned, folding her arms in a childish display of frustration. "But nooo, she couldn't stop t'talk t' _me_ at all—she was all over that _man_ with 'er."

Raoul dropped the shirt and gripped the girl's shoulders. "What man?" he asked urgently.

"Th' man that told us about seein' your 'orses. Dunno why 'e didn't jus' rescue you 'imself—"

"What did he look like?" interrupted Raoul furiously.

"Well, 'e 'ad dark 'air and nice clothes and was real, real nice lookin', mister, 'cept for this weird mask thing on 'alf 'is face."

_Mon Dieu, the Monster!_ Wait...the Monster had kept him from freezing to death? But that wasn't important right now—

"And Christine was 'all over him'?" he asked, absolutely horrified.

She stuck out her bottom lip in a definite pout. "Uh-huh. Like she was—what's that word—besutted."

So great was his horror that he didn't even bother to correct her. " _Good God_ ," he cried, hurriedly slinging on the rest of his clothes, " _he's got her in his power!"_

As he seized his rapier and strode towards the door, he heard Prunellie wail, "What about dinner?"

# Chapitre Vingt-Six: Abandonner le Ange

Raoul pounded on the door to Christine's dressing room, hoping fervently that she was there. The man in the stables said he hadn't seen her return. The blasted peasant had also ventured to criticize him—a vicomte—on the condition of his horses, which he had whipped all the way back to the Opera Garnier in his haste to rescue his love. Raoul was in no mood to be civil, and these words sent him into such a rage that he had struck the man with his riding crop. He hadn't even bothered to buy the man's silence concerning his ungentlemanly behavior, dashing into the building with all possible celerity. He could deal with the man later. It was Christine that mattered now. He would have to fight the dastard of a Phantom, and by God, he would hack the creature into pieces so tiny that he would be unrecognizable!

"Christine!" he yelled, pounding harder. "Open the door!"

Suddenly the door was thrown open, and Raoul had to act quickly to keep his next blow from hitting her. "Raoul!" she exclaimed. "What's the matter?"

He pushed past her, rapier drawn. "Where is he?" he demanded, straining his eyes to see in the dark room. Blasted gas lamps, they didn't light up anything at all. "He's here somewhere, I know it—lurking, like a spineless jellyfish—"

Christine tugged on his arm, looking absolutely confounded. "Who?"

"The Monster!" He jerked his arm out of her grasp and strode towards the closet.

"No," she cried, "don't—"

An avalanche of clothing toppled out as he threw open the closet doors, forcing him to jump back to avoid being buried alive. No one could have hidden in such a mess, but he threw a few hanging dresses out of the way to expose the empty back of the closet. . He whirled around to face her. "Where is he?!"

" _Who are you talking about?_ " she cried, a querulous strain destroying the melodious quality of her voice.

"Your precious Angel of Music, that's who! It has to be him! I didn't hear his voice this time, but only one man could possibly be responsible for two such dastardly deeds!"

She stared for a moment, eyes wide like the blank eyes of a doe. Then a small smile crept over her face. "The Angel isn't real, Raoul—you know that."

His rage had dissipated by this time, both exhaustion and Christine's apparent safety forcing back the waves of fury, replacing them with both relief and confusion. "But you've always believed in the Angel," he said slowly. "You even screamed at me in Les Ambassadeurs when I—"

"I don't believe it anymore." Christine smiled at him, and her beauty seemed to light up the dark room. She stepped forward and touched his shoulder in a coquettish fashion. He sheathed his rapier, content to stare down into her beautiful, Elysian face. She looked like a delicate, ethereal faerie in this dim light; he knew every inch of her face so perfectly that he could have drawn it with absolute precision. Yet tonight there was some inexplicable change; perhaps her eyes shone brighter than usual, or she stood with a taller, prouder stance. Whatever it was, it made her so beautiful that he immediately forgot about any Angels of Music that might have been lurking around.

"It's thanks to you, Raoul." Her voice was soft, mellifluous, like the gentle strumming of a harp. He felt his tensed muscles relax at her touch, and he allowed himself to put aside his previous rage.

"So the dastard—sorry, my love, I shouldn't use such language around you—the monstrous con-artist—womanizer—pretender—didn't follow you to Perros?"

She faltered, and for a horrible instant all his fears were revived. "What are you talking about?" she laughed, though it sounded rather forced. "No one followed me."

"I was informed that a monster was there with you! Haunting your every step!"

"Monster!" she shrieked, her voice loud and harsh in a sudden flare of anger. "How dare you say that!" She was about to say more, but she cut off abruptly. "There wasn't anyone with me, especially not any monster!"

"Then who was it that peasant saw you with?" he demanded.

She started coughing, and he patted her back impatiently. After a moment she recovered and replied, "Just the cabriolet driver; I had to hire a coach, you know."

"And he didn't try anything?"

"Of course not!"

He breathed a sigh of relief as all his concerns were washed away with the glorious quality of her voice. Obviously that hideous peasant wench (Prune, or whatever her name was) had been wrong. Perhaps it had not been the same man whose voice he had heard in her dressing room—just a disgustingly-deformed cutpurse, perhaps. What an imbecile of a vicomte he was to have trusted a peasant, especially such an ugly one.

After a few moments, his mind registered what she had said a moment ago. "Thanks to me?" he wondered aloud.

"Yes—you made me realize that my father's stories were just that: stories. I don't believe in the Angel anymore. Or Odin, or Freya, or Asgard, or any of it."

He blinked in astonishment. He would never have thought that Christine would find it within herself to reject her pagan upbringing, even with his dashing, majestic guidance to aid her. He beat down the surprise; _of course_ his influence would save her from the evils of pernicious paganism. No one but a vicomte could have done something so impossible. It was such a relief to know that the conniving womanizer in her dressing room months previous—though he was still a problem—could no longer ensnare his beautiful Swedish blossom with his ridiculous lies. And even a dastard such as this one must know that he could never be a match for a Chagny. Still, he would have to speak to the _Préfet_ about discovering the identity of this insolent imposter.

He drew her willowy body against him, stroking her face and her lustrous hair, reveling in the touch of her soft, silky skin. She was undoubtedly the most beautiful creature the world had ever seen. "My darling Christine," he murmured, pressing his lips to her hair. "I love you, my precious," he murmured in her ear. "I love you beyond the limits for which love sets itself."

If Veronique were here—thank goodness she was not—she would have been delighted to point out that he had appropriated this line from _Cyrano de Bergerac_. Raoul hated the play—it implied that all ugly men were ingenious, and all handsome ones were worthless. As if a dashing, debonair man like Christian de Neuvillette would need some large-nosed buffoon like Cyrano to compose his words of love for him. Why, it was absolutely insulting. Raoul needed no such aid.

His Swedish faerie relaxed the tiniest bit, and he took it as a sign to continue. "Oh, my darling desideratum, no beauty can match yours, no star outshine the shimmering..." He couldn't remember the word he had used when he had recited this endearment to Jacqueline Lafontaine two weeks ago. The first surrogate that came to mind was, " _vatical_ glitter in your eyes." He still didn't know what vatical meant, but Christine didn't know either, so it was perfectly acceptable.

Christine looked up at him, quite confused. The bewildered look she wore so often made her look so vulnerable, so beautiful.... "What does that mean? Desid—what was that word? And that other word?"

"Why, my pet, it means that you are the most beautiful woman in the world."

"Why didn't you just say that?"

Raoul sighed. Just as it was a waste of time trying to charm Veronique with his intelligence, it was ineffective on Christine as well, even though she was on the opposite end of the intellectual spectrum. "Nevermind." Then he moved in for the kill, capturing her lips with his and held her there, treating her to the full power of his Chagny charm.

For a moment she was reticent, but no woman alive could resist a Chagny, and soon she was ardently kissing him back. She was clinging to him so tightly, and the softness of her curves pressing into his body was enough to drive him mad. His hands began to rove over her body, stroking, caressing—

Christine pulled away. "Raoul, that's improper!"

"It doesn't matter, my delectable darling, I can't help myself—"

"You have to wait until we're married!"

"That's ridiculous! How can—" he hurriedly stopped himself. He had almost just ruined the magnum opus of all his seductions! He took a deep breath to calm himself before speaking again; how could he possibly be losing control? No woman had ever been able to affect him so intensely. "Oh yes, of course, how ungentlemanly of me. Forgive me, my angel. I'm powerless against your beauty."

She looked unhappy for a moment, and then pushed her discomfort away and forced a smile. "Well...I forgive you, I guess."

A temporary inconvenience, he was certain; she'd come around. Besides, he didn't want to rush the crowning seduction of his career. Just the same, she wasn't coming around very fast, and he couldn't afford to waste too much time.

He wished he still had those flowers he had brought. Then he remembered: he had also brought a necklace for her, safely tucked away in his jacket pocket. Triumphantly he brought it forth, presenting the gilded box to her with a genteel bow. "Then please allow me, pretty mademoiselle, to express my love another way."

She opened the box, and her eyes grew so wide that he fancied he could see the locket's reflection in them. "Raoul," she gasped, lifting it out of the box. She seemed breath-taken; he congratulated himself on his choice of bauble. Of course, he'd commissioned it before he'd realized that she no longer believed in the Angel. Oh well. It was still an expensive-looking piece of jewelry; that was all that mattered.

"This is but a small taste of the endless banquet of luxury I can bestow upon you." He kissed her hand, allowing his lips to linger a moment longer than was mandated. He couldn't believe he was reduced to such paltry affections.

"Oh, Raoul, you're so wonderful! It's so pretty! Real diamonds!"

"Nothing is too much for you, my darling, my splendiferous siren. But I must take my leave now—I have a polo match to win!"

"Polo, how exciting!"

Raoul kissed her again, lightly, teasingly—which, thankfully, she didn't object to—and left the room, not headed for a polo match, but for a jewelry shop; if he couldn't speed this conquest up, it wouldn't happen at all!

Christine stared at the pendant long after Raoul had departed, admiring the delicate scrollwork, the perfect, curving lines that spelled out " _Ange_." It was a beautiful necklace; more expensive and exquisite than any she had ever worn.

But after the initial euphoria of receiving had worn off, her awe was replaced by sadness; she wished the necklace said something else, anything else. She didn't want to be reminded that she had just given Raoul credit for Erik's actions. It stung of treachery. What was worse, she didn't want to be reminded of the fact that Raoul could give her such beautiful things, and Erik—sweet, caring, steadfast Erik—could not.

Falling into an abject melancholy, she collapsed onto the stool in front of her vanity table. With unsure fingers she secured the chain's clasp around her neck and surveyed the effect. The mirror reflected an unwanted image: a poor, unhappy girl from the insignificant town of Upsala trying on a locket that should belong to a French noblewoman. She sighed and dropped the necklace onto the cluttered vanity. It wasn't meant for the likes of her. She wasn't worthy of a vicomte's affections. How could he possibly wish to marry a penniless peasant?

But then she remembered: she wasn't insignificant anymore, nor was she penniless. Certainly, she hadn't received her salary as diva yet, but it would make her an independently wealthy woman. And while a title as diva of the largest opera house in the world was perhaps not quite enough to earn access to the unreachable echelons of Parisian nobility, it could certainly earn their respect and society's consent for a marriage to a vicomte. It could truly happen—she could make herself worthy to be Raoul's wife.

Her reflection glared at her from the recesses of the mirror. You foolish wretch, it cried at her, you can take no credit for your ascension to the position of diva—that was Erik's doing! Both his teaching and his influence with the managers secured your status, not just your own talent. You would be nothing without Erik.

Christine turned away from the mirror, covering her face in her hands as she began to cry. It just wasn't fair—how was she supposed to choose between beauty and ugliness, wealth and poverty? The answer was obvious on both counts, but she could not bear to think of the repercussions of her decision. What would become of poor Erik if she deserted him?

Erik folded his arms, studying the policemen with sardonic interest. They had, judging by their conversation, been searching the Garnier room by room for hours now—quite a considerable undertaking. He felt no need to guess as to the identity of their quarry; the managers had been badgering the _Prevote_ for weeks now to get rid of the Opera Ghost. Of course, they were searching in all the wrong places. Why on earth would the Phantom of the Opera be hiding behind a rack of dresses in the costumery, or under the staircase leading to the cellars? Honestly, these men would never learn. All they needed to do was look up at this very moment and they would see him standing on a rafter beam fifteen feet above their heads. But of course, they would not think to do anything of the sort.

He suspected they were less focused on looking for him than for his hideout. But they were searching in all the wrong places for that, too. The buttons and levers that controlled the entrances to his secret maze of passages were hidden out in the open: the torch held by a golden statue in the main foyer, the left-most jewel in a gilded mirror in one of the second story alcoves. These men seemed to be looking for a sign proclaiming "This Way to the Phantom's Lair."

It annoyed him a little that the managers underestimated him so; he would be a poor phantom indeed if it only took a handful of low-ranking members of the _Préfecture de Police_ to capture him. But it was just as well—he could forgo a challenge, however nice a change it would be, if it meant being able to spend more time with Christine.

He forced his attention to return to the two men combing the corridor beneath him; even though he was thoroughly confident in his ability to evade Paris' finest, it wouldn't do to make stupid mistakes due to preoccupation. The mustachioed policeman was cautiously opening a door with the placard "Ladies' Powder Room: Employees Only." Apparently he held some compunction about invading territory designated solely for female use, because he closed the door without entering. That was too bad for him, because Erik had a passageway located inside, ingress granted by a covert mechanism behind a candelabra.

"Nothing in here," the man said to his partner, who was examining the wall underneath a particularly large, cumbersome painting. Erik supposed the painting did look suspicious; most managers wouldn't waste any painting, even a poor specimen such as this, in the backstage areas of the Garnier. Of course, these policemen were unaware that one of the more mischievous stagehands had taken the painting from one of the main hallways and placed it here as a joke.

The man struggled for a moment to re-hang the painting, having to rest the expansive frame against his chest to do so. He seemed intent on proving that he was a man, capable of handling it himself, because he chose to struggle instead of asking his partner for aid. "Fine—then," he panted, endeavoring to raise the frame high enough to catch the hook. "Let's—report—back." Even from the significant distance, Erik could see the beads of sweat reflect the light of the lamps.

He managed to half-hook it and stepped back with a "Ha ha!" of triumph. Had Erik been a simple observer and not the object of their search, he would have considered stepping in to grab the painting before it crashed to the floor. As it was, he merely shook his head in disgust and walked across the rafter to the next room. He winced as he heard the crash echo down the corridor and the mustachioed partner's shout of, "Oh, nice going, idiot!" as he made his way back to Christine's dressing room. _With policemen such as these,_ he thought, _I needn't worry about evading capture, but merely protecting the opera house from sustaining too much damage._

A few minutes later he slid the mirror back and stepped into Christine's presence. It was oddly dark in the room; he noticed with some surprise that the lamps had been turned down, so that their light was only enough to give a lambent semblance of illumination, nothing more. It was odd—Christine usually overran her allotted share of gas of during the third week of the month. Perhaps she had suddenly become conscientious of the fact that the managers took the cost of the excess gas out of her pay. He certainly hoped so; though he cursed himself for being overindulgent of her irresponsibility, he had paid the costs out of his own pocket for the last few months, though she wasn't aware of it. He needed to be more firm. She would never learn to be responsible if he took care of everything for her.

It took him a few moments to locate Christine in the darkness, her obscure form becoming visible as his eyes adjusted. She was hunched over her vanity table, clasping something between her hands. A faint noise reached his ears: she was crying! He wondered suddenly if he should disturb her. It had only been an hour since he had left her to return the coach. She had been through a lot today; perhaps it would be better if he just slipped back downstairs before she noticed—

"Don't go."

He stopped halfway through the mirror, surprised. He hadn't made any sound to alert her to his presence. Silently he returned to the dressing room, stepping forward until he stood just behind Christine, who had not turned around.

"Will you walk me home?" she asked, her voice dull and flat.

"Of course," he replied, a hint of surprise in his voice.

"Thank you." She sniffed, then wiped her eyes and stood. She still did not turn to face him, however, but stepped towards her wastebasket and dropped whatever she was holding into it. The metal basket clanged harshly, followed by the distinct, drawn-out sound of a chain coiling at the bottom. Erik inferred that it was a necklace of some sort, as strange as the thought seemed. She didn't want to let him see it, however, so he said nothing.

She finally turned around, forcing herself to smile. "Will you get my shawl?"

As he did so, she said, "Can I ask you something?" Christine's voice was deceptively light, and he could see she was trying her best to put on a cheery façade.

"Of course."

"What does 'vatical' mean?"

# Chapitre Vingt-Sept: Christine Lit la Bible

"Mademoiselle, you are greatly improved!" declared Mercier, his applause loud and clear despite the conductor's baton in his hand. "You have really been working hard these past few weeks!"

"Oh, thank you, monsieur," she said, looking out at the rows and rows of empty seats and imagining such ecstatic applause from an entire aristocratic audience.

"You've memorized all the choreography perfectly—unlike some others I might mention," the conductor shot at some of the chorus girls lazily leaning against the wall of the stage. "If only your memory for Italian were as good as it is for dance steps, we would be in very good shape for opening night, mademoiselle."

"I've been trying very hard," she said. Memorizing choreography was a lot of work (an activity she had always despised), but she figured it was the least she could do to repay Erik for all the time and effort he had put into her lessons. When _Idomeneo_ opened on the eighteenth, there would be _something_ she could do right—she had given up trying to read that miserable script.

"It's noon!" declared a stagehand. Several of his fellow employees—resting on the furniture that constituted Idomeneo's palace—moaned and covered their ears with shaking hands, quite apparently suffering from the dreaded Phantom's mandate of absolute sobriety in light of the upcoming performances. (Richard and Moncharmin had been trying to sober up the stagehands for months without any hint of success, so despite their refusal to give the Phantom his salary or pay any credence to him at all, Christine could see that they were grateful—however begrudgingly—for his presence.)

"Yes, yes, take your break," said Mercier sourly. "But be back in fifteen minutes! We can't afford to waste any time!"

As the ballerinas and stage crew filtered off the stage, Christine started towards her dressing room and its secret mirror; Erik was such a marvelous cook (and so dedicated to pleasing her) that, much as she hated to be constantly plaguing him with demands, she couldn't resist the call of his kitchen.

She walked through the wings and caught sight of Meg and Tannenbaum talking backstage; they were holding hands, and Meg was speaking animatedly. Christine had never really thought that Meg was pretty, but the happiness radiating from her face at that moment made her appear quite beautiful.

Christine shifted her weight guiltily, thinking of her stupid lies and cruel, immature criticism of a man who seemed to her now to be absolutely perfect for Meg. Christine had been quite horrible to her too, and couldn't fathom how Meg had remained friends with her. She didn't deserve it in the least.

The couple hadn't seen her yet, so there was still the opportunity to sneak away, but she didn't take it. After a further moment of deliberation, she stepped towards Meg and Tannenbaum to apologize for her insufferable behavior in the past few months.

Fleurette Bisson daintily procured another hors d'oeuvre from the silver tray as she concluded her narrative: "And so I said, 'Crinoline has been out of fashion since the Crimean War!'" When Raoul didn't bother to look away from the window, she hit his hand with her fan. "Monsieur!"

"I'm sorry, my sweet, did you say something?"

"I _said_ , 'Crinoline has been out of fashion since the Crimean War.'"

"Of course you did."

She fanned herself with exaggerated flourish, plump lips arranged in a sensuous pout. "You haven't been listening to a thing I've said!"

"Of course I have. I've just been a little distracted by business matters." He kissed her hand. "I'm so sorry. It's so enjoyable to spend an afternoon with you, my sweet enchantress." It wasn't exactly true. Fleurette was gorgeous, yes, but he just couldn't seem to concentrate on her. His mind kept drifting back to Christine. He just couldn't understand it; he had always been unmatched in his ability to woo and enjoy several maidens at once—each one a different nectar, distinct, but equally precious. For the past few weeks, however, despite his plans to enjoy a few other beauties during his extended conquest, he'd been able to think of nothing but those doe-like eyes, that slender waist, that flawless skin....

"Oh, Raoul," said Fleurette, giggling at his expression and pulling her hand away, "people are watching."

"And I don't care!" he declared. "Not a man in the world could blame me for my infatuation of such beauty!" This wench wasn't even in the same league as Christine; no woman could ever measure up to his dazzling diva. Still, Fleurette was very fetching, and while Christine's willowy shape was one kind of perfection, Fleurette's soft, full curves were another. And unlike his Swedish sylph, Fleurette, though from a smaller town far from Paris, successfully kept up with the latest fashion; her hair, a golden blonde, was pulled back into an explosion of ringlets; her bangs, short and tightly curled, drew attention to her perfect forehead and dazzling sapphire eyes. A month ago he would have been dying to win her affections. But now he could only muster a faint interest in the woman.

"It's so beautiful here," Fleurette gushed, staring out the massive windows to the garden beyond. "It's not as spectacular as Les Ambassadeurs, to be sure, but it has its own sort of elegance."

"The Ledoyen is nowhere near as grand, I agree, my pet—look at these walls, pathetic in their brown velvet compared to the golden marble of Les Ambassadeurs—but I do declare, the dinner menu here is slightly superior."

"I can't wait to try the salmon! I've heard it's absolutely divine!"

"It will be here momentarily. But, my curvaceous _charmuse_ , I did not take you here just for the fabulous menu."

"Oh?" Her fan flashed back and forth in front of her face, her expression inviting him to elaborate, to overwhelm her with romantic tribute.

"Indeed—I brought you here so I could admire your beauty in such a magnificent setting, and watch as the surroundings, so costly and elegant, fade into nothingness compared to your...uh..." He faltered as an image of Christine's perfect figure appeared unbidden in his mind's eye. "Your...beauty," he finished, rather lamely.

Fleurette did not appear to notice. "Oh, Raoul, you're too much!"

"Your beauty deserves such praise, my bewitching _bijou._ "

Fleurette giggled again. "Raoul, really—" Her eyes suddenly darted away from Raoul's forcedly-adoring gaze. "Oh look, the food has arrived!"

Raoul suppressed a sigh of relief as the waiter interrupted their conversation to place silver trays in front of each of them with salmon and chives, garnished with artfully-arranged radishes and turnips.

"This is simply exquisite! You must bring me here again."

"Whatever my rapturous rose wishes," he replied.

Before he could attempt to continue his conquest, a voice interrupted him:

"Vicomte, fancy seeing you here."

Raoul's stomach curdled as he recognized the voice, and he cursed silently. Out of all the people in the world that could have ruined his brilliant seduction—all right, his distracted, less-than-brilliant seduction—this man was at the very top of the list.

He stood and shook Laurent D'Aubigne's hand. " _Bon soir_ , marquis," he said, trying to sound composed and gentlemanly in spite of his contempt for the horrid nobleman. "I haven't seen you in quite a while."

"It has been a while," replied D'Aubigne, in his soft, irritatingly philosophic voice. His eyes, dark and unblinking, unnerved Raoul as they always did; D'Aubigne had a way of tilting his head down and staring up into one's eyes, as if he were a bull preparing to charge. "I haven't seen you since I managed to coerce that baron's daughter out of your arms."

Raoul forced a genial laugh, though his insides were burning with an acidic rage. "Yes, I had quite forgotten."

"Are you going to introduce me?" the marquis asked, eyeing Fleurette behind a mask of gentility.

"Marquis," said Raoul mechanically, as breeding won out over hatred, "this is Mademoiselle Bisson. Fleurette, the Marquis D'Aubigne."

The woman-stealing dastard kissed Fleurette's hand, making her giggle; even in such a simple act, the man's insufferable egotism and narcissistic gallantry were infuriatingly evident. "A great honor, mademoiselle," he said, in his usual grave voice. He turned to Raoul. "I hear you're acting as patron of the Garnier in your brother's stead. Such a marvelous idea, patronage of an opera house; I don't know why I didn't think of it myself."

"Are you an admirer of the arts, monseigneur?" Fleurette asked, seeming completely entranced.

Raoul almost choked as he heard the over-inflated title. How _dare_ she refer to the marquis as _monseigneur_ when she had only ever called Raoul _monsieur_ , even upon their first meeting? It was absolutely outrageous!

"Why, yes, I am, beautiful mademoiselle, especially when the art in question involves enchanting ladies such as yourself."

Raoul cleared his throat. "Well, it was nice to see you again, D'Aubigne. Good day."

"But I just got here. I'll join your little luncheon, shall I? Waiter, bring another chair."

"I don't think that would be a good idea," Raoul said, shooting the man a warning glare.

"Nonsense. I want to hear all about the new diva. Her performance in _Faust_ was the talk of Paris for weeks. You are quite a fortunate man, to have an excuse to admire her beauty whenever you drop by the Garnier—which, with her around, I'm sure you do quite a lot, now don't you, vicomte?"

"Well—"

"If I were in your shoes, I'd have whisked that exquisite little songbird to my castle by now. Oh, how stupid of me—your little family doesn't even own a castle, does it?"

"Of course we—"

"Don't fret about it, Chagny; not all aristocrats can be as fabulously wealthy as I am. But what was I saying?" He paused and looked up as he said it, the way an overly-dramatic actor would. "Oh yes. The glorious little angel you haven't quite managed to seduce. Well, don't feel bad. She turned down the Duc de Saint-Simon too; she's probably just holding out for a more worthy man."

Raoul gritted his teeth and didn't reply; only a short time ago he would have welcomed a little competition to liven up his crowning seduction, but it had just been a game then—now Christine was far too important to risk losing to anyone, especially this loathsome cretin.

"In fact," drawled the marquis, "I just might stop by on my way to the Condorcet party tomorrow. I'm sure a pretty young thing like that would love to give a marquis a private rendition, don't you think?"

"No, I don't! Waiter, remove that chair immediately! This is a private luncheon!"

"Oh, is that how it is?" D'Aubigne winked at Raoul with a detestably arrogant and conspiratorial air, seemingly utterly unconcerned with Raoul's anger. "Well, I'll just have to dine by myself, then."

"Good!"

D'Aubigne, about to leave, suddenly turned back. "My darling mademoiselle, though I hate to ruin Monsieur le Vicomte's plans for you, my status as a marquis commands me to inform you that he is very unlikely to break his engagement to the Comtess de la Musardiere to marry you."

The shock on Fleurette's face transmuted her serene beauty into aghast horror. "What?! H-how dare you?! He's not engaged!"

"Oh, I'm afraid it's quite true."

"Raoul, Raoul, tell me it's not!" she wailed.

"My condolences, mademoiselle," the marquis said, poorly-concealed triumph twisting his sympathetic air.

As Raoul flew to his feet in rage, his shouting drowning out Fleurette's hysteric sobs, the marquis said, quite calmly, "I think I will pay Mademoiselle Daaé a visit tomorrow. A little bit of this, a little bit of that—it should be quite good fun."

Christine frowned as she turned the pages of the Bible, trying to find a passage she could understand. What an idiot she was; she _knew_ she shouldn't have told Mamma about her conversion. Mamma had been thrilled, of course, but Christine should have suspected that she wouldn't be content with simply _being_ a Christian. She should have figured that Mamma would expect her to actually read the Bible and understand it. How could anyone be expected to read the entire thing? The book was almost sixteen-hundred pages!

She sighed and returned to the passage she was currently perusing. She didn't want to disappoint Mamma. And besides, she truly wanted to understand God, and Heaven, and Jesus Christ, and everything about Christianity. If only it wasn't so confusing.

"And another angel came out from the altar, which had power over fire; and cried with a loud cry to him that had the sharp sickle, saying, Thrust in thy sharp sickle, and gather the clusters of the vine of the earth; for her grapes are fully ripe. And the angel thrust in his sickle into the earth, and gathered the vine of the earth, and cast it into the great winepress of the wrath of God."

Christine blinked slowly, fingering the new silver cross at her throat (a gift from Erik to replace her Thor's hammer necklace), and reread the three verses. Perhaps she should have picked another section. She had chosen this one because it had angels in it. But she couldn't understand why the angels were making wine; they certainly must have more important things to do. And what about the "wrath of God" part? Curse it, she shouldn't have started at the back of the book—

"What are you reading?"

She turned to see Erik standing in the mirror frame. "Oh, marvelous, it's you." She swung her legs over to the other side of the vanity stool and beckoned imperiously. "Come over here and help me."

Erik complied, and she continued, pointing accusingly to the passage, "What does this mean?"

His eyes quickly took in the quarter-page. "I'm certain I don't know, Christine. I am not very informed in religion."

"But you know everything!"

Erik actually laughed at that, making Christine very happy (he hardly ever laughed), and, simultaneously, very confused. "I'm very sorry to dispel that impression, but I'm afraid I know very little outside of the realm of music."

"But you know about fireworks—and architecture—and Napoleon—"

"Just commonly-known items I've picked up over the years. And as far as religion is concerned, I really am quite ignorant."

"Rats."

"Did Madame Valerius instruct you to read a specific book?"

"Yes, the Bible."

"No, I mean a book within the Bible." Upon seeing her blank look, he elaborated: "You're currently reading the Book of Revelation. Did she tell you to read Revelation?"

"What's a Revelation?"

"It's the final book in the Bible. I believe it's a prophecy of Judgment Day. It's very confusing, even to accomplished theologians, Christine; a new convert such as yourself shouldn't start there."

"Oh. Okay. Mamma said to read the Gospel, but I don't know what that is, either, and I couldn't tell her because then she'd know that I never listened whenever she dragged me to church."

Erik smiled. "The Gospel, I believe, consists of four accounts of the life of Christ."

"I thought you said you didn't know anything about religion."

"I happen to know that basic fact, Christine. That doesn't mean I know anything else that can help you." He consulted the table of contents and flipped to a page before handing her the book.

She looked at the first few words, which read "The Gospel According to Matthew." It made sense so far. "Thanks, Erik," she said. "I really appreciate—oh no!"

"What?"

She shoved the Bible back into his hands. "Look at this! A whole page of names! How am I ever supposed to remember all of that?"

"Hmmm." Erik studied the page for a long moment, during which time she continued to rant:

"I knew I shouldn't have told her! Curse it all, it was so much _easier_ to be a Nord—everything made sense! Christianity is the truth so I thought I could at least try, but this is absurd! Look at that page!"

"...It sounds as though Matthew is relating the genealogy of Jesus Christ to prove that Christ fulfills a certain prophecy. You don't have to memorize it."

"Oh, good. Thanks." She took the book back, and turning back to face the vanity, she studied the page intently. "I guess I shouldn't complain. Anything is better than studying that horrid script."

"Why do you say that?" To her irritation, he didn't sound quite as surprised as she would have liked.

"I don't think Mozart was a genius," she declared, putting her feet up on the edge of the vanity and tipping the stool back onto two legs. "I think he's an idiot. Why didn't he write his stupid opera in French so people could understand it? Why, it's absolutely—"

She screamed as the stool lost its equilibrium and began to fall backward. Fortunately Erik caught her before she hit the floor.

As he pushed her and the stool upright, she laughed giddily. This mishap constituted the third time he had saved her from serious bodily harm. "You're really very handy to have around," she said dizzily, trying to rearrange her mussed hair.

"Why, thank you," he said with a smile. He looked very handsome when he smiled. Not in the same way that Raoul was handsome, of course, but something about him was so captivating—his strong, noble stance, the glittering intelligence in his eyes, the love that played upon his features.... Even thinking about the face under that mask, she couldn't shake the peculiar emotion.

After a moment of thought, she tried to wave it away with the flutter of one hand. "Anyway, as I was saying, it's ridiculous that the managers and everybody expect me to go around remembering strings of gibberish for months on end."

"Why don't you try to learn Italian?"

She dismissed the idea with another wave of her hand. "I'm no good at languages. But I still have—let me think—fifteen days before the opera opens; that's plenty of time. I don't know what the managers are fretting about."

"It's only eleven days," he corrected.

"Didn't the managers move it back again?"

Erik frowned, apparently irritated by the managers' incompetence. "They were considering it before I put a stop to it."

"What did you do that for? It's nice having a dead-space between operas—like a vacation for everyone!"

"If I hadn't, the performance would have ended up somewhere in mid-April."

She sighed. "Well, even by April I probably still wouldn't have it all learned—stupid Italian."

"Christine, are you telling me you still haven't memorized the last act?"

"Just the last scene or two." It wasn't her fault if God had given her a poor memory. "But it isn't a big deal—if I don't learn my lines by the eighteenth, they can write them on big posters in the orchestra pit."

Erik was trying not to laugh. She quite enjoyed watching him laugh—it was a pleasant change from his usual serious demeanor. "I think the audience would be able to tell the difference."

She was about to speak, but paused when she realized that Erik was right; she had a duty to the audience and to the Garnier. She bit her lip. She was being ridiculously whiny and unreasonable. She didn't know how Erik put up with her. "Yes, of course, you're right," she admitted, rather unhappily. "I'll memorize the rest.... I just hope these people will appreciate the pains I'm going to."

"I'm sure they will."

She yawned and eyed the Bible, which had fallen to the floor in the commotion, with a resigned grimace. "Well, you can go now; I need to read at least a few chapters before I go home."

"Very well; call me if you want anything."

He turned to leave, but Christine suddenly remembered something. "Oh, and thank you so much for getting Mamma hired here!"

"You're very welcome, Christine, but no thanks is necessary; her work is exceptional, and _Idomeneo_ will benefit greatly from her talent as a seamstress."

She watched him leave before retrieving the Bible. He really was a wonderful man. She had only asked him about it yesterday; she had given Raoul months and he had never done it. Oh well; she supposed Raoul was very busy.

It was too bad that she wouldn't be able to see Erik after she got married. For a while she had tried to scheme a way of keeping both Raoul and Erik in her life, but it was quite impossible.

For an ephemeral moment she toyed with the idea of refusing Raoul's hand, but she discarded it immediately. It was a shame; if Erik were wealthy like Raoul, she might even consider marrying him despite his disfigurement. But she couldn't change Erik's financial status any more than she could change his deformed face. She could still write Erik letters, couldn't she? It wouldn't be the same as having him around, but that was the price she had to pay for a handsome vicomte, a title, a beautiful mansion, marvelous food, villas on the Riviera, sparkling gems, gorgeous satin gowns, wealth, respect.... It would be hard, but she supposed she could live with it. She just had to make sure she remembered in the weeks to come not to become any more attached to Erik than she already was.

With another loud sigh, she resumed her position on the stool—all four of its legs planted firmly on the ground—and continued reading the Book of Matthew.

# Chapitre Vingt-Huit: Le Enlèvement

At the Garnier the following day, the six o'clock hour found the Vicomte de Chagny trying without success to control his anger. The whole week had been a veritable cavalcade of disasters: he hadn't been able to purchase the dinner jacket he had gone to great lengths to acquire, the Marquis de Montberon had beaten him at polo, D'Aubigne had utterly destroyed his relationship with Fleurette (they all found out in the end, but it was so blasted hard to find desirable women that didn't care about or hadn't already heard about the engagement), _and_ he was being forced by Philippe to attend a dinner with the horrid Veronique, on top of which, he couldn't find Christine to protect her from the damned Marquis D'Aubigne—and then, as if all that wasn't quite enough, Carlotta Torres had just decided to voice her opinion of "dat Mademoiselle Daaé." And while he stood here and defended Christine's honor, Christine was alone in the opera house! All alone, devoid of protection, and perhaps in the clutches of the Marquis D'Aubigne!

He turned his attention back to Carlotta, who had been squawking at him for the past few minutes. "Dat Christine Daaé es mud on da bottom of my shoes," spat the ex-diva, finishing this statement with several Spanish curses. She was dressed in a monstrous gown, with cascades of decadent red silk and black lace. But Carlotta's excessive masses of bright make-up, combined with her towering inferno of black hair, made the whole effect rather overbearing. Anyone less cultured than himself would have assumed that this was the style in Spain and that she was just honoring her heritage—no one would look like that on purpose.

Carlotta had been talking all this time, and her shrill piercing voice was impossible to ignore for very long. "When dat _rata_ ruins de opera, the managers will be crawling back to me, on _manos y rodillas_ , you be marking my words!"

"Señorita, Christine is no such thing! She sings like a beautiful dove! Her skin is flawless alabaster, her eyes sparkle like—like shining stars!" An image of Christine floated to the top of his mind, causing him to pause in awe and reverence of her beauty.

A few moments later, the impatient tapping of Carlotta's foot brought him back to the present state of affairs. "Oh yes—and I would thank you not to say such foul things about her in my presence."

Much to Raoul's annoyance, she loosed a piercing shriek of laughter that could be heard throughout the opera house. "And 'oo are you, to be defending 'er so? 'Er lover?" She snorted. "Usted es muy guapo y rico—demasiado por ella." Carlotta batted her over-large eyelashes at him.

Raoul started. And not just because he knew enough Spanish to understand what she had said. In fact, her very posture implied... Goodness, no. Well, he supposed that someone with such handsome and regal qualities as himself would have to put up with undesirable women flirting with him occasionally. "As a matter of fact," he boasted pompously, "I _am_ her lover."

Carlotta laughed again. "Ou' of all da girls in Paris, you 'ad to pick dat one? Christine Daaé es una don nadie! She cannot 'old a match to da beauty tha' es my voice." The flourish with which she rolled her r's was beginning to grate on his strained nerves.

"How dare you say such wicked things about my darling Christine?" he demanded, momentarily losing his control. He could feel the battle raging between his anger and his upper-class breeding. "Señorita," he managed through gritted teeth, "get thee gone, before I lose restraint over my temper."

This only brought more peals of laughter from Carlotta. "Vicomte, you might not be very bright, but you are deserving someding better dan a mere chorus girl!"

"She isn't a chorus girl!"

Carlotta's fluorescent lips curled into a sneer, and her overly-mascara-ed eyes narrowed hatefully. "Maybe no' at de moment—but after de first performance of _Idomeneo_ she will be! You cannot 'ide a mongrel in a diva's clothing for long!"

"How dare you—!"

She waved his anger aside. "I' does not matter. I 'ave always said dere is no accounting for taste. I make you a deal."

"What could you _possibly_ —"

" _¡Cállate!_ Jus' listen! If you are 'er lover, you are a very poor one—dere are all kinds of men always around dat ballet _rata_ , like bees buzzing around a piece of 'oneycomb! You are no' protecting her from all dese _lobos_!"

"Lobos?"

"Wolves, vicomte, _wolves_!"

"Who is bothering her? Tell me and I'll have them fired!"

"Dere are being too many to name! You get rid of dem, the next round of men will take dere place! And what about de Phantom? 'E is being responsible for 'er diva-'ood, you know—she couldn't have done it by herself. _E_ lla canta como una comadreja!"

"Christine has told me she has no contact with the Phantom!"

"Ha! 'Ow can you be so gullible? She is lying to you!"

"Christine would never lie to me!"

"You go ahead an' convince yourself of dat, vicomte—it does no' matter. If de Phantom does no' get 'er, de _plaga_ will! 'Ow you say—pneumonia, yes!"

"Why do you care?"

"You take de _rata_ to your mansion—keep 'er safe from all dese tings. And I will take back my crown."

"I couldn't possibly do that to her—"

"It is being for 'er own protection, cannot you see dis? Take 'er out of 'arms way, 'ave your fun with your _rata_ mistress, an' when you are being tired of 'er, she can 'ave her job back."

"How dare you say that I could ever tire of my darling angel—!"

"Well you certainly don't intend to be marrying 'er, do you?"

"Well—maybe—"

"You are engaged, you _buey estúpido!_ To de Comtess de la Musardiere! You would be better to jump off de roof dan to renounce your promise to marry 'er!"

Though he took objection to being called a stupid ox, he shoved his anger aside. "Yes, you're right, of course—I can't marry her. And in a month when I wed Mademoiselle de la Musardiere, Christine may return to her position here, as diva?"

" _Sí, sí_ , of course."

"Why would you agree to that?"

"Because by den I will 'ave arranged for a position at a better opera 'ouse. Dis performance of _Idomeneo_ nine days from now is a—what is de word—'undred-year celebration, no?"

"Centennial. So?"

"So it is being talked about across Europe! I mus' play Princess Ilia!"

Raoul frowned, uncertain of the whole affair.

Carlotta sighed in irritation. "Fine, fine! I did not want to 'ave to be telling you dis, but a man is 'ere right now waiting for da re'er-sal to end so 'e can bag your darling little songbird!"

His head shot up. "What?!"

" _Sí_ , a nobleman, with riches far beyond dose dat you are 'aving, vicomte. She will not be able to refuse dis man!"

"The Marquis D'Aubigne!"

"Yes, dat was 'is name."

Raoul wasted no time to reply and flew past the diva in his haste to reach Christine. He would have to whisk her away to the safety of his mansion at once before the loathsome marquis stole the most beautiful woman in the world!

After the vicomte was out of sight, Carlotta finally allowed herself to laugh. She had originally planned to steal the vicomte away from the Swedish rat, but this worked out much better. What a stupid, pitiful oaf that vicomte was, falling for a story like that! And what a poor amount of faith he must place in his precious little _rata_ , to be so gullible (of course, given Christine Daaé's intellect, it was understandable).

She turned and strode down the hall, straight to the managers' office. Once they learned that their cheap little surrogate had bailed ship, just like the rat she was, they would have no alternative but to accept her, Carlotta, goddess of a thousand songs, back as the diva of the Opera Garnier, the only woman in the world who currently knew every line of _Idomeneo._

She couldn't restrain a scream of triumph; she had succeeded in ridding the Garnier of the usurping little toad, and nothing would ever come between her and her crown again!

Christine walked off the stage and into the maze of hallways, feeling sulky and rather wrung-out. It was unfair that the managers had just wasted seven hours of her day—how stupid could they be, to try to conduct a dress rehearsal without enough stagehands to move all the sets! And how could they possibly expect her, their diva, their goddess, without whom there is no performance, to push pieces of furniture around like a common employee?

What was equally degrading was that, in light of the impossibility of a rehearsal, the managers had instructed everyone to stay and paint banners to hang above the street advertising the opening performance. How perfectly ridiculous that they would expect their cast to do it, just to save the few francs it would have cost to have the banners made professionally! Erik had told her the managers had almost run out of money—they had spent all of their own and almost all of Raoul's donations, the remainder of which they were keeping on hand for themselves in case _Idomeneo_ didn't bring in enough of a return. She could understand that, she supposed—she would do the same in their position, though she never would have invested her money (if she had any) here with Richard and Moncharmin in command. They were very fortunate that they had Erik. They were still frightened of him for some reason or another (and yet refusing to pay him a single franc)—Erik only interfered when the success of the opera was at stake, and he seemed to do so in a non-threatening way when possible—but they couldn't help but reluctantly agree with his logic once it had a chance to sink in. Still, even with his help, the opera was likely to be a disaster, what with the epidemic, the crime (caused by the epidemic, according to Erik; she didn't understand the connection), and the poor management.

She saw a metal trash can inside one of the offices she was passing and seriously considered chucking her script in with the rubbish. She hated looking at the bound stack of pages with her name scrawled on it, which seemed to stare back at her accusingly as if conscious of the fact that she still did not know all of her lines. It was ridiculous; it wasn't _her_ fault that the stupid opera was written in Italian. All Erik had said was that she should do everything humanly possible; well, this opera was humanly impossible. He couldn't argue with that.

She was halfway through the door towards the trash can when a man's voice stopped her: "Why, you must be Mademoiselle Daaé."

She turned to see a tall, thin gentleman striding down the hallway towards her. She quickly scanned his appearance, impressed with her findings. His clothes looked very expensive and were quite reminiscent of Raoul's; he must be at the very height of fashion—a nobleman!

He removed his hat as he approached, and she saw a gold signet ring on his hand. "I must say," he continued, in a smooth, self-assured voice, "you are absolutely seraphic! What an angel!" He kissed her hand, and she giggled as his lips lingered on her skin; how exciting that she could have two aristocratic suitors!

"I am the Marquis D'Aubigne—but you may call me Laurent."

Christine's ecstasy at discovering the lofty rank of her new beau was dimmed by the chilling look in his eyes as they raked over her body, his whole face transformed into that of some terrifying carnivore studying its prey. Goodness, he looked as though he wanted to eat her alive!

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Laurent," she said as cordially as she could manage. _It must just be the lighting_ , she reasoned, trying to quash the creeping sensation that was threatening her spine. _Surely his expression is simply one in awe of my glorious beauty. Yes, that must be it._

His face returned to a more amiable state, and she convinced herself that she had imagined its previous expression entirely. "Yes, quite a pleasure," he replied, in a drawling voice. "I'm sure you've heard of my family's extensive holdings." He sighed dramatically. "It's so loathsome having so much money and no one to spend it on—a young lady, perhaps; one with beauty and talent, but tragically poor, just waiting for a worthy marquis to sweep her off her feet."

"Why _monseigneur_ , you flatter me—"

"I'm thinking of buying a restaurant near here—just a whim, you understand, but I would simply love to have a woman's discerning opinion concerning the place."

Christine, absolutely dumbstruck, could only open and close her mouth, unable to force out any sound as her mind raced. This man must be absurdly rich, to be able to buy restaurants on a whim like baubles!

"What's the matter, my adorable little angel? Hasn't the Vicomte de Chagny ever taken you to one of his restaurants?"

"No, I—"

"Oh, how foolish of me! I'd forgotten he didn't have any! A creature of such legendary beauty shouldn't be wasting her time on a lower-class noble like him. Now come; the reservations are for six-fifteen."

He grabbed her arm and steered her towards the exit. She walked along willingly at first, dropping her script on a nearby table in the hopes that someone would move it and she could honestly say she had lost it. (She had learned yesterday at church that honesty was important in the Bible—it was even one of the Commandments. Fortunately she was smart enough to think of ways around lying so she technically wasn't sinning.) She was congratulating herself on her intelligence when she realized that the marquis had just insulted her fiancé.

She dug her heels into the floor. "Take back what you just said about Raoul!"

"Fine, fine," sighed the marquis, still pulling her along. "I rescind that perfectly true statement. Now will you come? The restaurant won't hold reservations very long, even for someone as important as myself."

"At least let me change first."

"You look fine." He sounded a little impatient now, which annoyed Christine even more than his snide remark about Raoul.

"I'm afraid that I can't dine with you, marquis—I'm engaged to the Vicomte de Chagny."

To her surprise and horror, instead of falling to her feet and begging that she leave the vicomte and marry him instead, he actually laughed. "Chagny would never even consider marrying you. He may be tasteless, but he's not completely stupid."

"WHAT—"

"Hurry up—if you aren't in my carriage in one minute, I'll take some other, more appreciative chorus girl."

"I'M NOT A CHORUS GIRL!" she shrieked, stomping her foot in rage. "I'M A DIVA! I'm the most important woman in Paris! And you can't treat me like a servant!"

His impatient expression suddenly turned ugly. "You impudent little brat! You're little better _than_ a servant! You should be thanking me on your _knees_ for paying you any attention at all!"

Shrieking with fury, she was about to leap onto the marquis' face and claw his eyes out when she heard pounding footsteps echoing down the hall. She turned to see Raoul rushing to rescue her from the demonic marquis. "Raoul, Raoul," she cried, "get this horrid man out of my sight!"

"You heard her!" Raoul shouted, brandishing his sword threateningly. "Get out of my opera house!"

"She isn't worth my time," said the marquis calmly, fingering the gold cap on his cane. "Under normal circumstances I wouldn't even bother."

"THEN GET OUT!"

The marquis continued as if he hadn't been interrupted: "But since you seem to have some odd fascination for the little rat, I just can't walk away." He pulled a necklace from his jacket pocket and dangled the glittering pendant in front of Christine's eyes. "Look what I'll give you if you'll just have dinner with me."

Christine was about to damn the man to Niflheim—which, in the confusion, she had forgotten didn't exist anymore—when her eyes fixed on the enormous diamond an inch from her face. It was the size of a small plum and sparkled with a rainbow of colors in the gaslight. She started to say no several times, but she couldn't get it out.

"See, marquis," said Raoul triumphantly, "she doesn't want your pernicious pendant. Now, my sweet, we'll go—"

"Wuh—wuh—well, maybe I could—"

"Ha ha!" exclaimed the marquis.

Raoul shoved the diamond out of Christine's face and forcibly steered her towards the exit. "Come along, darling, move faster."

She continued to stare at the necklace in the marquis' gloved hand, stammering incoherently as he dragged her down the hallway.

"Buh—but Raoul, I could just—"

"NO! He won't really give you that diamond, Christine! He's not a marquis—he's a fiend—a contemptible scoundrel—the most threatening of the _lobos_ trying to take advantage of your innocence!"

The marquis laughed coldly. "Come now, Chagny, don't be so melodramatic. And don't worry, pretty little Christine," he called to her. "I'll be waiting when you return to the opera house tomorrow."

"She won't be returning tomorrow!" Raoul hauled her around the corner and out of sight, but she could still hear the marquis' mocking laughter.

When they reached the doors, Christine finally rallied enough of her brainpower to make a coherent protest. "But there's a rehearsal tomorrow! I have to be here!"

"Nevermind the rehearsal!" Raoul snapped.

"But I'll lose my divahood!" she whined, falling to the floor and starting to cry.

"This isn't the time for a tantrum! Get up! I can hear his footsteps!"

"I don't care! I have to be here!"

"How can you be so abominably _stupid_ , Christine?! Why it's enough to—" Raoul stopped abruptly as she started to cry harder and changed tactics: "It's not just D'Aubigne! There's the epidemic! It's reached this area of the city, and it's hitting it hard!"

She stopped crying long enough to consider this declaration. "Is that why there aren't enough stagehands?" she said, after a moment of intense thought.

"Who cares?! It's you that matters, Christine, and only you—if you stay here, in contact with the masses that come to view the opera, you'll most certainly catch pneumonia and die!"

"Really?" She wiped her nose on her sleeve. "Is it that serious? What is pneumonia, anyway?"

Raoul suddenly noticed a man at the end of the hallway from where Christine had just walked, and his entire body tensed, as if he were a fear-struck animal that has caught sight of a monstrous predator. "God, there he is! Come on!" he shouted, throwing Christine off-balance as he bolted for the front entrance.

"Raoul," she whined, trying in vain to pull out of his grip, "where are we going?"

"I'll tell you in the carriage! Hurry!"

"Take back the terrible thing you said!"

"Yes, yes, I'm sorry! Hurry up!"

"But I can't leave—Erik's expecting me for our lesson!"

"Surely you can miss just—" Raoul broke off suddenly, wondering if he had heard right. "Who is Erik?"

"He's the Phantom of the Opera and he'll be angry if you make me miss my lesson so close to the—"

" _What?_ " Raoul breathed, his voice, almost a hiss, and his narrowed eyes made him look almost like a snake.

She gasped and clapped a belated hand over her mouth.

"You mean to tell me that you really are in contact with this—this womanizing fiend?"

"He's not a womanizing fiend!" she said loudly, extending her lower lip in a pout. "He's wonderful!"

" _And you lied to me_?" he continued, as if he hadn't heard, his eyes going red like a bull that had caught sight of a waving cloth.

"Yes, well, what did you want me to do? I couldn't let you challenge him to a duel and deprive me of my instructor!"

"And he was the hideous monstrosity who attacked me at Perros?!"

"How _dare_ you say that he's a— _what_?!" she demanded. "Attacked you?! Why were you there? You followed me!"

" _Christine, you little fool!_ " he snarled, gripping her shoulders furiously and shaking her. "How could you consort with a monster—a hideous, manipulative monster! My God, I've blindly let you stay here, under his influence, for months, and—he _did_ kidnap you, didn't he?! Oh, God, you lied about that, too?!"

She squirmed out of his grip. "Let me go! Stop being so mean! It's all fine, don't you see that? He was teaching me to sing, but I want to be a vicomtess even more than a diva now, so none of it matters!"

He froze, hands still outstretched, and she could see furious thought behind his raging eyes.

"Well then come on!" he declared, grabbing her arm and tugging her towards the doors.

His wild anger seemed to have quelled somewhat, and she interpreted an acceptance of marriage in his response, so she happily walked with him for a moment before another thought suddenly came to mind. "Will I be back for supper?" she asked, dallying in the doorway. "Mamma is fixing mock turtle soup and—"

"Of course you won't! The pneumonia—and the damned marquis!—and oh, God, that monster!—they won't be gone by suppertime! I'll send a message to Madame Valerius that you won't be able to make it!"

She caught hold of a doorway, jarring their progress to a halt. "But I like that soup!"

"Soup!" Raoul exclaimed, staring up at the heavens as if begging for patience. "There are wolves and plagues and she's talking about soup! Christine, I'll have my chef fix you whatever you want! Soups, salads, caviar, _araignée de mer_ , _filet mignon_ —"

"But that necklace—"

"I'll buy you a bigger one!"

"You will?"

"Yes, yes, anything, just come!"

She considered for a moment, and then ran to keep up with him.

Raoul, having shoved the driver aside, whipped the horses to a full gallop along the streets of Paris, utterly ruining Christine's chance to enjoy the scenery along the nine blocks to the Champs Élysées. He seemed almost frenzied, and it frightened Christine a little; he ignored everything she said the entire way, just as he ignored the shouts from pedestrians and screams from those he threatened to run over in his mad haste.

She was already starting to regret her hasty decision to flee the opera house; she should have taken more time to think things out. It was a flattering and exciting thought that she could have two noblemen in love with her, but she wasn't sure she wanted it—the marquis had been so rude! She'd just have to live without the dazzling fortune he'd promised to spend on her.

"Where are we going?" she shouted up at Raoul.

"My mansion!" he yelled back, whipping the horses with even more fervor.

She thought for a moment. It would be nice to spend a few days at Raoul's glamorous mansion. The breach of etiquette would be overlooked, she was certain; they were engaged, after all, and it was an emergency. Besides, he could shower her with jewels and silks and chocolates to make up for the necklace she had just lost. But what about her divahood? She did want it, despite what she had just told Raoul. The managers had told her that if she missed one more rehearsal, she'd lose the part. And if the pneumonia were a danger, surely Erik would have warned her. Oh, dear—what had she gotten herself into?

"Get out of the way, you blasted peasants!" yelled Raoul, brandishing his whip as the passersby leapt out of the way of the carriage.

"Slow down!" she shrieked, holding on for dear life as they rounded a corner.

He ignored her completely, and she continued to scream until the carriage came to a jarring halt, throwing her to the floor.

Before she could get up, the door was yanked open and Raoul hurriedly helped her out of the carriage. It took her a moment to realize that the beautiful building in front of them was Raoul's mansion.

"Come on!" he said impatiently, grasping her hand and half-dragging her towards the front door.

Christine caught a glimpse of the horrid butler as they passed through the doors and into the foyer. "Sir, what—" the man began to protest, but Raoul cut him off:

"Prepare a room for Mademoiselle Daaé at once!"

The butler continued to stare.

"Get moving!" Raoul snapped.

A man entered the foyer from what appeared to be a library. "Raoul, why are you shouting?"

"Philippe!" Raoul seemed to force himself into a relative state of calm, though his body was taut and his eyes blazing with tension and impatience. "Philippe, this is Christine Daaé. Christine, this is my brother, the Comte de Chagny."

Philippe set down the book he was carrying and kissed Christine's hand. He was tall and quite thin, and though he looked about thirty, the light in his dark blue eyes, wise and wearied, made him appear much older. "A great pleasure, mademoiselle," he said, with grave sincerity. "I had the good fortune to witness your spectacular performance of _Faust_."

Christine decided immediately that she liked him. "Why, thank you, monsieur."

"Raoul, forgive me for asking, but what exactly are you planning to do? Mademoiselle de la Musardiere will be here any moment to plan relief efforts for the epidemic."

"Oh, blast it, I forgot! You'll have to deal with her!"

Philippe blanched. "What?"

"I'm busy!" Raoul propelled Christine up the stairs to the second story. "Please, Philippe, this is an emergency!"

"Raoul, you can't ask me to—"

Raoul stomped down the stairs until he was inches from his brother. "Do you recall the new Marquis D'Aubigne?"

"Arnaud's son? Yes—detestable fellow."

"He's targeted Christine as his next victim! I barely managed to get her away from the Garnier before he got her!"

"And you brought her here?"

"Yes! It's the only place she'll be safe from him!"

"And the plague," Christine chimed in.

"She means pneumonia."

"What about _Idomeneo_?" asked Philippe.

"It's not the primary concern here!"

"But Erik will be upset if I'm not there for the opening night!" Christine whined.

"Why do you care what he thinks? He's a monster, for God's sake!"

"STOP CALLING HIM THAT!" she screamed, so loudly and shrilly that her throat burned—but Raoul clapped his hands over his ears, so, in her anger, she felt it was worth the pain.

"Raoul," interceded the comte, "You don't think this is a bit excessive, bringing a woman to stay with us when the wedding is only—"

"Philippe!" Raoul shouted, gripping his brother's shoulders, on the point of frenzy. "PLEASE! At least entertain Veronique until I take care of Christine!"

"Veronique? She's your fiancée, right?" Christine asked Philippe.

"ENOUGH TALKING!" Raoul thundered. "When she gets here—"

A knock sounded at the door, causing them all to jump.

"She's here now! Philippe, please, please, if you value the reputation of the Chagnys at all, answer the door!"

Philippe stood frozen in the middle of the foyer, staring at his frantic brother; for a horribly long moment, Christine watched fear and honor battling on his thin face.

She tugged on Raoul's sleeve. "What's so bad about Veronique?"

"Be quiet!" Raoul snapped.

Shocked and hurt, she started to cry loudly. As Raoul hastily tried to comfort her, Philippe nodded hesitantly.

"Thank you!" snapped Raoul.

As Philippe headed for the door, Raoul raced back up to Christine and forcibly led her to a room at the far end of the hall.

# Chapitre Vingt-Neuf: Le Décision de Christine

Leonhard Blaise set down the burglary report he was supposed to be reading, discarding it on top of a monstrous stack of paper that constituted the last two days of crime in Paris. He rubbed his temples resignedly, wishing it would all just disappear. He had joined the police force to combat iniquity and to help the common people—shackled behind a desk, the _Prevote de Police_ did not track down any criminals, did not save any people from cruelty and misfortune. He wished he could have refused the promotion, but duty called him to serve the people as best he could. Still, it wasn't very enjoyable to be the man that everyone came complaining to with their endless problems and criticisms of the police force.

With a sigh, he picked up the next report and tried to force his eyes to do more than just slip aimlessly down the page. In capital letters across the top, this page was entitled "Arrest Report: Case #74 of December 1881." Almost six hundred cases in the past two months. What was happening to this city?

December 10, 1881

Buiron Severin, age 36, arrested and escorted to La Santé Prison. Selling drugs claiming to cure pneumonia. Deadly effect. Arresting officer Sgt. Bettencourt.

The signature on the scrawled missive was illegible, but Leonhard recognized the sharp, jagged handwriting of Gilbert Bettencourt. A noticeable tear where his fountain pen had marred the date, combined with the unacceptable brevity of the report, gave the whole paper an unprofessional quality that irked the _Prevote_ greatly. He kept everything in his domain spotless and perfectly organized, and any report written this poorly would usually be sent back for modification before it was filed. But over the past few weeks, as the quantity of crimes had doubled, then tripled, the quality of paperwork had decreased tremendously. So, though it annoyed him personally, he would have to deal with the irritation and focus on the more important matter of saving the city from total corruption.

The entire room shook as the office door slammed. The _Prevote de Police_ looked up wearily. He had quite enough on his plate at the moment, but he could handle one more complaint today—it was part of his job. He attempted to put on a welcome smile for the man entering his office—but that was before he saw who it was.

"Well, Monsieur Blaise?" The Vicomte de Chagny demanded. "Why haven't you caught him yet?"

Leonhard Blaise withheld a sigh of aggravation with some difficulty. "He escapes all our traps."

The vicomte loosed a short, derisive laugh. "He's only a man, for goodness' sake!"

"He is no ordinary man." The _Prevote_ lowered his gaze back to the dry report about the arrest of a poor woman who had stolen two bottles of medicine for her pneumonia-stricken son.

"Well? Did you search Mademoiselle Daaé's dressing room? Lie in wait for him?"

Leonhard looked up into the vicomte's fuming eyes. "Sir, I joined the police force so that I could _help_ people. To try to make the world a better place, if I can. Not to sit here and listen to your unreasonable complaints. I am perfectly aware of your high status and... _personal_ interest in the Phantom. But we are doing all that we can. And you are certainly not aiding us any."

The vicomte looked somewhat taken aback at this lack of respect. He was obviously not taking into account the hours upon end that the police had wasted listening to his inane disparagement and derision. But he regained his footing within a few moments. "But Mademoiselle Daaé's life is in danger!"

"So are the lives of thousands upon thousands of Parisians, and even her beautiful voice does not entitle her to special treatment in the face of this epidemic. Besides, the last I heard, she was safe and sound sitting on a silk pillow in the splendor of your estate."

The vicomte bristled angrily. "Leave it to a German to be so utterly contemptible!"

"If you have nothing further to say, you may leave my office, monsieur."

"I could have your position, you know!"

Leonhard laughed wearily. "You're welcome to it."

"I demand to see the _Préfet_!"

"As I imagine you are already aware, the _Préfet_ is far too occupied with the current disasters facing Paris to take complaints, even from aristocrats." Rising from his chair, he ushered the protesting vicomte out of his office. "When we capture him, you shall be the first to know."

Once the vicomte was safely out the door, the _Prevote_ locked the door and set himself back down at his desk. "Well," he muttered to himself, "that takes care of him, for the moment." Though even dealing with the insufferable Vicomte de Chagny might have been preferable to pouring over these reports of such terrible human misery.

Scrawling his signature on the thievery report, he placed it atop a neat pile and proceeded to the next paper.

_Report Made to the_ _Prevote_ _de Police_ _of the City of Paris_

Monsieur Leonhard Blaise:

_On the 6_ th _of this month, a Monsieur Pierre de l'Monte was apprehended attempting to rob a medicinal warehouse at the intersection of the Rue Saint-Lazare and the Rue Fléchier...._

Yes, the epidemic was holding a firm grip on the citizens of Paris.... Spreading through the city as it was, it was soon to reach the area near the opera house.

The Opera Garnier. The Phantom. Leonhard shook his head in dismay. As if it wasn't bad enough to have to deal with such an epidemic under normal conditions, he also had the Opera Ghost to worry about. He rubbed his temples despairingly; despite common sentiment, he was certain the Phantom was a man; yes, a normal man.... Well, except that he seemed to be much more cunning and driven than the likes of his would-be captors.

Over the past several years, Leonhard had received a few notes from the self-styled "Opera Ghost," notes of a reasonable nature, communicating facts, requests, and usually tips concerning crimes, unlike the vicomte's absurd demands. After he had gotten his hands on the note the voice in the prop room had asked him to deliver to Mademoiselle Daaé—the note that had spared a Hulbert Tannenbaum a prison sentence—he had compared it to the elegant, though only partially-legible, handwriting of the Phantom's notes and discovered that they were identical. It surprised and chilled him a little to think that he had actually spoken to the mysterious specter that the Garnier's employees seemed to fear so much, but the man did more to fight crime than a battalion of patrolmen. The note he had received a month ago had concerned a certain stagehand at the Garnier—a Monsieur Buquet, if he recalled correctly—explaining a crime of assault and accompanied by a signed statement from Mademoiselle Daaé herself testifying to the incident. If one in every hundred men in Paris were so helpful to the police, there wouldn't be an unsolved case in the city.

With some difficulty he banished these thought from his mind. He supposed he shouldn't be supporting the actions of a wanted man, and he couldn't cut the Phantom any slack as far as the law was concerned; but fortunately for the Phantom at present, the police deemed him a "sufferable" condition compared to the horrors plaguing the city. His eyes once again focused on the report in front of him, and he resignedly resumed skimming its contents.

Christine twirled in front of one of the many mirrors in her new room, absolutely breathless with awe as she studied the gown she was trying on. It was so much more beautiful than the cheap costumes she wore for the operas, and worlds away from the horrid dresses Mamma made for her. The pearls were real; the dyes were even and unfading; the embroidery was intricate and absolutely perfect. She ran a hand across the lace edging the front of the gown and turned so she could view the back, marveling at how much tinier her waist looked in an expensive whalebone corset instead of her own cheap, broken one.

She had never in her life worn a dress that was anywhere close to current Parisian fashion. It made her almost giddy to look at herself, dressed in an embroidered powder-blue gown edged with intricate lace, the skirt rising up in the back to form an elegant bustle that added to the seductive curve of her hips. Mamma had always insisted on clothing her in plain, ugly dresses with wide skirts—dresses that made her look like a peasant girl. It was so wonderful to finally be wearing a _real_ dress, the skirt of which was as narrow as the tailor could manage, and see a modern Parisian noblewoman staring back at her with a figure that men would die for. She wasn't a ballet rat, or a servant, or any of the things that the marquis, and so many others over the years, had so cruelly called her—she was a goddess!

She sashayed over to the closet to choose another gown from her new wardrobe, admiring how the frill at the bottom of the narrow dress swished and swayed with the tiniest movement. Raoul was so wonderful! It must have cost him a fortune to have so many gowns—practically a trousseau—made on such short notice, and by Charles Worth, the most famed designer in France! Of course, the gowns were pre-made and mass produced—some absurd new idea that wouldn't last long, according to Raoul—and post-tailored to fit her, but as much as Raoul apologized and promised to have real gowns designed specifically for her as soon as possible, the House of Worth's spring fashion collection wouldn't be available for months, and it was so marvelous to have something to wear now, so soon after her arrival. She couldn't wait to debut in Parisian society as Vicomtess Christine de Chagny!

She stopped to admire a particularly beautiful vase set atop a graceful marble pedestal; according to Raoul it was a relic of the reign of Louis XVI, whoever that was, and that it was one of the only possessions of Marie Antoinette that had escaped the mobs of revolutionaries unharmed. She wasn't sure who Marie Antoinette was either, or what revolution he had been talking about, but the vase was absolutely breathtaking. Every time she looked at it she couldn't help but giggle feverishly as the happiness, the joy of all this exquisite and expensive beauty, bubbled over in her chest.

As she stepped back towards the mirror with a pink evening dress in hand, she couldn't refrain from skipping and twirling across the floor. Everything was so beautiful, so wonderful, so expensive! The lush carpets, the velvet curtains, the marble statues, the myriads of exquisite paintings, the chandeliers! Everywhere she turned there was something new and beautiful to admire. Even her dinner with Raoul the previous evening—impromptu and hidden in a lesser dining room to allow Philippe time with his fiancée—had been like a dream, with rare delicacies and shining flatware of real gold. Just being in her suite of rooms, so large, so exquisite, so filled with every possible decoration and lavish comfort, made her want to cry, the beauty was so overwhelming! She had never even dreamed such finery could exist! How could she ever have even considered refusing Raoul's hand?

It took her several minutes to put on the evening gown, during which time her mind whirled back to all the beautiful things she had seen in the last eighteen hours. It was all so much that she had to sit down for a moment, overcome with ecstasy.

She lounged for several more minutes on the luxurious bed until thoughts of her marvelous breakfast that morning reminded her that there were still many delicacies that she had not yet tried. She leaned over and pulled the elaborately-braided cord next to her bed. Within a matter of seconds, a maid appeared in the doorway.

"Yes, mademoiselle?"

Christine detected an accent in her speech—something Eastern European—and spoke loudly so that the woman would understand her: "I—WANT—ÉCLAIRS. DO YOU UNDERSTAND? AND BON BONS. AND CREAM PUFFS. AND—JUST HAVE THE CHEF BRING UP WHATEVER CHOCOLATE DESSERTS HE CAN THINK OF, OKAY? DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?"

"Yes, mademoiselle. My French is quite good."

"Then why are you still standing there?" She waved her hand in imperious dismissal. "Go! I want chocolate!"

The stupid woman blinked at her, surprised for some reason, then curtsied belatedly and left the room.

Christine shook her head, searching through one of her many jewelry boxes for a necklace that would match the pink gown. The maid must be new. If she didn't shape up, Christine would have to take it upon herself as mistress of the household to dismiss her.

She located a diamond choker and held it up to the light, admiring the rainbow of shimmers that ran along the facets of the innumerable gems. She fastened it around her neck and returned her gaze to the mirror. It was incredibly pretty, but she needed something gold to go with this gown. She was about to remove the necklace when her eyes focused on the reflection of a dark figure standing behind her.

She jumped in fright and dropped the necklace. It was Loki! No, Loki didn't exist anymore—it must be Satan, come to steal her soul!

She opened her mouth to scream for Raoul, but the figure's words stopped her:

"Christine, it's just me."

She took a moment to study the figure and was relieved to discover that it was not a demon. She exhaled slowly and willed her limbs, which were painfully tense, to relax. "Erik, you scared me!"

"I'm sorry."

"What are you doing here?"

"Making sure you're all right."

"Of course I'm all right," she said, bending to retrieve the necklace.

"Christine, why are you here? The opera opens in eight days."

She returned the necklace to its place in the jewelry box and chose another. "I'll be back in time for the opening performance."

"There are dress rehearsals for all of those eight days! The managers are on the brink of apoplexy!"

"It serves them right. They're probably not even paying me half of what Carlotta got." She held up a gold pendant and turned to face him. "What do you think of this one?"

"Carlotta is already moving to recapture her station."

"The managers wouldn't agree to that while I'm around."

"Christine, you're _not_ around! I wouldn't blame them a bit if they cancelled your contract over this disappearance!"

"That's mean!"

"No, it's the truth."

"Then you'll just have to intervene and prevent the managers from firing me."

"That's why I came."

"I mean go talk to _them_ —I'm going to stay here for a while."

"Christine, you can't. You'll never get this chance again."

She shrugged, busy fitting rings on all ten fingers. "I don't really want it now."

Erik froze, not even breathing for a horribly long moment. "What?"

She didn't bother to look at him, admiring how beautiful the rings looked with her new ballroom gloves. "Okay, I do want it, but not as much as I want the fame and money, and it's just too much work and I've found a much easier route that will get me much more fame and money than divahood ever would."

"You—you're thinking of marrying the Vicomte de Chagny?"

She frowned at a ring jammed too tightly on her thumb. "That's right."

Erik seemed absolutely stunned. He tried several times to begin a sentence, unable to get the first syllable out.

Finally she looked up, and she was shocked by the look on his face. It was as if she had shoved him off a boat into the icy water. Hurriedly she offered him a lifeline: "You can still teach me. It's not as if I want to quit singing entirely." He still continued to stare at her, emerald eyes so filled with pain that she had to look away. "What's wrong?" she pleaded.

"I—I never expected you to love me," he said slowly, as if he was having difficulty forming the words. "But I really did think we had something."

"We still do—a very nice relationship."

"But the vicomte—"

"What about him?"

"I thought you knew what he was!"

"I do know what he is—he's a wonderful, handsome, rich aristocrat who worships the ground I walk on! He's going to marry me!"

"Christine, he won't!"

"What do you know about it?" she snapped.

"He's just using you, Christine! After he's tasted your beauty he'll get bored and move on to his next mistress!"

"How _—how dare you?!_ " she stammered. "He's going to marry me!"

"How can you refuse to see it? You caught him at it, for heaven's sake!"

"That was a misunderstanding!"

"You can you lie to yourself like that?!"

"I'm not!"

"Christine, you have to know that he's engaged! All of Paris knows that!"

"You—you're lying to get me to change my mind! But I won't! I'm going to marry Raoul, and no love—not mine or yours or anybody else's—has anything to do with it!"

"Then what does?!"

"Look at what he has to offer me!" She gestured wildly to the statues, the tapestries, the giant satin bed and the gowns and sparkling jewelry strewn about the room. "Wealth! Beauty! Splendor! I'm tired of being poor and having the world look down on me! I know you love me, and I'm sorry about that, but if I stay with you, I'll have to slave for every franc, suffering through boring rehearsals and stupid voice exercises for the rest of my life! And I'll never even come close to the splendor that's being offered me for nothing right now as the Vicomtess de Chagny! You're a wonderful man, but I can't cheat myself out of happiness!"

For an eternity he just stared, and she forced herself to stand her ground even though she felt daggers of wretchedness and guilt twisting in her gut. The pain was so intense that she considered taking back her words—taking back everything—and returning with him to the Garnier. But as she was about to speak, she remembered just how much she would be giving up, and she stayed silent.

Finally the glisten in his eyes faded, and he regained his composure. "Very well," he said, and she could see each word rip a piece out of his heart. "If that is your decision, I can't stand in your way."

Christine stumbled forward as he turned and walked across the room, trying frantically to force her mouth to formulate words. When he reached the edge of the balcony, he turned back. Slowly he ran a gloved hand along the metal skeleton of an ancient torch, dark and rusted from decades of disuse, one of a pair that decorated the archway leading out to the balcony. "If you have need of me," he said, the bland emotionlessness in his voice worse than any amount of anger, "or if you change your mind, just light these." She supposed there was another torch on the opposite side of the arch, but she couldn't wrest her gaze away from those dark, glistening eyes to look. He tried but failed to smile. "I'll be watching just in case."

By the time Christine had regained control of her legs and raced to the balcony, he had long since disappeared. She stared out at the courtyard without really seeing it, unable to think, move, or even breathe. She had done what she had to do. But how could she have known it would hurt so much?

Several minutes of horrible agony and indecisiveness went by, keeping Christine's hands fastened to the balcony railing. Back when she was a ballet rat, everything had been so simple; her goals—become a rich and famous diva; then marry a wealthy aristocrat; avoid as much work as possible in the process—were clear and non-conflicting. But now every goal she strived for was countered by another, just as important as the first. No matter how she tried to reason them out, weighing the benefits of each objective, she couldn't manage to choose the left side of the scale—wealth, baubles, ostentation, power—so obviously superior to the benefits of the right side—Erik, and...Erik.

She was beating her head with a fist, trying to force it to make a decision, when a knock on the door offered her a distraction. Wondering if it was the maid with her chocolates, she began to wipe her dripping nose on her sleeve—it wouldn't do to have the help find her crying—before remembering that her gown was sleeveless. "Come in," she called, racing to the nightstand to secure a handkerchief.

She had just dabbed the tears off her cheeks when the door opened to reveal Raoul with a tray of éclairs in one hand.

"Oh, my scrumptious skylark," he said cheerily, "you look ravishing in that gown!" He strode across the room, setting the tray down on a nearby table and sweeping her into his arms. "Bridgette said you wanted pastry, is that right? This is all there was on hand, but my chef is racing to—my darling, you're crying!"

"No I'm not," she protested, unable to suppress a sniffle.

"What's the matter? What canst thine white knight do to make everything better?"

"It—it's nothing. I'm just...so...overwhelmed by how beautiful everything is here."

"Ah, my mellifluous marigold, I'm so pleased that you appreciate the splendor of my mansion; Philippe's fiancée doesn't appreciate the finer things—she spends her time reading dusty old tomes by dead philosophers, isn't that terrible?" He paused to kiss her nose. "There isn't a man in the world who wouldn't die to have you as his bride."

She sighed and relaxed in his arms. "You're so wonderful, Raoul."

"Of course I am. My sweet, would you tell me that you're mine? I would so like to hear it."

She looked up, puzzled, and a small shiver tingled her spine when she saw the intense, almost hard glint in his eyes. "I'm yours," she said finally, and she was relieved to see his face relax a little. "Surely you knew that."

"I did," murmured Raoul, holding her tightly. "But I wanted to hear it."

"Raoul, you're squeezing me too hard!"

"Oh—I'm sorry, precious. Now, shall we go downstairs? I have some presents for you."

Her ears perked at the mention of gifts. "Okay!"

By the time she had made it to the door, already having eaten two éclairs, she had almost managed to forget about Erik.

# Chapitre Trente: De des Statues et des Salons

Christine lounged on one of the many velvet couches in the parlor, unable to resist stroking the silk of her gown every few moments. She lazily reached for another cream puff as she studied the page of the Bible she was currently trying to decipher (Philippe had very kindly lent her his copy, since hers was back at the Garnier). Living in the Chagny mansion was absolute heaven. Raoul had forbidden her to go anywhere, which was somewhat annoying, but exploring the mansion, eating delicious food, and being waited on for every little detail, as she had been doing for the past two days, was more than enough to entertain her at present. Still, she was unhappy that she couldn't show off her queenly wardrobe to her new aristocratic peers, and she had decided that, if she waited in the main parlor long enough, guests would surely stop by.

She could picture it now: the most beautiful, fashionable women in Paris would drop in to congratulate her on her upcoming marriage and would be dumbstruck as they realized just how plain they were compared to this goddess of the opera. They would only be able to talk of little things, like the weather and the unfortunate plague, as they compared their own ugly dresses to Christine's sumptuous gown.

After a few moments of dreamy elation, her attention returned to the page before her. She had gathered that it was talking about the people that displeased God:

"These six things doth the Lord hate; yea, seven are an abomination unto him: A proud look, a lying tongue, and hands that shed innocent blood, an heart that deviseth wicked imaginations..."

She realized that she had been so confused by the first part of the sentence that she hadn't really paid attention to the list. Were there six things, or were there seven? Was there one of the abominations that God didn't hate? It didn't make any sense.

She shook her head and returned to the list. She had never shed blood of any kind, and she didn't think she'd ever devised anything wicked. She wasn't too happy to find pride and lies on the list; she'd have to work on those. She squirmed guiltily as she thought of how many lies she had told in the past few months.

After a moment of discomfort, she thrust the thoughts away. She hadn't ever done anything really wrong (certainly, she'd fibbed on occasion, but she'd never killed anyone or anything serious), so she was doing better than most people. That was good enough. She grabbed another pastry and went on reading.

"...feet that be swift in running to mischief, a false witness that speaketh lies, and he that soweth discord among brethren."

Drat it, there was lies again! She'd really have to do something on that count. But at least she was doing well on the rest of the list—she'd never run into any mischief, and she hadn't sown any discords. At least, she didn't think so; she'd have to ask Erik what it meant.

Suddenly she remembered that she wasn't going to see Erik anymore, and her moment of contentment was ruined. She hurriedly looked around, hoping for some new curiosity to distract her from those painful thoughts, but wherever she looked, she could only see the exquisite fineries that she had abandoned Erik to obtain.

She picked up another cream puff to console herself, but as sweet as it was, it didn't seem quite as wonderful as it had a moment ago. _Oh dear_ , she thought miserably, _what should I do?_

She was so distressed that she accidently dribbled the filling from the pastry onto the front of her gown, ending her moment of remorseful introspection.

"Drat it!" she exclaimed, throwing the book down angrily. She cleaned as much off the fabric as she could with her hand, cursing her stupidity. When she stuck her fingers in her mouth—it was too delicious to waste—she realized belatedly that she had neglected to remove her new gloves.

Suddenly a knock came at the door, and she jumped to her feet, scattering pillows everywhere, and raced for the stairs before anyone saw her in such a shameful situation.

Antoinette shivered as she reached the rooftop, though her coat was usually enough to deal with the piercing December cold. It was turning out to be a severe winter; she would have to purchase a thicker coat for Meg. She frowned and brushed a venturous snowflake out of her eyelashes, scanning the lofty terrace for the object of her search. The flakes, large and falling rather lazily with only a weak jet of wind to drive them, were sparse enough for her to see a dark figure a distance away. Though the sun had not yet set, the dark clouds obscured the daylight, and she had to squint to make it out.

She made her way across the slippery roof to where Erik was standing, staring out towards the Seine.

"I've been looking for you for the better part of an hour," she informed him softly, not wanting to intrude on his solitude; he had never welcomed intrusions, and she was sure Christine's departure was hurting him terribly.

Erik didn't alter his gaze as he spoke. "Do you want something?"

His voice was mechanical; not cold, not warm, nor pained or bitter—utterly devoid of feeling. It chilled Antoinette to hear it, and she crossed to his left side so she could see Erik's face. His expression was staunch and determined, though she could tell from his set jaw and soaked clothes that he had been standing outside for a very long time.

Antoinette spoke tentatively, giving an ostensible reason for their intrusion: "The managers have decided to sell your box again—and I think they're serious this time."

"It doesn't matter."

She nodded somberly. Of course he didn't want to see _Idomeneo_ now. It was heartbreaking to see him like this—as if his world, bright with music and knowledge despite his hardships, had suddenly gone a dark, lifeless grey.

She went to leave, but couldn't bring herself to just abandon Erik in the snow—he was so uncaring right now that he might let himself freeze. "What are you doing out here?"

Erik didn't answer, and she turned to see what he was staring at. Her eyes roved over the houses between the Pavillon Ledoyen and the Arc de Triomphe, until they fixed on the Chagny mansion.

"Oh," she murmured, feeling a rush of discomfort for intruding on Erik's pain. She patted his arm, though she was sure her sympathy was not wanted, and again turned to leave.

But as she began to walk away, concern overcame hesitance, and she couldn't keep from speaking: "You dying in the snow won't bring her back!" she said desperately, not caring if Erik was angered by her interference. His cold, dead expression was a hundred times worse than his anger could ever be.

He actually looked away from the mansion for a moment and studied her, puzzled. She saw the faintest flicker of a smile—albeit a bitter one—cross his lips as he replied, "I'm not up here brooding, Antoinette."

"Then what _are_ you doing?"

"Waiting." He looked back towards the mansion. "I don't believe the vicomte really loves her. If he tries anything, I'm going to be here to rescue her."

"And if...nothing happens?" she asked softly.

He didn't answer for a moment. "Then I'll have to content myself knowing that she's...truly happy...with...him." His face was set and matter-of-fact, but she could hear the ache in his voice, despite the weighty resolution it carried.

"How long have you been up here?"

"Two days."

"Two days—! Have you eaten anything since Tuesday?"

"No."

"Erik, for God's sake, you're killing yourself!" she cried. Curse Christine Daaé for her selfishness, her stupidity, her complete uncaring for this man! This man who had only ever loved her—

"What if she needed my help, and I was occupied with food?" he demanded, showing the slightest beginnings of annoyance. "Antoinette, please, I'll be fine!"

"No, you won't!" She squared her shoulders and, for the first time since they had met, went against the Phantom's wishes and laid down the law: "I'm going down to get you some food, and when I come back with Darrius we'll take turns watching!"

"I don't want—"

"I don't care what you want! I'm not going to let you freeze to death!"

For a long moment he just stared at her, with that dead, mechanical look on his face, but she refused to back down. Finally she saw the palest ghost of a smile. "You've always cared a lot more about me than I deserved."

"Then you won't cause any problems?"

"No."

"Good. I'll be back with your supper."

As she hurried down the steps, though she had been warmed by the sight of that fond smile, her body felt tense and cold with worry, determination, and anger at Christine's heartlessness.

The churchyard—a toppling, overgrown ruin lingering long after the downfall of its age—was absolutely silent in the early morning hours; so cold, lonely and surreal that it was barely possible for one to remember that the outskirts of Paris were but a few miles away. The road leading to the ancient church was as forgotten as the edifice itself, and there was nothing to be seen but trees for miles and miles.

Raoul set down the polishing cloth and reached for his pocket watch. He stared at it for a moment, puzzled, before realizing that it was not set to the correct time—he had been so distracted lately that he kept forgetting to wind it. With a sigh he pocketed it and returned to polishing the hilt of his rapier. The sun was just threatening to appear over the distant, misty horizon; there were still a few minutes before the marquis was due.

He gave the blade a final stroke with the cloth and sheathed it before climbing out of his carriage to do a few warming stretches. The dawn, pallid and cold, gave the ruins the grey, ethereal look of a ghost-world. As he began to breathe a little harder from the exercise, he realized just how gelid the air was—it had a dry, cold texture that made his throat hurt.

He set his boot on a tombstone and continued his stretches, thinking rather amusedly to himself that of all the places in Paris to kill someone, this was perhaps the most appropriate; they wouldn't even have to cart the body away to bury it. In fact, if there was an open grave somewhere, he might consider rolling D'Aubigne into it and washing his hands of the whole matter.

If only he had lived in some past century, he wouldn't have had to steal out of Paris like a thief in the night to fight an honorable battle for his lady's hand. Much as he loved France, he couldn't imagine how she could content herself to be governed by men stupid enough to outlaw the duel. It was much more than a sport: it was a way of life—power incarnate—justice—religion—the only law necessary in any world past or present. But if a man died in a duel now, justly, fairly, it was condemned as murder. How could France have come to this?

Raoul straightened up as he heard a carriage approaching. D'Aubigne's monstrous vehicle—a black and gold behemoth with the appearance of a gigantic beetle, sporting six wheels and twice as many seats—appeared from behind the trees, bouncing on every rut and rock and jarring its master well past discomfort to the point of hazard. The paint was scratched, and some of the squares of gold leaf had been ripped off by the unforgiving trees and bushes along the road. One of the wheels was wobbling dangerously, and Raoul guessed it would fly off at any moment.

"Damned absurd road," snapped the marquis when his coach jerked to a stop, horses shaking with exertion. "Could you have possibly picked a more ridiculous, inconvenient place?"

Raoul had suffered to a similar extent on his trek up to the church, but he was enjoying the marquis' discomfort far too much to sympathize with him. "Perhaps you should have invested in a less ridiculous, inconvenient means of transportation," he suggested calmly.

"Hmpf," the man retorted, stepping out onto the frozen ground and placing a hand on his jeweled rapier. "Well, we shouldn't be wasting my valuable time jabbering anyway—I'm a very busy man. Kindly allow me to defend my honor and depart."

Raoul suppressed a sneer of disgust at the man's pomposity. What a fool, to think that they were here to duel over honor—so trite, so meaningless, compared to Christine's love. When he had demanded a duel over the beautiful diva, however, the marquis had just laughed at him. "Few women are worth the exertion," he had informed Raoul with a patronizing drawl. "And a stupid, skinny little urchin like Christine Daaé is certainly not among them." Raoul hadn't thought he could possibly hate the marquis any more, but that remark had sent him over the edge; the terrible accusations and curses he had hurled at the marquis—overheard by a significant number of Parisians—wouldn't have been true of the foulest man alive, but watching the damned marquis' face redden with embarrassment and fury was worth any damage his own image would sustain.

As the sun rose in the distant east—the sole spectator to the fight—Raoul drew his rapier and assumed an _en garde_ stance.

Given that the marquis was a decent swordsman, the duel could have drawn on to great length; but Raoul had an attack on the Garnier and its damned Phantom to plan, and he didn't have time to waste on a fair battle. He used every dirty trick he possessed to throw the marquis off-balance despite the latter's outraged objections.

"Vicomte, damn you, I thought this was a competition between gentlemen!"

"Shut up," Raoul hissed, striking furiously.

D'Aubigne stumbled back to avoid the blow. "There is no excuse for this breach of etiquette, of _honor_ —how can you throw away the Chagny's honor for some ugly girl—"

"' _Ugly!'"_ breathed Raoul, feeling every particle in his body burst into livid flame. He felt the raging beast in his heart take hold of his arm, and he heard himself roar with bestial fury as, despite the rage that rendered him mindless, the beast swung his rapier wide across D'Aubigne's thighs.

The marquis cried out in agony as the steel severed the muscles in both his legs. As he fell to the ground, Raoul stared, his thinking suddenly calm despite the continued racing of his heart; _a coup de Jarnac,_ he thought, recognizing the move. He had never seen it used to its full potential before now.

The marquis was reduced to a blubbering mass trying vainly to staunch the torrents of blood coursing across his expensive trousers towards the ground. Raoul circled him slowly, savoring the sweet, matchless feeling of savage triumph that raced through his veins.

"For God's sake, man, do something!" the marquis cried, desperately trying to rip off his jacket to bind the wounds.

Raoul said nothing, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. He pressed the tip of his blade to the marquis' temple, then his neck, then his chest, musing over the most poetic way to dispatch him.

D'Aubigne froze at the first touch of the bloody steel. "G-good God, man, you surely don't intend to kill me!"

"And why not?" asked Raoul softly, touching the blade to the marquis' shoulder, wondering if he should cut off each limb in turn.

"B-because it's not a killing matter! Honor and women are one thing, but God, a man's life! You couldn't kill me over some—"

The rapier jerked across his arm, and the marquis cried out again as another muscle was severed.

"—some—beautiful woman," he said hastily, his voice growing harsh and strained as tears gushed down his cheeks. "Please, please, don't kill me!"

Raoul scowled and hefted the blade. Poetic or not, he couldn't stand to listen to one more word from the marquis' thin, detestable lips. With one swipe he opened the man's windpipe.

As the marquis gasped for air and clutched at his throat now gushing blood, Raoul strode away, sheathing his rapier and checking his pocket watch with a business-like manner. He had wasted enough time here; the lesser of two enemies was down, but the real threat was yet to be dealt with.

By the time he had situated himself in the coach and was prepared to start back for Paris, the sun was almost fully-risen. Raoul glanced back at the churchyard, lit more clearly now; the snow around the crumpled marquis was stained a beautiful scarlet, melted by the blood's heat but already refreezing in panes of red glass, like that of cathedral windows.

He delayed for a moment to enjoy the peace of the forest, then whipped his horses to a gallop.

A few hours later found Christine wandering down the hallway in a state of absolute ecstasy. She drank in every last detail, from the family portraits lining the walls to the breadth of the hallway itself, at least three times as wide as the hallway outside her dressing room back at the Garnier. The floors were a dark, rich hardwood, in glorious contrast to the royal burgundy of the walls. She had no idea where she was in the mansion—all the hallways looked the same to her—but it wasn't important.

She stopped to admire a life-size statue in a semi-circular nook. At first she wasn't terribly interested—she had seen dozens of statues today—but then she realized that the statue (thankfully clad in a loincloth, unlike most of the figures she had seen) was resting one foot on an abnormally large human head. Disgusted and intrigued, she studied it further; the man—a boy, really—was very thin and disappointingly unmuscular, seeming almost effeminate in appearance. He was holding a sword and wearing a ridiculous hat with what looked like flowers on it.

After a moment of intense thought she realized that this pathetic figure must be a rendition of Thor, god of thunder, the greatest giant-killer in all the nine worlds (the severed head did look like a giant's head, after all). Thor didn't exist, of course, but she was still pleased to see that Raoul was trying to honor her heritage. But this statue would have to be thrown out—this weak, beardless little whelp was blasphemy! Why, if Thor existed, the sculptor would be rotting in the deepest dungeons of Niflheim for creating something so offensive, so unlike the bold, brawny, and heroic Thor!

She whirled away from the statue in disgust and marched down the hallway, determined to find someone to throw out the sacrilegious effigy.

It took her several hallways and countless rooms before she found a maid winding the clocks. "You there!" she said loudly, hoping this maid wasn't foreign like the other one.

The maid turned. "Yes, mademoiselle?" she asked, in a soft, sweet voice.

Christine froze as she caught sight of the girl's face. She was absolutely adorable, like a little seraph, with bright brown eyes and a perfect button of a nose. And her dress—! It was black and fairly plain, save for some simple white lace, but the way it accentuated her figure! Why, it was absolutely unspeakable!

"I—I just—" Christine stopped, horrified that she couldn't get the words out. She was the mistress of the house! She couldn't have this scullery wench—too beautiful for her own good!—thinking that she had the upper hand here! "See that the statue of Thor in that hallway is removed!" she commanded.

"Statue of who, mademoiselle?"

"Thor! The mighty god of thunder, son of Odin, ruler of the gods!"

"I'm afraid I don't know what you mean, mademoiselle," said the maid shyly. As she shook her head, Christine caught sight of a pockmark, slightly visible on her cheek. It was comforting, but it wasn't quite enough to displace Christine's apprehension about that figure. "Where is it?" the maid asked.

"I—I'm not sure! Somewhere back there!"

"Bring it up with Master Philippe, mademoiselle. He'll know where it is, and about Thor, I'm sure—he knows practically everything."

"Well, you just keep your eyes on him, then, and off of my fiancé!" Christine turned sharply on her heel and headed back down the hall. After a few moments of triumph, she realized that she had forgot to ask the maid where Philippe was. But there was no choice but to keep walking—she couldn't go back there now and let the maid win! She would just have to find another servant.

It was several minutes before she could locate someone else, but it was better than allowing the maid to feel any superiority. The man pointed her towards the grand staircase, informing her with Italian-tainted French that the comte was in the library just off the main foyer. She had to go back and ask directions twice, and finally the man accompanied her to library. She felt extremely stupid as she passed through the library doors, but the servant smiled and wished her a good day, and she decided with relief that her authority had not been compromised.

The comte was seated near one of the enormous bay windows, poring over a book. He looked up as Christine entered and rose to kiss her hand. "Mademoiselle Daaé, what may I do for you?"

Christine smiled up at him. He wasn't very handsome, but he had an inherent kindness that made him attractive. "There is a statue in one of the hallways I'd like removed."

He looked somewhat surprised—she supposed she shouldn't be moving things around before she officially joined the household—but he took it in stride. "Which one, mademoiselle?"

"Well, really, I'd like to get rid of about half of them—it makes me so uncomfortable to have all these naked people in the halls!"

He offered her a seat. "I'm sorry if the Classical pieces offend you, mademoiselle; I'll cover them up during your stay, if you wish."

"Thank you, but how can you even have them in your house?"

"Grecian tradition views the human body as something beautiful, mademoiselle, something to be appreciated."

"Well, that's fine for Greeks, but I don't like them."

"You said you were offended by one particular piece?"

"Yes, the one of Thor—it's an absolute disgrace! Thor is tall and muscular and bearded and carries a hammer, not a stupid little sword! Why, the only right thing in the whole sculpture is the giant's head!"

Philippe thought for a moment, rubbing his chin bemusedly. "I believe, mademoiselle, that you are thinking of Donatello's sculpture of David."

"David? David who?"

"David and Goliath, mademoiselle. Raoul told me you are a recent convert to Christianity; perhaps you have not heard of them?"

"I think I have—my father told me something about a Goliath, I'm fairly sure. Which one was he?"

"He was a giant—I believe the Norse refer to them as 'jotun.'"

Christine's face brightened excitedly as she heard the term. "I haven't met one person in this country that knew anything about my—that is, the Norse religion!"

"Religion fascinates me, mademoiselle; I learn as much as I can. It's difficult—only Snorri Sturlson's records have survived the centuries." Suddenly he changed the subject, looking rather uncomfortable: "Mademoiselle, are you happy with my brother's treatment?"

"What do you mean?"

"It's absurd—absurd and frightening—that he's imprisoned you in this house."

"He's just worried about the pneumonia. And that mean nobleman—what was his name again?"

"Laurent D'Aubigne."

"Yes, him. He's just trying to protect me because he loves me!" she said, smiling happily.

"Then you don't object to any of this? Not even his engagement?"

"No," she said, rather puzzled. She was thrilled to be engaged to Raoul, even if he hadn't shown her the wedding ring yet or set a date. It didn't matter if she couldn't leave—she didn't want to anyway.

He looked the tiniest bit relieved, but still unsure. "Well, if you don't mind, then I have no right to object."

The room was silent for a moment before Christine said, rather awkwardly, "What was it you were saying about the Norse religion?"

"Just that it fascinates me, mademoiselle."

"If I tell you about the gods—they're called Aesir—most of them, anyway—some are Vanir—will you tell me about Christianity? I'm trying to learn, but it's all so confusing!"

Philippe looked so excited at the scholarly opportunity that Christine had to smile. "A splendid proposition, mademoiselle! How much have you read of the Bible?"

"Not very much—some of Revelation, and a little of Matthew."

"If I may offer some advice, mademoiselle, wait to read Revelation until you have a better grasp on Christianity—Revelation is very hard to understand and while important is by far not the most important of the things you should be learning."

That was what Erik had said. She shifted uncomfortably as she thought about him, not wanting to remember that it was because of his support that she had had the strength to stop clinging to her father's stories. After a moment of regret, she shoved all thought of him out of her mind. She was going to be a vicomtess. That was the only thing that mattered.

"Did God really create the world in seven days?" she said hurriedly, trying to keep her mind off the subject.

"That's correct."

"Then the Earth wasn't made from the body of Ymir? He was the first giant," she added.

"No. Giants exist only in myth."

"So they're not real?"

Philippe nodded.

"Then what about that Goliath person? He was a giant."

"I'm very sorry, I misled you when I said that—he was just a very large man."

"Oh."

The comte smiled. "I'm sorry to disappoint you."

"Nevermind—tell me about angels."

They talked for the rest of the afternoon; Christine told Philippe, who she found to be a very kind man and a good listener, all about the creation of the world, the various gods, the escapades of Loki, the death of Baldr, and finally Ragnarok, when everyone would die. She did her best to give Philippe every last detail, knowing that she would never repeat the stories again.

In return she learned about the differences between the Old Testament and the New Testament, including the New Testament's two commandments, which she had never heard of, and all about the teachings of Jesus Christ.

When Raoul returned that evening, she tried to tell him just how wonderful and knowledgeable Philippe was, but he merely kissed her—hard, but distracted, not romantic in the least—informed her that D'Aubigne would no longer pose a threat (though he refused to say any more) and began to pace. In the hours until suppertime he paced endlessly in the first floor hallways, cursing and ranting. She wasn't sure what he was so upset about—he ought to be thrilled that he had someone as wonderful and enchantingly beautiful as herself to dote upon. It was rather irritating; he had hardly paid her any attention at all since she arrived. Philippe tried to talk to him too, but he refused to speak to anyone.

Christine, rather sulky, returned to lounging in her suite of rooms; she didn't want to be around him when he was so angry. She read a few paragraphs that Philippe had suggested, but they confused her and she decided to put off studying until she had talked with him again.

# Chapitre Trente-et-Un: Les Fenêtres dans Enfer

Late one night, five days before the opening of _Idomeneo_ , in the earliest hours of the morning, the Champs Élysées lay in an inky blackness the likes of which its wealthy denizens had not seen for several decades. It was a strange sight, to see such darkness along the most affluent street in the city, but the cause was common knowledge: some of the more foppish young noblemen had taken it upon themselves to upgrade their streetlights from gas to electricity; as the incandescent lamp had only just been invented, however, and the gentlemen were ignorant of all the scientific details, the endeavor had been a spectacular failure and the street lay dark.

It was almost three in the morning, and all lights in the innumerable windows along the Champs Élysées had long since been extinguished, save for a blazing fire in the hearth of Raoul de Chagny's suite of rooms, which, in that obdurate darkness, lit up the bay windows of the Chagny mansion so bright and fiery that they appeared to be windows into Hell.

Philippe hesitated before knocking on Raoul's door. He rarely felt nervous about speaking to his brother, but he still wasn't sure if it was his place to speak out or not. Raoul's affairs were his own, and Mademoiselle Daaé seemed happy enough at the moment as a captive, but he couldn't allow this insanity to continue.

The vicomte threw open the door, and Philippe had to shield his eyes from the brightness of the room, the brilliant red of the fire almost blinding compared to the darkness of the hallway. "What is it?" Raoul demanded.

"I need to speak to you."

Raoul ran and hand through his hair in agitation and stepped back to allow Philippe ingress.

The comte stiffened as soon as he had crossed the threshold. "It's broiling in here!"

"Nevermind what the temperature is—what do you want?" asked Raoul, shutting the door with a thud.

"I have to speak to you about Mademoiselle Daaé, but Raoul, why don't you open a window? And why have you built the fire up so high? It's liable to spill out of the hearth!"

"Will you just tell me what you want?" he demanded again, showing signs of irritation.

"Very well, then." Philippe took a breath and tried to compose his words before speaking. "I'm worried about you."

"I'm just fine."

"But you're not—you've kidnapped a maiden and practically imprisoned her!"

Raoul's eyes flashed angrily. "I did not kidnap her—she came willingly!"

"Be that as it may, you're keeping her locked up here like a prisoner."

"It's only for a little while until the soldiers capture the damned Phantom."

Philippe's breath caught in his throat. _"You called in the army?"_

"But how did you—"

"I called in a few favors."

"Of course! The police were too stupid to catch him—what else am I supposed to do?"

"I thought you were worried about the Marquis D'Aubigne!"

Raoul's expression became matter-of-fact. "I was. But he's not a problem anymore."

Philippe's blood threatened to freeze in his veins as Raoul's tone sunk in. He had heard that the marquis had been missing for the past two days, but Raoul didn't even know about that—he had barely left the house in that time. "What does that mean?" he asked, afraid of the answer.

Raoul waved a hand dismissively. "Nevermind. It's the Phantom that's the threat now."

"I thought you didn't believe in him!"

" _I've seen him_ ," said Raoul loudly, his eyes bright and dangerous. "At the Perros cemetery—he's a monster, Philippe. A devil. And he's out to get Christine."

The comte blinked in surprise, puzzled and disturbed by the maniacal rage that flared in his brother's eyes. Raoul took his brother's expression for incredulousness and snapped, "I know it sounds insane, but it's true!"

"I know the Phantom exists," said Philippe slowly, noting with unease that Raoul was clutching a bottle of wine with such brute force that his entire hand was a strained white. "Monsieur Debienne is a good friend of mine; he told me of their dealings, and he wouldn't make up such things."

"Then you know what this fiend is capable of!"

"The mysterious nature of their interaction made Debienne quite nervous, but once he had gotten over his initial anxiety, he found the Phantom a fair and just gentleman and an excellent asset concerning the operas due to his incomparable knowledge—"

"Ha!" spat Raoul, before downing the last of the liquor in his bottle; he hadn't even bothered to pour it into a glass. "Trust a craven weasel like Debienne to come up with a story like that—a gentleman, ha! As if an animal—a demon—could ever merit such an appellation! Debienne's words have absolutely no standing in my book—scurrying off to England because the stress was too much for him! He wouldn't stand up to the monster like a man!"

Philippe started to defend his friend's honor, but Raoul cut him off: "I don't care what you think. This is my battle, and I intend to win it at all costs!"

He began to pace madly in front of the brilliant fire, pausing every few moments to run a hand through his hair. After several rounds in front of the fireplace, he stopped and said, with a defensive kind of apology in his voice, "I don't mean to be so sharp with you, Philippe. You've always been very good to me. I couldn't ask for a better brother." He resumed his pacing, and the comte noticed that the track where he was walking was worn, and the rug's colors starting to fade; obviously he had spent many nights in this restless fashion. "But I can't lose her now."

Philippe watched him concernedly for several minutes, observing his face as it turned from regret to anger to desperation in a hellish cycle. He saw more of his brother in those few, infinite moments than he had seen of him in a lifetime.

After a tense length of pacing, Raoul stopped once more and stared into the fire in confusion and wonderment. "God," he said, with a bitter smile of amazement. "At what point did Christine become more than just a week's conquest?" Philippe said nothing, and he continued, to no one in particular, "I was just going to renew her acquaintance, enjoy her for a while, then send her on her way when the wedding drew near...."

"It's only three weeks away."

"I know," he snapped. After a moment, he resumed pacing. "But it's much more than that now. I can't let her go." It was as if a fiend had taken residence inside his chest, scratching and clawing at his heart, demanding to touch her, to caress her, to possess her.... Every moment in her glorious presence was like a taste of Heaven, just as every moment without her was like burning in Hell.

He was clenching a fistful of jacket that rested over his heart, squeezing it so tightly that the edge of a metal button drew blood from his palm.

He closed his eyes and savored the pain, though it gave only a little relief from the burning need that raged in his breast. Blood soaked the front of his shirt, but he didn't stop until he had crushed the delicate button into pieces.

He smiled mirthlessly and dropped the pieces into the fire, watching as the blood crackled and spat in the flames. "And I would _die_ before I married Veronique de la Musardiere."

"I think she's quite charming," Philippe ventured.

"Of course you would." Raoul picked up a book at random and began leafing through it to distract himself.

"I've only spent a few hours in her presence, but she strikes me as a kind, noble, and intelligent woman."

Raoul slammed the book shut. "Then why don't you marry her?"

"Because you have promised to do so."

"I can't go through with it!"

"You gave your word."

"I'll have to break it!"

Philippe shook his head in disbelief. "I thought that honor meant everything to you—you're a gentleman, a son of the Chagny house."

"No gentleman could be expected to endure this!"

Raoul stewed in silence for several minutes, until finally turned to face Philippe and grabbed his shoulders. "What do you think I should do?" he demanded.

After a moment of thought, Philippe said tentatively, knowing that his opinion was not what Raoul wanted to hear, "I think that the Comtess de la Musardiere is an absolutely wonderful woman. Were I in your place, I would never even toy with the idea of refusing her hand, honor or no honor. And as you well know, it would be a terrible crime to go back on your word."

"I know, I know!" Raoul snapped.

"But it would also be a crime to enter into a marriage—to vow to love and care for a woman until death—if you can't stand even to be near her."

"Then what can I do?!"

"I think if you spoke to Mademoiselle de la Musardiere privately and told her in a kind way—sparing her feelings as much as possible—"

"Feelings, ha!" Raoul muttered bitterly.

"—that you wish to marry Mademoiselle Daaé, she would agree to break the engagement."

"But— _marry_ her? Don't be absurd!"

"You aren't planning on marrying Mademoiselle Daaé?"

"No! Well, maybe—no, I—I don't know!"

"Then you just want to keep her locked up here as a mistress?" Philippe demanded.

"Yes! No! I don't know! I never meant for it to get this serious!"

"Can't you at least let her return to her own apartment? And what about _Idomeneo_?"

"Damn _Idomeneo_!" he shouted, throwing the book to the floor in rage. "I can't let her go! No other man can have her!"

Christine gazed out at the city, drinking in the beauty of the Seine, appearing in the dim light like a vast silver ribbon, glittering as it wound through the heart of Paris. It was just after three in the morning, according to the massive grandfather clock in a corner, but she couldn't bring herself to sleep. The city seemed to defy the lateness of the hour, its bright lights turning even the distant sky from black to a dim ultramarine. Her balcony faced east, giving her a majestic view of the Seine to the south, Les Ambassadeurs straight ahead, and Notre Dame towering in the distance. She had always dismissed the ancient cathedral as a relic of a foreign religion. But now, rubbing her cross pendant between pensive fingers, admiring the monumental stone towers so far away, silhouetted against the near-darkness, it was enough to bring a mist to her eyes. As soon as Raoul allowed her to leave the mansion, she would visit it; she would kneel at the stone steps in front of its colossal doors and pray for God to help her become a better Christian.

Slowly, she allowed her gaze to wander across the city, basking in the beauty of the Champs Élysées, the Pavillon Ledoyen, up northwards toward the Madeleine.... Beyond the trees she could make out the Opera Garnier; it was too far away for her to see clearly, but she imagined the gold angels gracing the roof would look especially magical in the light of the city. The opening performance was only five days away. She thought about the hallways and the curtains, the seats and the staircases, the music and the costumes, and everything else that she had somehow come to miss. She had been so thrilled to get out of all the work and hassle of opera life, but standing there on her cold marble balcony, shivering as the December air sapped the warmth from her body, her life felt rather dull and pointless.

She tried to shake the ridiculous feeling, telling herself that lounging in luxury was not dull _or_ pointless, and it was certainly better than slaving for a living. But despite how much she loved her new life, with its opulence and fine food and glamour, she missed it all—she missed the rehearsals, the performances, the shouting and chaos of backstage, the music, the lessons...and most of all, she missed Erik. She had expected to miss him when she married Raoul, of course, but she had figured that she would get over it quickly enough. But now all she could think of was his kindness, his beautiful voice, his boundless knowledge.... Just thinking about how his eyes, usually cold and distant as emeralds, would grow soft and warm when he looked at her, made her feel so...

Suddenly she realized what she was doing and abruptly turned and went back inside. _How utterly ridiculous_ , she told herself, shutting the balcony doors with a firm clack. _I have everything I've ever dreamed of, and I'm busy thinking about somebody else._

She marched herself to the closet and pulled out one of the brand new gowns Raoul had purchased for her. She ran her fingers over the frills and the lace, forcing herself to admire its beauty. It was an absolutely breathtaking gown, the most expensive she had ever even seen, with tiny pearls sewn into the embroidery and gold dust lining the lace of the sleeves and collar. When she didn't feel the effervescent ecstasy that had so overwhelmed her upon her arrival, she turned to the Marie Antoinette vase in the center of the room; though it was quite dim, the flickering gaslight made the gold filigree upon the porcelain shimmer and sparkle. After a few moments of staring, transfixed, at its beauty, she felt the giddy happiness bubble in her heart again and felt reassured. This vase, and all the lovely gowns in her closet, and all the jewelry strewn around the room, were scratching the surface of all the beautiful things she would have. No, she didn't love Erik. That was absurd. Just a fleeting moment of sentimentality for her old life; it was to be expected. But she would get over it. After all, that distant past, where she slaved to memorize Italian and scrounged for every franc, was nothing compared to the glorious future that awaited her.

She hung the dress back in the closet, extinguished the lamps, and crawled into her luxurious bed, hoping she would feel a little more convinced in the morning.

Falling asleep in such an absurdly soft bed was impossible; she sank into it so deep she was afraid of being smothered. She had been trying to fall asleep for what felt like an eternity, when the rattling of the doorknob roused her from semi-consciousness.

Oh God, she thought, thieves!

The burglar started banging on the door. "Christine, let me in!"

Oh, it was only Raoul. "Just a minute," she said, less than charitably, rubbing her eyes and stumbling towards the door. What could he possibly want at this ungodly hour?

When she opened the door—light streaming so brightly from the hallway that she had to shield her eyes—he entered before she could even invite him in. "Why do you have to keep the door locked? What if I needed to get to you?"

"Then you could knock like a normal person," she said sourly.

"Leave it unlocked, please."

She frowned, first at his request, which he had phrased irritatingly like a command, and then at his appearance, rather insulted that he would enter her presence looking so unkempt. Wasn't he supposed to be wooing her, _slaving_ for her affections, taking care that every hair was in place, every inch of cloth unwrinkled, every word coated with honey? Instead of all these things she had come to expect, Raoul was still in his morning clothes—he hadn't even bothered to change into a dinner jacket!—which by this time had quite lost their fresh, pressed look, and his hair, oily and uncombed, had been swept in an unfashionably wild ponytail. What was worse, he wasn't even bothering to put on an agreeable air for her benefit—he just left the stressed, preoccupied look on his face as if she wasn't important enough to act agreeable for.

"I don't want any servants coming in here without my knowledge." As if it was any of his business at this hour whether or not she locked her door.

"Please, Christine, stop whining about the servants. I have enough to deal with as it is."

"Hmpf! What could you possibly have to deal with? You have everything you could possibly want! Money! Titles! Glamour! _Me!_ "

Raoul sighed. "And with it, my share of problems."

"Did you want something?" she asked, folding her arms. "I'm tired."

"Oh, I'm sorry, my sweet, were you asleep?"

"Yes!"

"I humbly apologize, my precious. But I've been up all night thinking—in fact, I've been thinking for months—and I have just come to a very important decision." Suddenly he moved in to kiss her. Normally she would have enjoyed it—even though his decision to awaken her to blather about something or other was quite annoying—but his eyes were so steely and the kiss so rough and demanding that she was almost frightened.

"Yes," he breathed, grasping her hands and drinking in her body with his eyes, which made her very uncomfortable. "I've decided."

"What are you talking about?"

"I've decided that no matter how low your station, how terribly I'll be looked down upon for breaking my engagement, I have decided to go against all custom, convention, honor, and societal opinion and marry you!"

Christine blinked, completely dumbstruck, and an eternity of confused and racing thoughts seemed to occupy that single moment. "W-what did you say?" she stuttered, unable to raise her voice above a whisper.

"I said that I was going to sever my engagement to the Comtess de la Musardiere at the cost of my honor so that I might marry you!"

She yanked her hands away, absolutely aghast. "Y-you—you—you said that she was Philippe's fiancée!"

His face lost a bit of its madness, replaced by an unsure regret concerning his rash words. "I—I couldn't risk losing you, my angel, my precious—"

"Then you didn't intend—" She cut off, so terrified of his answer that she couldn't get the question out. She clutched the bedpost, trying frantically to fight off the trembling in her hands and the giddy, multi-colored stars that threatened her with a dizzy spell. "Y-you never intended...to...marry...me?"

"I intend to marry you _now_ , Christine! I must have you, I can't let any other man even see you, I can't live without you—" He moved in to kiss her again, but she jumped backward, almost tripping over the bed.

"You lied to me!" she shrieked, furious tears scalding her face.

"Yes, my darling, darling Christine, I did, but only because I love you so much! It wasn't my fault that I was engaged—my parents signed the contract when I was eight years old! I had no say in the matter! But when I met you, I knew I could never marry anyone but you!"

"But you were going to—you just said—until just now!"

"I never could have gone through with it, my sweet, my precious," he said adamantly, clutching her hand with such force that she yelped in pain. "It just took me a while to realize it!"

She sank down on the bed, so absolutely stunned that she was unable to consciously process a thought. She couldn't speak, and her mouth hung uselessly open as she tried futilely to gain control of her thoughts.

"Oh, my darling, I'm so sorry," said Raoul desperately, "I had no idea you'd take it so hard." He released her hand and turned for the door. "I'll just leave you alone—after a good night's sleep you'll feel much better, I'm sure."

He closed the door behind him, and Christine was left sitting on the bed in the dark. She was so numb that she couldn't feel the mattress under her. For a long time she couldn't bring herself to move, to blink, or even breathe, hoping, praying, that it was all just a nightmare. The shock had rendered her unable to register any of her senses, and, combined with the darkness, it was like being one of the souls languishing in the lightless abyss of Niflheim, unable to think or to feel. It didn't matter that Niflheim didn't exist. Nothing mattered.

After a while, when her eyes had adjusted to the darkness, she regained a little of her senses. She slowly laid down, closed her eyes tightly, and tried to sleep, though she knew the effort was futile, hoping she would have a better grip on things in the morning.

# Chapitre Trente-Deux: Christine Écrit une Lettre

Christine got very little sleep that night, and the following morning found her sitting awake on her large, plush bed, trying so hard to think that she had already given herself a headache. She had watched the sun rise beyond the balcony as she had thought, and as the world had gone from obdurate darkness to a soft and rosy red, she had reasoned out her feelings.

She felt terribly hurt by Raoul's deception, but the unbearable pain sprang from the fact that he had not been planning on marrying her throughout the months that he had been assiduously courting her. She felt sick and used, and for the first time since she had arrived, the thought of food made her ill.

At first—when it had still been dark outside—she had considered bidding Raoul a cold goodbye and leaving the mansion. It would serve him right. After she was gone, he would realize what an awful mistake he had made. And even if he begged and pleaded and swore undying love, she would never allow him in her presence again, even if he _was_ the patron of the opera house. In her anger, she tried to pack all her things, but realized (with some surprise and no small amount of depression) that none of the clothes, jewelry, or food belonged to her. And as the light filtering into the room had slowly grown, and all the beautiful curtains, tapestries, gowns and jewels were revealed, she had paused to reconsider.

By the time the sun was almost fully-risen, she had thrown out her impulse to leave. Raoul's prior intent didn't change any of the splendorous wealth that would be hers, nor did it change the title she so desperately craved: Christine, Vicomtess de Chagny. Raoul might have had poor intentions at first, but he loved her so much now that he was willing to sacrifice his honor to marry her. She was still loved, still fabulously wealthy, and still engaged to the Vicomte de Chagny, no matter whom he had been engaged to against his will when he had met her. It wasn't his fault, poor man, if his family had forced a marriage upon him—in fact, it was marvelously brave and inspiring that he was willing to break away from tradition and familial expectations to follow his heart.

When the sun was bright and completely visible beyond the balcony, she had felt good enough to change into one of the morning dresses Raoul had bought for her, apply complementing makeup, and leave her room.

As she entered the room where breakfast was held, Raoul rose from the table and swept across the room to meet her. Philippe was nowhere in sight—he usually took his breakfast in the library—for which she was glad. It would be better to talk to Raoul alone.

"My love," Raoul said, kissing her hand with the utmost of gentility, "you look positively radiant in the morning sunshine."

The sunshine he spoke of, streaming through the glass roof of the winter breakfast room in cold white beams, blinded her as she looked up at him. "Thank you," she said belatedly, squinting so that she could discern his features. He didn't seem concerned at all. In fact, he was acting as if he had absolute confidence that she wouldn't leave because of his terrible pronouncement the night before. It deflated her a little—she had been expecting him to fall to his knees and beg her to stay.

"At my request," continued Raoul, still holding her hand, "the chef has prepared a selection of supreme delicacies for your especial enjoyment." He bowed and gestured to the table, and she allowed him to seat her in front of a large tray of strawberry tarts.

She sampled one and was delighted by the exquisite flavor. "They're wonderful," she said.

"I'm glad to hear that," Raoul replied, sitting down across from her. After a moment of expectant silence, he said tentatively, "I hope that you were not upset by my untimely declaration last night, my darling—I spoke very poorly."

She bit into another tart as an excuse not to reply, wondering what he was going to say.

"My prior engagement—though forced upon me—has dogged my every thought for the last two months, and I knew it was unforgivably wrong to deceive you, but whenever I was near you, whenever I thought of you..." He clutched his heart in illustration of his words. She couldn't see his face very clearly (the room really was absurdly bright), but she was certain his expression was one of remorse and devoted love. "Whenever I thought of you, my petal, my precious, I was so overcome by love that I couldn't bring myself to break off contact with you. And as I fell more and more in love, I was so afraid of losing your love that I didn't dare tell you the truth about my engagement." He stretched his hand out across the table, in supplication. "My darling, I pray you understand."

Overcome with flattery, Christine spared no time in accepting his hand and squeezing it in her own. "I understand," she assured him, feeling very noble and compassionate. No other woman would be able to see past her own jealousy to the love and desperation that her fiancé held for her.

"I knew you would," he said, smiling, and stood. He clapped his hands, and after several moments, a servant appeared with a stack of boxes. "I've been trying to find a time to give these to you, my precious, as promises of my undying love."

Christine dusted the crumbs from her hands and hurried to the large parcels, which the servant had deposited on the opposite end of the table. She debated for a moment about which to open first, then picked the largest one, ripped away the ribbon, and threw off the lid.

"Oh, Raoul!" she cried, holding up the silk gown inside. "It's absolutely beautiful!"

"I bought matching jewelry for it as well," he said, smiling at her delight.

"Oh, Raoul, I love you! It's so beautiful! It must have cost a king's—oh!" she cried again, as she lifted the lid from a small box to reveal a sparking diamond choker.

"Here, let me help you try it on," Raoul offered.

As she lifted her hair out of the way to allow him to fasten the choker around her neck, she couldn't repress a giggle of happiness. How she could ever have considered leaving was quite incomprehensible to her now.

Raoul spend the entire day showering her with fabulous gifts and assuring her of his undying love; she couldn't ever remember a more wonderful day.

The following morning, she awoke early to fetch the ink and paper Philippe had kindly given her to write a letter to Mamma. She reached under the velvet chaise, on which she was sitting, to retrieve her fountain pen, trying to think of what else to include in her letter. She felt a little guilty that she hadn't written Mamma sooner; the poor woman must be frantic by this time. But everything had been so beautiful, so wonderful, like a faerie tale come true, that it had quite slipped her mind. Still searching the carpet for her pen, she read over her letter:

" _Dear Mamma:_

_I'm sorry I haven't written earlier. I'm sure the past_ four _six days have been horrible for you. Everything is wonderfull here. The food is excellent and I get to wear the most beautyfull clothes in the world. I'm going to marry him. He says I can't leave because of the numoneea but I'm sure you can come see me and try some of this_ marvo _marvellus food."_

The food _was_ wonderful, but she was exaggerating her happiness so Mamma wouldn't worry; even if she could resolve her hurt concerning Raoul's lie, he was still acting so strangely, and all the food and beautiful clothing in the world couldn't make up for the loneliness and regret that she was constantly pushing away. It didn't make any sense. She wasn't sure of anything anymore.

Her hand closed around something and she brought it out from under the chaise. To her surprise, it was a piece of chocolate. She supposed she had dropped it yesterday when she had gotten so flustered about accidentally breaking the delicate scrollwork on the back of the chaise (she had been laying upside-down with her head off the seat and her legs resting on the scrollwork, which hadn't been quite as durable as she had thought). She bit her lip and ate the chocolate, which was still good, and hoped that no one would notice the poor job she had done of fixing the chaise.

A moment more of searching yielded her pen (fortunately not leaking, as most fountain pens did; she didn't want to ruin anything else) and added to the page,

"You'll be happy to know that Raoul's brother, Philippe, has been teaching me all about Christianity."

She thought for a long moment, but couldn't think of anything else to say. What she had written seemed sufficient, so she signed her name, dabbed it with an ink blotter (also thoughtfully provided by Philippe), and set it on the floor.

At that moment a knock came at her door, and Christine sat up. "Come in," she called, licking the chocolate off her fingers.

Raoul entered, looking dashing and well-groomed (trying to make up for his scruffiness the other night, she assumed), and proclaimed, "Good morning, my beauteous bluebell! And how are we today?"

Upon seeing him—so handsome, so marvelously dressed, so obviously devoted to her courtship—the last bitter dregs of her unhappiness dissolved. It didn't matter if he had been engaged to someone else. Nothing mattered except that he loved her and was going to make her a vicomtess. She opened her mouth to tell him all this, but he kept talking:

"I know you aren't pleased with Philippe's simple, unaffected breakfasts, so I have instructed the cook to include _première douceur_ and a _soufflé_."

She treated him to a brilliant smile. "Oh, Raoul, thank you! What does that mean?"

" _Première douceur_ is a coffee _gelée_ that has—" Suddenly his eyes locked on the balcony, and his face, so warm and charming, turned cold and hard.

"I told you not to leave this open!" he snapped, striding over to slam the balcony doors shut. "And keep it locked! Something could get to you!"

"But the plague can't get to me, way up here—"

"I don't mean the _plague_ , Christine, I mean the Phantom!"

"He already came," she said without thinking.

Raoul whirled around, and his face was so contorted and his eyes so bright with rage that he looked like a devil. "WHAT?!"

She clapped a hand to her mouth, horrified. "H-he was here a few days ago, but I—"

Before she could finish, something hard hit her face, sending her staggering. As she recovered from the stinging blow, she realized with cold shock that he had slapped her. Normally she cried loudly when upset, but she was too stunned to make a sound.

"The Phantom came HERE," Raoul raged, "INTO MY HOUSE—AND YOU DIDN'T TELL ME?!"

"It wasn't important!" she wailed.

"HE COULD HAVE STOLEN YOU AWAY! USED YOU, MURDERED YOU, AND TOSSED YOUR BODY IN THE SEINE!"

"He wouldn't do that!"

"HA!"

"I told him I wasn't leaving, and he just left!"

Though his muscles were still tensed and his breathing still labored, the fire in his eyes lessened. "He left? That's all? He didn't touch you?"

"No!"

After a few moments her words sunk in, calming his rage. He swept the hair out of his face with a self-conscious hand, laughing a little in relief. Then he knelt before her—she had collapsed on the chaise, utterly overcome—and took her hands. "I'm so sorry, my pearl, my rose, my angel," he pleaded, "it's just that I love you so much, and I couldn't bear for anything to happen to you—please forgive me."

She sniffed and looked up. His handsome face was so wrought with distress, and his voice so golden and mellifluous and distraught, that she took pause. She supposed she couldn't blame him—if she were a man, she would probably be horribly jealous concerning a great beauty such as herself. But still, on top of lying to her, he had actually struck her! No gentleman could ever do something so unspeakable!

He saw the hesitation in her face and said hurriedly, holding her hands desperately to his chest, "Oh, my darling, I'm so sorry I struck you, it was out of my control, please don't be angry with me!"

"Well..." she said, rather uncertainly.

"Please, my love, I would just die if you were angry with me!"

"Okay," she said slowly.

"Thank you, thank you, my precious," Raoul murmured. He kissed her hands fervently, and the power of his happiness and relief thawed the ice-cold of her shock until she could summon a tentative smile to her face.

He stood, pulling her gently to her feet. "After breakfast, darling, allow me to prove my undying devotion and my sincere remorse for getting so angry—I'll buy you anything you like; chocolates, flowers, diamonds, gowns, anything."

She allowed him to kiss her—a soft kiss, with a cautious, subservient air that gave her a giddy feeling of power—and walked with him towards the door, the incident already almost forgotten.

As they exited her room, Raoul said, "But you must promise me to keep those doors bolted, my sweet—I couldn't bear it if anything happened to you!"

It was a little thing he asked, she supposed, and it was so wonderful to have him so madly in love with her, that she finally assented and he escorted her down to breakfast as if nothing had happened.

# Chapitre Trente-Trois: La Accalmie avant le Orage

Two days later found Christine again sitting on the chaise in her room. Though the wallpapers, the silk pillows, the plush carpets, expense and glamour were all there, just the same as they had been a week ago, she couldn't dredge up any of the frantic excitement or enthusiasm that had possessed her at the beginning of her stay. The room was strewn with beautiful gowns and glittering jewels, but she didn't feel like playing dress-up; she'd long grown tired of wandering the halls admiring statues, and besides, she didn't want to run into any of the servants; and she'd eaten and eaten until she'd given herself a monstrous stomachache. There was really nothing else to do here, and she wasn't allowed to go outside—she wasn't even allowed to walk in the garden for fear she would be made off with. Philippe had offered her the use of his library, but most of the books were in other languages, and the French ones were all about philosophy; she hadn't made it to the second page of any book she'd tried.

She'd resigned herself to spending her time in her room, but it was unbearable—she loved her soft, silken bed, but she couldn't spend all her time sleeping. She also loved the pink porcelain bathroom attached to her suite, with all its marvelous modern conveniences, but she'd counted the tiles over and over until she feared she'd go mad.

Christine glanced towards the shuttered windows and bolted balcony doors, wishing she could at least feel a fresh breeze, but Raoul would be furious if she disobeyed him.

She sighed; she'd always had too much to do at the Garnier. Between practices and lessons, she'd barely had any time for herself. But having nothing to do—absolutely nothing—and with no purpose to guide the long hours, she felt drowsy and pointless.

Thinking of the Garnier made her think of Erik, and though she quickly pushed him out of her mind, it left her with an idea: she would go downstairs to the piano in the parlor, find some sheet music, and create her own singing lesson. She wouldn't learn anything, and there wasn't any point in keeping up her vocal talent now that she was a vicomtess (or going to be, at any rate), but at least she'd have something to do. It was a marvelous idea.

She was on her way down the stairs (she was beginning to learn her way around ever since Philippe had kindly furnished her with a rudimentary map) when she saw Raoul headed down a hallway. "Raoul," she called, "come back!"

"I'm rather busy, my blossom."

"I won't keep you—but would you come get me when Mamma comes? I'll be in the parlor."

Raoul appeared from around the corner. "Don't wait around for her, _precieuse_ —I already sent her away."

"You—you what? But why?!"

"Her visit was unnecessary."

"But I wanted to see her! I even invited her!"

Raoul frowned. "How did you do that?"

"I asked Philippe to have a letter sent—"

"Philippe," muttered Raoul disgustedly.

"—and you had her sent away! Who gave you the authority to—"

"My darling, my darling," interrupted Raoul, the endearments carrying none of their usual adoration, "don't be so flustered." He seemed almost annoyed, but as he drew near, raising a hand to touch her face, he smiled. "I love you so much, I can't bear to let anyone else even see you. Now be a good girl and I'll send the chef up with some pastries." He turned to walk away, but Christine, refusing to be bribed, spoke again:

"But—"

"No buts," he said, his authoritative tone returning. "I have a lot on my mind right now—you wouldn't want to burden me with unnecessary complaints, would you?"

"No, but—"

"Good. Now go back up to your room like a good girl."

Before she could decide what to do, he had left the foyer. She bit her lip and walked unhappily back up the stairs.

# Chapitre Trente-Quatre: Idomeneo

Philippe buttoned his overcoat, grimacing into the mirror by the front doors and wishing he were a little more calm. It wasn't as if he were actually _taking_ the Comtess de la Musardiere to _Idomeneo_ ; they were just sharing the same box, that was all. It wasn't anything to get flustered about. Still, he'd never escorted a lady to an opera before—what would he say? What topics of conversation were proper? It wasn't as black and white as interaction between a gentleman and his soon-to-be sister-in-law; Raoul, though he had yet to break the engagement, seemed adamantly against going through with the wedding. What was worse, Philippe couldn't decide which choice was more awful—Raoul breaking his word and hurting the comtess, or keeping it and marrying her. It was a terrible thought, this hope that Raoul wouldn't go through with his marriage, but he had become so strange, so violent, so obsessed with Mademoiselle Daaé, that Philippe feared his brother would explode; and he didn't want the comtess or the sweet mademoiselle hurt.

The change in Raoul had been slow in coming, but it was so salient now that it was undeniable. As if it hadn't been bad enough at the beginning—what with his horrible plans to use the innocent girl and then discard her—it was much, much worse now. He was obsessed, consumed by the thought of owning her completely, keeping her locked away—a madman with a captive love.

Philippe rested his hands on the foyer table and sighed, wishing there were a way he could help his brother, and Mademoiselle Daaé, who needed his help even more. Raoul was keeping her completely sequestered now, refusing to let anyone see her, even his own brother, who surely harbored no intentions towards her—so great was his jealousy. Every time he had tried to broach the subject, Raoul had become furious and refused to speak to him.

As if summoned by the comte's thoughts, Raoul appeared in the foyer. "Have a good time," he offered, though his voice was neither pleasant nor genial. He looked rather unkempt, and Philippe wondered if the stress was getting to him. However, he did seem slightly more placid than usual, for which Philippe was glad.

"I'll try. I hope the comtess understands my nervousness."

Raoul, who had been on his way out, halted. "You're taking Veronique?"

"Not _taking_ her—the managers accidentally sold her box to a Madame la Trémoille, who was so excited to get to attend the performance that the comtess couldn't demand her seats back. So I—I offered her the extra seat in our box, since you weren't going." He wrung his hands and checked his appearance in the mirror, wondering if his hair was damp from all the sweat he imagined it had sustained. "I don't know what I'll say to her."

To Philippe's surprise, Raoul actually laughed—it was merely a shadow of the warm, duendous man he used to be, but it filled the comte with hope. "Relax, Philippe—she talks incessantly. All you have to do is sit back and pretend to listen. Knowing you, you'll _actually_ listen and understand whatever she's blathering on about."

Philippe was so distraught that he let his brother's unfair words pass without comment. " _Mon Dieu_ , I can't do this—I haven't escorted a lady anywhere in ten years, my palms are sweating, my mind's a farrago—"

"See, there you go—talk to her about whatever that word means."

"I-it means a confused mixture—it's Latin for a blend of different grains—it originated around sixteen-thirty—"

"There you go," Raoul said again, quite drily. "She'll be impressed."

Philippe smiled fondly and laid a hand on Raoul's shoulder, every good memory between them coming to his mind at once. They had been good friends over the years, despite the difference in their ages and personalities. He prayed that this obsession would pass, and his brother would be restored to his old self.

"Thank you for your encouragement," he said. "But why don't you come? What will you do here all night?"

Raoul faltered, and for an instant Philippe saw the calm congeniality slip, replaced by a burning light the likes of which the comte had never expected to see in his brother's eyes.

"Oh, just sit around, I expect," he said finally, reviving his serene smile.

"Perhaps I should stay—"

"No," said Raoul, with firmness bordering on a command. Then he added, in a more agreeable tone, "I mean, you should enjoy yourself once in a while. It's a great opera, I'm sure. And the centennial performance, and everything."

"Yes, you're right," said Philippe, rather reluctantly. It probably wasn't anything. And he couldn't be policing his brother's every move—Raoul probably needed some time by himself to think things out.

Raoul followed Philippe to the door. "Goodnight."

Philippe accepted the hat his brother was offering and stepped out the door. "Goodnight," he said hurriedly, before Raoul shut the door behind him. He checked his pocket watch and hurried out to the cabriolet; he didn't want to be late to pick up the comtess. But as he reached to open the carriage door, he glanced back at the house, and wondered if he was making a terrible mistake.

Raoul stood at the door for a long moment after his brother had left. He'd feared that Philippe would never leave. Another few moments and he might have—well, it didn't matter. Philippe was out of the house, and the servants had been well-paid to take the night off; the time had finally come to satiate the hellish, burning drive that had consumed him for so long.

At first it had just been a pleasant sensation, like the warm air from a fireplace, but now it was as if his body were encased in a torturer's device of white-hot metal, burning ever hotter, with never a moment's relief, screaming for him to give in—and tonight was that night.

Ever since he had seen Christine on that stage, singing the part of Marguerite, an apparition of the devil trying to ensnare Faust's soul—Raoul couldn't help but smile at the irony—he knew he would never be satisfied until he had possessed that beautiful, beautiful body. The desire was so powerful now—like its own entity, sentient, a starving beast howling for meat—that he hadn't been able to do a single thing for the past two days, waiting, endlessly waiting, for the house to be empty...so he could finally quench the pain of that burning fire.

He glanced up the stairs towards her room, and he felt a feverish shiver race across his flesh as he contemplated what the night would hold.

Christine sat on her bed, aimlessly turning the pages of the Bible in her lap, trying to keep herself from glancing at the balcony doors. She should be at the Garnier right now, running over last-minute lines, putting on her costume, sneaking a look at the audience through the curtains, thanking Erik for slaving to make her a diva. But she had something better; she had to remember that.

She picked up a massive gold brooch from the jewelry box on her nightstand and rubbed it between her fingers; though its circumference was easily the size of an orange, and its weight hinted at an unspeakable price, she couldn't conjure up any of the happiness she had always associated with such exquisite wealth.

Unable to console herself, she kept hold of the brooch and chose a page at random, holding the Bible up to her eyes to block the Garnier from sight and trying to focus all her attention on the words:

"Being filled with all unrighteousness, fornication, wickedness, covetousness, maliciousness; full of envy, murder, debate, deceit, malignity..."

She blinked, surprised at the length of the list. Usually such a long sentence, especially in the Bible with its confusing language, would bore her, but strangely, she had turned to a passage that made sense.

"...whisperers, backbiters, haters of God...

"...despiteful, proud, boasters...

"...inventors of evil things, disobedient to parents..."

She stopped, unable to go on. Every word seemed to leap out at her, cold and biting, accusing her of every single transgression. She had disobeyed her father, she had coveted luxury, she had participated in envy, deceit, pride, boastfulness, and everything else. Even the ones she had not committed seemed to twist into some shameful action she was guilty of: she had never hated God, but she had blamed him for her own stupid choices; she had never committed murder, but she might as well have driven a dagger through Erik's heart for every cruel thing she had done to him.

She did not want to read the rest, but she seemed to hear the remaining words in her mind, in a deep, cold voice so loud she clapped hands to her ears to keep her eardrums from bursting.

"WITHOUT UNDERSTANDING," the Bible accused her, each word seeming to swell on the page larger than the one before it.

"COVENANT-BREAKERS," the voice proclaimed, and she screamed in agony. "WITHOUT NATURAL AFFECTION."

She felt shame and guilt twist in her gut, and as tears sprang to her eyes, she turned her head so she wouldn't see any more. But she couldn't block out the voice:

"IMPLACABLE,

"UNMERCIFUL!"

Suddenly she couldn't hold the tears back, and they soaked the condemning words and blurred the ink until it was unreadable; but she could still see the letters staring up at her, knowing, accusing, reviling.

"I know, I know," she sobbed, covering the page with her hand. "I'm worthless and stupid and don't understand anything—I lie and steal, I've been the most unmerciful person on earth, and I've thrown away Erik's love for—for—this!" she screamed, flinging the brooch at the beautiful vase she had admired so much.

As it shattered, she leapt out from under the suffocating covers and ripped the jewelry from her ears and fingers. Her choker exploded as it hit the floor, sending luminous pearls flying in every direction.

She grabbed a coat from the foot of the bed and strode towards the door, gripping the Bible to her heart. She couldn't stay here a moment longer!

She raced through the hallways and down stairs until she reached the grand staircase. Without glancing around, without even recognizing the magnificence of that beautiful foyer, she flew down the steps, eyes locked on the front doors.

Her fingers were mere inches from the knob when an arm appeared out of nowhere to block her path.

"Where are you going, my sweetling?"

There was something odd in Raoul's voice, but she didn't stop to think about it. She tried to pry his arm away from the door, tears blurring her vision. "I can't stay here any longer!" she cried.

"Why not, my pet? Haven't I given you everything you've always wanted?"

"Yes, but I don't love you anymore, I love Erik!"

The declaration reverberated off the walls with unexpected force and hung on the air between them. The power of the statement surprised Christine, but she refused to back down.

She started to thank Raoul for everything he'd done and apologize for the engagement she was about to break when she caught sight of his eyes—cold and sharp like ice, glittering with a maniacal hardness bordering on insanity that froze her insides. She couldn't force her mouth to form any words, or even coerce her lungs to exhale the stale air.

After a moment of silence, Raoul smiled—a hard, icy smile that did nothing to warm those terrifying eyes. "You can't go." He reached out and touched a lock of her hair. "I've worked too hard to let you get away—especially without claiming my prize."

"Prize?" she repeated, confused and frightened, taking a step back. Though her attention was elsewhere, she noticed that his hair was wild and his clothing obviously days old, which, combined with the stubble on his face and the circles under his eyes, dark enough to be bruises, made him look quite unlike the dashing vicomte that had stopped her heart with his handsomeness and gentility.

He stepped forward. "I've never gone to so much trouble for any girl— _months_ of wooing and planning, aching and _burning_ for the night when I could finally enjoy the fruits of my labors."

"Fruits?" she said stupidly, as a horrible realization began to dawn on her.

"The desire has grown so monstrous, so burning, that I can't enjoy the affections of any other woman, no matter how beautiful—"

"Other women!" gasped Christine, shrinking farther back. There were other women, even besides the fiancée?! No, it couldn't be true—

He ignored her. "But tonight is finally the night."

She stared at the man she had loved mere weeks, days, before, aghast with horror. The beautiful details of the foyer faded into grey, and the world felt cold and unreal, like a nightmare. "You mean—" She choked on the words. "You mean you seduced me—lied to me—so you could—"

"Come on now," said Raoul, rather more softly, though with a ravenous impatience. "Don't fight me—think of all I'm willing to give you! Diamonds, silks, rubies, whatever you want—I was even going to degrade my Chagny heritage by _marrying_ you!"

She wanted to collapse, but her mind had completely shut down, and she couldn't gather enough consciousness even for that. Her body felt numb, but she could feel scalding tears on her cheeks. She wanted to say so many things—curse him for lying, pray that it wasn't true, beg him to say that it was just a joke—but her lips would only form two words, over and over: "Oh God...oh God..."

Raoul advanced forward, eyes blazing, face set in a mixture of lust and greed and insanity so terrifying that it was like looking into the face of Satan—and for the briefest instant, she could almost feel the flames of Hell envelop her as he drew nearer.

"No!" she cried. She forced her body out of its coma and raced up the stairs, tripping more than once as she tried to regain control of her limbs.

Raoul snarled, swiping at her like an animal, and started up after her.

She flew through the endless labyrinth of gilded hallways, running as fast as her muscles would allow, screaming for someone to help her—but there was no one.

Before long she tripped and the seam of her nightgown tore up past her knees. Raoul almost caught her, but she managed to jump to her feet and run faster than before, now uninhibited by the narrowness of the skirt. He yelled terrible things at her as she ran, curses and desperate supplications. She tried to find the staircase back down to the entrance, but she was hopelessly lost.

After what felt like a hellish eternity of running, the week's lethargy was beginning to tell; she couldn't get any air, and a pain erupted in her side that renewed the flood of tears. Near-blinded by the tears in her eyes, she threw a glance behind her and saw to her horror that Raoul was catching up. She was on the brink of collapse, and there was no escape. God, oh God, what was she going to do?

Suddenly she saw her room up ahead and remembered the torches on the balcony. As Erik's promise echoed in her mind, a brilliant hope, like a beacon, she threw her last vestiges of strength into her burning legs.

She threw open her door and leapt inside just as Raoul made it to the doorway. He reached to grab her, and she slammed the door shut on his hand. Raoul bellowed in rage and jerked his hand out of the way, and she managed to lock the door the instant before he threw his weight against it.

"CHRISTINE!" he roared, pounding against the wood. "CHRISTINE, DAMN YOU, UNLOCK THE DOOR!"

Christine started to run towards the balcony and tripped on a large oriental rug. As she fell, she felt something in her leg tear.

She grasped the bed frame to haul herself up, spurred on by the sound of Raoul trying to wrench the doorknob out of its socket.

"CHRISTINE, YOU STUPID, STUPID LITTLE RAT, YOU BELONG TO ME! OPEN THIS DOOR OR I SWEAR, YOU'LL REGRET YOU WERE EVER BORN!"

It was a solid oak door secured with over-sized, antique iron hinges, meant as needless extravagance; it would keep him out, but not for very long.

Christine cast around for something to light the torches, and her eyes landed on the book of matches she kept on her nightstand for lighting the gas lamps. As she reached she fumbled them and they fell to the floor. She scrambled to retrieve them and then raced for the balcony.

She unlocked the bolt and threw open the doors, eyes stinging from the harsh wind that slammed into her face. She gasped in between the sobs that wracked her body, trying desperately to force her lungs to take in the freezing air, so cold that it set them on fire.

Her eyes, already full of tears, were clouded even further by the thick snow, falling so hard and fast that it felt like stones on her skin. She hunched over and tried to strike a match, crying out in horror as her quaking hands broke stick after stick.

A deafening thud came from the other side of the door, and the hinges screamed in pain. He was only moments away from breaking the door down.

Christine finally got a match to light, and, struggling to keep her numb fingers from dropping it, she thrust it into the heart of the torch.

She stared into the rusty grime of the torch's cage, desperately searching for a glimmer of light, but there wasn't even a spark. The pitiful remnant of ancient oil wasn't enough to combat the driving snow.

She heard Raoul throw himself against the door again, and as the wood cracked, she cried out for God to help her.

For a moment there was nothing but darkness, and bitter tears froze on her face as she realized there was no escape from the horrors she was about to face with the crash of that door. Then suddenly, inexplicably, the oil caught the match's dwindling flame, and the torch erupted into a brilliant pillar of orange fire.

She shrieked and stared at the torch, motionless with amazement, filled with a sudden bright and wonderful hope, until another horrible thud brought her back to reality. She tried hastily to light the other torch, but to no avail.

Raoul yelled something beastlike and unintelligible, like a devil snarling for blood. Christine cast frantic eyes across the balcony for a way down, but she was two stories up, and there wasn't a trellis or anything to climb.

Another crash brought a sound of splintering that chilled her to the bone. With a prayer that one flame was enough, she hurried back into the room and wedged a chair under the doorknob. It wouldn't stop him for long. Though her body was on fire, she tried to drag a heavy armoire over to serve as a barricade.

She screamed as a muscle tore, but, cradling her arm, she hobbled to a table and dragged it along the floor instead, desperation winning out over pain.

The ensuing minutes, filled with shouting, the endless crashes against the door, were the longest of her life. She tried to pile as much furniture against the door as she could, but by this time the pain had practically rendered her a cripple, and all the furniture in the world wouldn't stop the hinges from breaking eventually.

She searched the room for something to defend herself, but she couldn't find so much as a letter opener. The lamps were too heavy and cumbersome to wield, and the largest sharp instrument she could find was a fountain pen.

Christine collapsed against the foot of the bed, chest heaving as she tried to get enough air, and prayed for a miracle. Her face was cold and wet with tears, but now the adrenaline and shock coursing through her kept her from crying. She felt cold, numb, and unable to think of anything besides the crashes coming faster and louder against the door.

As the minutes ticked by, each feeling longer than a day, her hope slowly dwindled into despair. Erik wouldn't reach her in time. She closed her eyes, thinking of him, and began to cry again. She would never be able to tell him that she loved him.

Suddenly the door came crashing down against the meager barricade. In desperation she kicked over a small table and jumped on one of the legs, hoping to use it as a club. As it cracked and broke loose, one of her feet crumpled as it hit the floor and her ankle flared with a burst of pain.

She was afraid she wouldn't be able to stand, but as Raoul shoved a desk out of the way and threw open the door, she managed to use her good leg to stagger to her feet.

Raoul had been shouting ceaselessly, screaming terrible profanities and death threats, but as he stood in the doorway, a cold, insane smile lighting his face, his voice became quiet:

"You don't know how long I've waited, Christine." His words had an incoherent quality, like the rambling murmurs of a man unconscious from fever. "How every look, every action of yours, so innocent, so damned innocent, forbade me from seducing you.... You have no idea just how much you've tortured me, Christine. Even looking at you now, so close to being conquered, I can still feel my heart twisting, tearing, inside my chest, unable to bear that I couldn't have you.... But the tortured days—the sleepless nights—are over now."

As he stepped closer, she raised the oak club. "Don't come near me!"

His laughter froze every muscle in her body, and suddenly she didn't have enough feeling in her hands to grip the wood. As he started forward she stumbled away, unable to keep her feet.

The terror had so gripped her that she couldn't form a conscious thought. She backed out onto the balcony, her heartbeat so deafening that it drowned out Raoul's words as he slowly—triumphantly—walked towards her.

She felt the rail against her back and realized that she could go no farther. As Raoul laughed and stepped through the balcony doors, she opened her mouth in a silent scream.

Suddenly an arm wrapped around her waist and she felt herself hoisted up into the air. She had lost such control over her thinking that she thought she had died, and the angels were carrying her soul away. But as the angel scaled the rope up to the roof, she looked up into its face.

"Erik!" she cried, feeling such an overwhelming rush of emotions that she almost fainted.

Raoul's shout of anger was like the roar of a fearsome beast. For a moment he stood there, gripping the railing and snarling, until they disappeared onto the roof. Christine thought she heard him race back inside as she, safe and warm in Erik's arms, fainted dead away.

# Chapitre Trente-Cing: Le Duel

Christine awoke slowly, wincing as the pain assailed her. For a moment she thought she was floating, but realized almost immediately that Erik was carrying her. She clung to his neck as the scenery flew by. She passively took in a staircase and a hallway before suddenly recognizing it all and remembered what was happening. She flailed as the panic hit her, and Erik had to slow for a moment to regain his hold.

When he threw open a door to reveal the courtyard, she realized that he must have taken a staircase down from the roof into the servants' quarters and was trying to slip out of the house before Raoul could find them. She felt her eyes flutter closed as a wave of exhaustion swept over her, and despite the searing pain in her arm—her legs—her ankle—practically every part of her body—she almost allowed herself to fall asleep.

Suddenly she heard an insane roar from somewhere in the house, and her muscles tensed in fear, causing her to cry out in pain. Erik hesitated in his dash across the flagstones, but as she clung to his neck, he regained speed.

Within a few moments he had lifted her up on to a large black horse and they raced down the street of the Champs Élysées towards the opera house.

Though there was always a considerable number of persons in the streets at night, it seemed the whole city had taken the centennial of _Idomeneo_ as an excuse for a celebration. Fireworks filled the sky with flashes of blood red and a cold, ice-blue, but she couldn't enjoy them now. People thronged in the streets, drinking and carousing and yelling loud enough to be well-heard over the storm, blocking the horse's way. When they came close to the Garnier, the throngs turned into a single, solid crowd, through which there was no hope of speedy passage.

Christine lost her balance as the horse came to a jarring halt. Erik's hands were gentle as he steadied her. "Can you walk?"

She tried to step down on to the street, but her legs collapsed beneath her. He caught her in time. "We can't make it through the streets," he said. "We have to use the rooftops."

When she looked up into his eyes she found a raging fire, echoed by the urgency screaming in his tense body; but it was only with the softest touch that he again lifted her into his arms. As he carried her into a tenement building and up the staircases towards the roof, she clung to him desperately, wondering just how close Raoul was to catching them.

"Where are we going?" she asked, stifling a cry of pain as the pangs in her leg redoubled.

"To my caverns," he said, his voice strained as he moved ever faster, "where you'll be safe—then I'll deal with the vicomte."

"You're going to fight him?" Raoul deserved far worse than death—he needed to be drawn and quartered, cut into tiny pieces, put on the rack, made to feel a small part of the pain he had wrought—

"I'll do whatever you want, darling," he panted, kicking open the door to the roof. "But only after you are safe!"

When they reached the open air, Christine looked desperately around for the Garnier, but the snow was falling so thick and so fast that she couldn't distinguish it from the rest of the city. Then a burst of fireworks attracted her attention, and she saw it, lit up, several buildings away. Erik, readjusting his grip, ran across the rooftops as quickly as the slippery surface would allow; only rarely did he have to jump to reach the next building, so close were the structures. She was starting to catch her breath by this time, but instead of the numbing cold she had anticipated the storm would bring, the snow and biting winds only exacerbated the throbbing in her arms and legs. Erik was breathing hard and fast now, and she tried to arrange herself in his arms to make herself less of a burden.

He halted when they had reached the end of the row of buildings, separated from the Garnier only by the Rue Auber; but it was a wide street, and there was no possibility of leaping to even one of the lower terraces of the Garnier's roof. He set her on her feet, still supporting her weight, and considered the street with an intense frown.

"What do we do now?" wailed Christine, clinging to Erik and scanning the crowds for any sight of the pursuing vicomte.

"We can get down to the street and push our way through the crowd," Erik said. "It's getting into the Garnier that poses a problem."

"Why?"

"The vicomte called in some favor or another and there are soldiers swarming every hallway, every entrance—we'll never make it to my caverns without being captured."

"Don't you have a secret way in?"

"Yes, but one is on the roof, which we can't reach, and the other is on the far side of the Garnier."

"Should we try for the second one?"

He grimaced, rubbing his chin with a gloved hand and shaking his head. "We could probably get to it, but once inside it's too hazardous a pathway to me to attempt while carrying you."

"Th-then I'll walk!" she declared, standing straight and trying to take an unaided step forward.

Again Erik caught her as her leg buckled. "Out of the question," he said firmly. "We'll have to find a way onto the roof."

Christine, biting her lip to keep from crying as her ankle throbbed viciously, didn't protest again, and he picked her up and made his way down the rusty fire-escape clinging tenuously to the side of the tenement building complex.

When they reached the street, he scanned the crowds for an easy path to the Garnier. Christine looked too, and after a few moments her eyes locked on a man setting a ladder against the building to rehang one of the fallen banners.

"Look!" she said, pointing to the ladder.

Erik walked over to the base of the ladder, and Christine said, clasping her hands together in desperate supplication, "Please, monsieur, we need your ladder, just for a minute—"

The man, his foot on the bottom rung, said loudly as he turned to face her, "If you think I'm going to—"

He froze as he caught sight of the look on Erik's face. "Uh—well—that is—" he stuttered, "sure, here, take it!" He shoved the ladder towards them.

"Carry it over there," instructed Erik coldly, his voice commanding absolute compliance.

The man—a workman for the Garnier—tall and thin to the point of oddity, like a starving, oversized rat, had difficulty carrying the rickety ladder and navigating a pathway through the masses. The drunken, carousing plebeians refused to show any mercy toward the man's plight; though they parted, like the Red Sea, as they saw Erik. Any humor at the oddness of the sight—a masked man carrying a distressed damsel in a nightgown—was drowned by the fearsome light in Erik's eyes.

"Lean it up against the wall," Erik said when they reached the Garnier. He set Christine down. "I'll have to carry you on my back."

The workman stared as the Phantom scaled the ladder, diva clinging to his neck, climbing ever so slowly for fear she might fall.

Christine shivered as the wind ripped through her, freezing the streaks of tears on her face. It was only a two-story climb to the top of the opera house, but the pain, the cold, the horror and desperation made it last an eternity. Erik's boots could gain no traction against the icy rungs, and to keep from slipping he gripped the ladder with an almost inhuman strength. He had taken off his gloves in anticipation of the difficult climb, and Christine's heart ached as she watched his hands, taut and dead-white, clench the frozen side rails—jagged with splinters and shards of ice, dyed scarlet with his blood.

As they neared the top, she glanced down, and with a strangled cry she recognized the horse and rider barreling through the crowds, the horseman bellowing in rage and beating a pathway through the unfortunate partiers with his whip. "Erik, Erik, there he is!" she wailed.

"Don't worry," he managed, breathing heavily, "we're almost there."

As he reached the top and deposited Christine onto a snow-laden part of the terrace, she heard a blood-curling roar from below as Raoul's eyes locked on them.

"He's seen us," she whimpered to Erik, who was hoisting himself onto the rooftop.

The snow was falling so furiously that she couldn't make it out well, but she saw that the vicomte was coming towards them. "He's heading for the ladder!" she cried.

With a swift kick Erik sent the ladder flying away from the Garnier. As it crashed into the throng the wood exploded in a mass of splinters, and Raoul, with a snarl, disappeared from her line of sight.

The choking knot of strain in her chest slackened somewhat with the knowledge that they were just a few steps from safety. Erik reached to help her up. "Come, Christine, we're almost there."

She looked up into his eyes and a flood of love suddenly exploded in her heart—she flew to her feet and kissed him wildly, frantically, feeling all at once the passion, adoration, gratitude, and guilt that had plagued her all during her time in the Chagny mansion. "Erik, Erik," she sobbed, clutching his shirt, "I love you, I love you, I love you!"

He stood, stunned, as the snow whipped around them, and she, clinging to him, could feel the cool logic war with a burst of raging wildfire in every muscle of his frozen body. "Christine, we need to get down to—"

"I know, I know, but I have to say it now! I love you so much!" She grabbed the porcelain mask that kept her from seeing his entire face, threw it into the snow, and she proceeded to kiss every inch of his face. "Oh Erik, I don't understand how you can love me—I'm so stupid and selfish and I've been so horrible to you—"

"Christine, you haven't—"

"I have, I have! I've been absolutely horrid! And I'm sorry, I'm so sorry! You're the most wonderful man imaginable," she cried, her mind frantically jumping from focus to focus so fast that her mouth couldn't keep up. "You're so smart and so strong and so kind and so wonderful and I don't deserve it but I love you so much! I love you, I love you, and I want to always be with you! I don't have to be a diva, or famous, or rich, or anything! Please, please," she cried, clinging to his shirt, "let me stay with you!"

She stopped talking long enough to kiss his mouth, wanting to show him how much she loved him, and his reserve exploded in a rush of raging fire. Christine's heart beat rapidly within her chest, a thundering of emotion coursed through her. The rapid rise and fall of Erik's heart kept pace with her own. Christine enjoyed a brief moment of pure ecstasy. Their bodies seemed to breathe, to even live at the exact same rate.

Erik's lips left hers, but she did not want it to stop. She would not let it stop. She threw her arms around his neck and kissed him again. The feel of his lips on hers, his skin beneath her fingers, the strength of his body as she pressed closer to him, took away all thought of fear and panic from her mind, and she forgot completely about everything else in the world—

An agonized yell filled the air, and the fiery Elysium ceased like a crack of thunder. They both whirled to see the Vicomte de Chagny standing at the top of the stairs, sword drawn and eyes like fire.

The gang of soldiers Raoul had secured on his way through the Garnier stared, aghast, at the dark specter next to Christine. It was impossible—there was no such thing as the Phantom! But there he was, clothed entirely in black, the infamous lasso at his side. He calmly met the vicomte's hellish glare—eyes bright and burning like the fires of Hell—never breaking eye contact as he bent to retrieve his mask, covered in ice crystals, and press it to his face.

After a moment the vicomte came out of his stunned silence and yelled at them, "Well? What are you waiting for? Kill him!" He gestured sharply towards the Phantom with his rapier, eyes holding a glint of rage that bordered on insanity.

The soldiers automatically started forward, but a sardonic smile fleeted across their target's face, and they both halted. It was not that they weren't brave men—but there was something in his eyes, and in the way he held the strange lasso at his side, that made their blood freeze and their muscles cease to function.

The vicomte, becoming angrier by the minute, screamed, "KILL HIM! THAT'S AN ORDER, DAMN YOU!"

However unwillingly, the soldiers obeyed. Swords drawn, they strode towards Erik, who stepped in front of Christine and lifted the lasso, coolly assessing their movements. One of the soldiers hefted his sword and lunged. The lasso was around his neck in the space of an instant.

Erik held the rope taut as he picked up the man's sword, expecting the other soldiers to attack. As a blade flashed through the air, Erik parried it and immediately launched a counter-attack. His movements were heavily restricted by the first soldier, who was clawing at the rope that was squeezing the life out of him. Erik jerked the rope up, and the man lost consciousness. He had no time to retrieve the lasso, however, and continued to fight the remaining men with only sword in hand.

While he was fighting, Raoul slipped around them and grabbed Christine's wrists. "What do you think you're accomplishing?" he demanded harshly.

Struggling to be free of him, she cried, "Let go of me! Erik! Erik, help me!" She was still weak, however, and Raoul easily held on to her.

The soldier leapt forward, the tip of his blade aimed for Erik's heart. However, he had not reckoned on the slick ice covering the rooftop; he lost his footing and fell with a loud thud. Erik kicked the sword out of his hand before rendering him unconscious with the pommel of his own. After that he quickly dispatched the remaining soldiers, a whirlwind of steel, not pausing to consider tactics or execute any fancy moves.

His breathing, harsh and ragged after his race through Paris, lightened a little as he unwound his lasso from a soldier's neck, not taking his eyes off of the vicomte. "You're quite a man, vicomte," he said condescendingly, "to hide behind borrowed soldiers and allow them do the fighting for you."

Raoul, mad to the point of speechlessness, seemed at a loss for a reply, because all he said was, "How dare you kidnap my darling Christine, monster!"

"I'm not 'your Christine!'" she screamed, trying unsuccessfully to force him to release her with much kicking and scratching. "You lied and cheated and tried to kill me! I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!"

"Don't tell me you didn't enjoy every moment of my attention," breathed the vicomte, with a sick, twisted smile that bordered on insanity.

Then her fingernails cut through the skin of his lower arm, and he withdrew sharply, inadvertently releasing her. She stumbled back. "You're horrible!" she cried. "I thought you were a gentleman! I thought you wanted to marry me!"

Raoul tried forcibly to silence her, and she began screeching again. He found himself forced to tighten his grip to keep her from escaping. He was so preoccupied with this task that he was taken completely unaware when a rope flew through the air and tightened about his neck. With a cry, he released the girl and clawed at the lasso.

Erik pulled the rope towards him, dragging the vicomte away from Christine. He wasn't worried in the least; in a moment the vicomte would run out of air, and he could throw the body off the roof and claim it was suicide.

Suddenly the rope came away in his hand; it had been rendered useless by the rough cut of a blade. The vicomte regained his feet and stumbled away, stowing the offending dagger roughly in its sheath and drawing his rapier. When he was a safe distance away, he glared at Erik through narrowed eyes and assumed an _en garde_ stance. A trickle of blood stained the formerly immaculate collar of his shirt, where the blade had unintentionally grazed skin.

Oddly, his expression was not one of fear or hatred, but a kind of maniacal gratification at finally being able to face the creature that had hounded his thoughts for so long. "She agreed to be _my_ mistress, monster—she stayed at _my_ _mansion_ and enjoyed every minute of it _and_ my attentions, now what does that tell you?"

Christine blushed and looked away, but Erik did not so much as flinch. "If you'll notice," he replied calmly, "she ran away from you, despite all your luxuries and titles, vicomte—what does _that_ tell _you_?"

Raoul's lip curled in loathing, but he had no reply. Instead, he lunged, rapier raised to attack. Erik, who had cast aside the useless lasso and drawn his own weapon, easily parried it, following with a vicious attack of his own that forced the vicomte to retreat.

The snow was still falling, but the cheery hubbub of the festivities—which, through all the horror, had not registered in Christine's ears—was drowned out the harsh clang of blades. It formed a sort of chilling beat, erratic and piercing, with a speed and ferocity that even their racing hearts could not keep up with. The lights of the city lit up the roof, illuminating their bodies and creating the feel of a divine battle. The steel of their blades reflected the light without reservation, and the brilliance was almost blinding.

Raoul tried to ignore Christine's screams and concentrate wholly on the duel. He was used to fighting other French noblemen, who observed all the rules and had been schooled in the same method of fencing that he had. But the Phantom's style was unlike any he'd ever seen—it was mostly French, but it took pieces of Italian, Spanish, and something he couldn't identify. It seemed Middle-Eastern and was impossible to anticipate. The Phantom would begin with an ordinary French pattern, and then throw something odd into it, like a _roversi_ _cut—_ something used with a scimitar, never a rapier! But again and again, the vicomte found himself surprised by these unexpected breaches of European style and was hard-pressed to block them all.

He was constantly retreating, frantically trying to assess the Monster's style and find a weakness. There didn't seem to be one. It made him furious—you used jabs and thrusts in fencing, _never_ cuts; no one had for two hundred years! It was ridiculous and out-of-date. But, somehow, it was working. As if that was not bad enough, the roof was precariously slippery from the snowfall, and the vicomte's fashionable boots were unable to get any sort of grip on its surface.

Erik pressed the attack, his deadly blade flashing through the air, mercilessly hammering the vicomte's defenses. Its metallic surface reflected the light of the city without reserve, and it blinded Raoul as a burst of lightning would. As the edge of the roof got closer and closer, beads of sweat began to form on the vicomte's brow. The Phantom raised his arm to make a _mandritti cut_ , and suddenly, Raoul saw his chance—as was the peril with such a move, Erik allowed his left side to go unguarded for the space of a moment.

Raoul parried the cut and lunged forward, driving the tip of his blade at the exposed part of Erik's chest. Erik leapt backward, but could not bring his blade around to block it in time. His shirt was ripped open, and the flesh beneath it was marred with a bloody gash. Christine screamed. As the blood soaked the ruffles of cotton and spread across his chest, Erik stumbled back and raised his blade.

The vicomte pressed his assault, using the _L'Boessiere_ system of feints and attacks to force his opponent to retreat. Erik was forced to step back, but after only a moment switched to _Thibault's_ technique and ignored the vicomte's feints, instead concentrating on parrying the real attacks and following them with brutal ripostes. It worked, and soon it was Raoul who was retreating. _Thibault's_ Spanish style complimented the use of cuts, and Erik was not forced to leave himself vulnerable again. Raoul wasn't as surprised by these unheard-of maneuvers now, but they were still foreign enough that he hesitated a moment before blocking them.

But a moment was all it took. One of Erik's attacks flashed forward, and Raoul could not block it in time; it sliced across his shoulder, cutting his arm to the bone. The vicomte cried out in pain and jerked back. There was a behemoth statue to the right of him, which he darted behind to catch his breath and ascertain the consequence of his wound.

Erik was taken by surprise when the vicomte disappeared from sight; he had not expected retreat from the nobleman. He quietly made his way around to the other side of the statue, where he could catch the vicomte off-guard, thinking the man was waiting to ambush him from the first side.

But Raoul was leaning against the other side of the marble statue—not waiting to attack, as Erik had thought. In that critical instant when Erik came into view, Raoul's eyes widened in surprise, and he lashed out at the Phantom with his rapier. Erik, also caught by surprise, dodged the blow. It grazed the side of his face and severed the cord that held his mask in place. The porcelain aegis fell to the ground with a resounding clatter that was not lessened by the fallen snow.

The vicomte's lip twitched into an expression of disgust as he viewed the face of the creature that had stolen Christine from him. His fury flared as he stared at the Phantom's disfigured features, and determination redoubled to rid the world of such a disgusting monster. He leapt forward with a yell to strike a killing blow, but Erik evaded his strike.

Then Erik attacked, and Raoul quickly parried and leapt away from the statue. They fought on, the vicomte's face grew more contorted with rage, and his blows became more brutal and erratic. Erik had been forcing him to retreat to the edge of the roof, but, no more than a hands-width from the precipice, the vicomte's furious attacks began to turn the tide.

Christine, who had until this point been watching the battle from the safety of the far wall, ran forward. She grabbed hold of Raoul's arm, shrieking, "Leave us alone, you monster!"

Something in Raoul snapped. With a snarl of fury, he wrenched his arm free and backhanded her across the rooftop. Eyes blazing red with hellish vehemence, he swung his rapier in a wide arc, attempting a _coup de Jarnac_.

Erik, who had been anticipating this famous French maneuver since the battle began, parried with such force that it knocked the rapier out of the vicomte's hand. Raoul was thrown back, and he fell to the cold, snowy surface of the roof, not a foot away from the edge. Erik stood over him, breathing hard, making no move to dispatch his fallen opponent. Raoul glared back, knowing there was no chance that he would leave the roof alive.

Christine, thinking that the fight was over, rushed to the safety of Erik's arms. In that moment of distraction, Raoul leapt up, drew his dagger, and flew at Erik.

Erik quickly turned so that Christine would be protected and grabbed the vicomte's wrist. The vicomte poured all his strength into that arm, forcing the blade closer to Erik's heart. Erik shoved his arm back, ignoring Christine's frenzied screams.

Raoul was thrown off-balance, and his boots lost their footing on the icy roof. Erik, startled, released his grip on the vicomte's wrist. Raoul grasped frantically for something to hold on to, but to no avail. A frozen expression of shock contorted his face as he tumbled over the edge and plummeted to the ground below.

It felt like an eternity before the sickening thud resounded in the frigid air, and cries went sounded throughout the crowd in a ripple effect as they caught sight of the body.

Erik overcame his stunned, immobile state and glanced over the edge. The body was spread-eagle across the steps of the front entrance, blood tainting the snow around it. Christine, still clutching the front of his shirt, started to look as well, but Erik pulled her back. There was no need for her to witness such a horrible sight.

They stood there for a few moments, the knowledge of what had just occurred sinking in. The uproar of the crowd grew louder the soldiers emerged from the opera house and demanded an explanation, but as Christine began to cry into Erik's already-stained shirt, she couldn't hear anything but his heartbeat, fast but steady and comforting. He held her to his chest, kissing her disheveled hair and whispering words of comfort.

When Christine's weeping had lessened, becoming only the occasional sob, her tear-filled eyes turned to look into his emerald-green ones. Softly she asked, "What will happen now?"

Erik brushed a chocolate curl from her face. "The authorities will declare it a suicide."

Christine looked away for a moment, absorbing this information, and her forehead suddenly creased in worry. "And what about his soldiers?" She pointed with her free hand towards where the men lay motionless. "We can't just leave them up here, can we?"

"I'll take care of them, Christine. I'll take care of everything." He wasn't sure what he would do yet, but, looking down into Christine's eyes, he decided that it could wait for a few moments. Carefully, almost hesitantly, Erik placed his gloved hand upon Christine's creamy cheek, a smile on his disfigured face. The lights below lit his eyes, which glistened with sudden emotion.

"You have no idea, Christine—"

His resistance fell and a single tear rolled down his smooth cheek, which Christine wiped away. Her hand rested on his cheek and she smiled. Her voice was quiet when she said, "You will never have to wait again."

# Chapitre Trente-Six: Ensemble à la Fin

Christine entered her dressing room silently, removing her black mourning veil and draping it over the back of a chair. A few candles sat lifeless in a soft, golden glow of the gas lamps, and she struck a flame to light them. She then sat down in front of her vanity and began inspecting her makeup. It had been ruined by the wiping away of a few isolated tears. The tears themselves were completely gone, but the damage to her eye-liner was absolutely horrific. She frowned and set to removing the trails of mascara that marred her cheeks.

Sitting in front of the mirror, hearing the creak of the stool as she shifted her weight, she was taken back to the night she had sobbed in front of her dressing table, heartbroken and alone, and had prayed for the Angel to come to her. So much had changed since then that, as she looked into the mirror, she felt as if she were staring at a completely different person than the one that had stared back at her on that night—a less conceited person, who didn't lie or steal costumes, a better singer, who was complete and so happy in her life that even now, just come from a funeral, she couldn't help but smile as she thought about the new course her life had taken.

She lifted her eyeliner pencil to her eyes, then considered it for a moment and put it back in the drawer. She had always wanted to make herself as beautiful as she could manage, but thinking about Erik—growing warm and giddy as she thought of his unconditional love—she knew she didn't have to wear makeup for him.

As she mildly observed her reflection, which smiled back at her dreamily, a voice behind her queried, "How did it go?"

Christine turned to find that the trick mirror had been pushed back, and Erik was leaning against the frame. She hadn't even heard him approach. His relaxed posture would have gone unnoticed by anyone besides Christine, who perceived this slight change in his usually tense personality. Both sides of his face were visible, relaxed in a sort of peaceful contentment the likes of which Christine had never seen. She couldn't help but smile at him—for no reason other than she was happy to see him—despite the seriousness of the subject.

"The entire cemetery was filled with people," she told him. "Mostly noblemen. I felt a bit out of place—no one said anything but I could feel their eyes boring into me. It was horrible. They were all whispering, and I'm sure they were saying, 'Look, there's his mistress, the one who made him kill himself.' Isn't that horrible? How dare anyone think that I had anything to do with it! And the managers were there. I don't know what they're going to do now that they've lost their patron. Oh no, that's not right; they're patron is the comte—"

"And what about the comte?" Erik pressed, stepping into the room. "Does he suspect anything about his brother's death?"

She shook her head. "I made sure to talk to him, as you suggested. I waited until after the funeral was over, and most of the people had left. Philippe just stood there, in front of the mausoleum doors, and for the longest time I couldn't bring myself to speak to him. But when I finally did, he didn't blame me for Raoul's death. He said, 'I'm sorry that you're being subjected to the cruelty of the gossips' stories, mademoiselle, and to the irrationality of my poor brother. Take comfort in the fact that their attention, however painful, will pass.'

"And I felt so terrible—he really did love his brother—but I couldn't think of anything to say. In fact, I almost confessed the whole thing to him, so he wouldn't feel so bad. I started to, actually—but he began to speak, so I stopped. Anyway, he asked me if I was going to stay at the Garnier, and I said yes. Then he introduced me to the very pretty lady standing next to him; she was Veronique de la—what was her name again.... You know, Raoul's fiancée. Anyway, she was grasping his hand, and I could tell it was giving him all the support he needed, so I felt less guilty about leaving."

Erik nodded pensively, lines creasing his brow in thought. "It would seem that the comte, like the _Préfet de Police_ , has come to the conclusion that his brother's death was a suicide. A plausible explanation, I suppose, considering the extent of his brother's actions, especially since they found Marquis D'Aubigne's body and pieced the evidence together."

A moment of silence passed, in which neither of them could think of anything to say. Christine abruptly stood and blurted out, "I wish you could have seen Raoul when he and I were children—he was wonderful back then, not at all like he ended up. He was brave, and gallant, and kind...." She trailed off for a moment before bringing herself to finish. "I don't know what happened to him; he grew jealous, and hateful, and frightening.... But he wasn't always like that," she pleaded.

"I don't blame the vicomte," Erik said softly. "He couldn't help being in love with you."

Neither of them spoke. Though it was only for a moment, it felt to Christine like an eternity. Then Erik continued, as if he had never paused, "Now, about _Otello_ —you'll be wonderful as Desdemona no matter what, of course, but I wouldn't want your reign as diva of the Opera Garnier to start on a bad note because of an inexperienced counterpart. Jerome Routhier will be a good Otello—he has a strong, commanding voice—but he gets very flustered when he hits an incorrect note and refuses to continue. Many of your arias are duets, so make sure to keep singing as if nothing has gone wrong. But if the man doesn't improve, I'll intercede and get you a different partner."

She smiled affectionately, thinking of how annoyed the managers would be if the Phantom ordered them to get a different Otello. "I'm pretty sure I can handle it," she assured him. She couldn't believe she had ever considered giving up her singing career; her reasons had been poor before, but now she couldn't imagine quitting the practices, the bustle and chaos, and especially sharing a love of music with Erik. She had been forced to beg and plead with the managers to take her back on as diva—a blow to her pride that she would not have been able to contemplate a month ago—but, having taken into consideration the vast improvement of her voice and devotion to the position of opera diva, Richard and Moncharmin had finally agreed to accept her back on a probationary basis. She still wondered if Erik had something to do with it, but he maintained that he had played no part in re-securing her career.

"But it's really not fair," she said. "We're still performing _Idomeneo._ I shouldn't have to start on another opera—I can't keep two sets of lines memorized at once."

"You won't be expected to have anything memorized for a few weeks. Knowing Richard and Moncharmin, they'll probably decide to switch to a different opera after problems start surfacing."

She started to reply, then decided against it. The managers had been so kind to take her back, despite her disappearance, that the least she could do was try. With Erik's help, she was sure she could manage holding down two parts.

She was about to ask if the managers had accepted the changes Erik had suggested for the accompaniment when a knock came at the door.

"Mademoiselle Daaé," a voice called, "you're wanted on the stage in five minutes for a run-through of the first act."

"I'm coming!" replied Christine hurriedly, turning towards the door. She started to walk towards it, but Erik caught her hand.

Then, before either of them could think, their lips met. Christine's hands twined themselves around Erik's neck, while his held her waist. Raoul's demise slowly faded from their thoughts as they looked into each other's eyes.

Christine was reminded of how lacking Raoul's kisses had seemed to her, in comparison to the reassurance and warmth that filled Erik's. And then, in that moment, Christine understood what it meant to fall in love completely.

She loved Erik, and the knowledge that Erik loved her back was enough.

The voice returned though the door, "Mademoiselle Daaé! The run-through begins in three minutes!"

Christine told him to tell the managers that she was on her way. She and Erik shared a brief kiss, and, after a brief farewell, Erik passed through the mirror. Christine stood for a moment, smiling, but an insistent knocking upon her door reminded her to pick up her skirts and head to the stage.

La Fin

