The Café l’Opéra was a favorite haunt of performers, offering both proximity and satisfactory refreshment at reasonable prices. The proprietor recognized me the moment I entered, and directed me to the private booth near the back where Christine and my daughter sat in hushed conversation. The discussion had clearly engrossed them both, as neither was aware of my presence at first.
"No, it wasn’t exactly a trance," Christine was saying as I came into earshot. "It was more like a dream…I was conscious of my actions but I had no influence over them. Or I thought I didn’t. It was strange…I don’t know if I can make sense of it…"
"Try," I demanded, surprising myself with my own curiosity.
Christine turned to me, and her eyes grew livid with condemnation. "You knew, didn’t you? You knew who he was—what he was—the whole time! Why didn’t you tell me?"
The shame of my part in the deception burned me. "Forgive me," I begged. "I cannot defend my actions, except to say that there are matters in which I am bound to silence. Besides…would you have understood, having not seen him with your own eyes?"
The color fled her face at that, a sign which should have warned me. "No," she confessed. "No, I would not have understood. Even when I did see him, when he led me through the mirror…I knew he was the Phantom, and yet I could not help but think he was still my Angel. Though surely no angel ever had such an eerie air…"
Meg squeezed her hand consolingly, and motioned to me that Christine might need a drink of water. I sat beside my daughter and poured a glass from the pitcher on the table, which Christine took from me gratefully.
"I knew I should be frightened, but I wasn’t," she continued at length. "No, that’s not right…I was afraid, but it was that intriguing fear one almost takes a perverse pleasure in. Every shiver made me acutely aware of how alive I was…"
"I don’t understand," Meg said, frowning with puzzlement. "One minute you say you felt as if you were in a dream, then you declare you never felt more awake. Isn’t that contradictory?"
"Perhaps it is," Christine mused with distant eyes, "but it’s true. I felt entirely at peace and yet at the same time my heart pounded with excitement. You weren’t there, Meg, but try to imagine if you can…the dark cavernous halls bellow the Opera, plunging into the earth, ending on a black lake crowned with pale mist. And a man…a man with clothing as dark as the lake and a mask white as mist, a man whose eyes shine like the silver moon and who moves like wind on water. And whose voice…" She shuddered with a torrent of emotion. "I can’t even begin to describe that voice, except to say that every other music pales in comparison to the magic he is capable of. I heard him with every fiber in my body…and something filled me that was like ecstasy and fear and hunger and pain all at the same time. My skin was on fire with it…" She shook her head. "I don’t think you can understand…"
"I do," I said softly. I knew all too well of what she spoke.
She glanced at me with a wan smile. "Then you are wiser than I, Madame, for I can hardly grasp it myself." She took a sip of water, relishing the cool liquid for a moment. "He sang to me as he ferried us across the lake, keeping me from panic…and on the other side, he led me into the most beautiful candlelit chamber. I was dizzy with that arousing hunger, intoxicated by his voice and the icy fire of his touch. I hardly knew my own actions…but I remember asking, ‘Who are you? You are not an angel and you’re not a ghost, who are you?’ He drew very close, so close I caught the scent of his leather mask, and whispered, ‘I am Erik.’ And then…it gets hazy, I think I fainted or fell asleep…."
She lapsed into silence again, and Meg and I exchanged worried glances. "And when you woke up?" my daughter prodded.
"When I woke up," Christine proceeded, "I was alone in an opulent bedroom. All the furnishings seemed to have been designed with my taste and preferences in mind, and the understanding of the effort Erik must have put into arranging for my comfort both touched and disturbed me. But I did not dwell upon that for very long, for my attention was soon captured by the sounds of an organ. The music was unlike anything I ever heard before—it was almost painful to listen to, and yet at the same time there was such aching beauty and sadness within the notes that I thought it was the most exquisite sound I ever heard. I let the music guide me into another room, one draped entirely in black and blood-red, and Erik sat at the organ playing with fierce passion. He did not notice me, he was wholly absorbed in the notes—which, I have since learned, were of his own creation. The sight of such ardor mesmerized me; I became intensely curious about this man. The mask seemed to irritate me, for some reason, I thought it was standing between the two of us—"
A soft cry of alarm slipped out of my mouth; I could see all too well what must have come next. "Christine…tell me you didn’t—"
"I did…God help me, I did!" she wept into her hands. It was several minutes before she could speak again. "How is it possible, Madame? How can a man possessing such gifts, with unrivaled wisdom and a voice the angels must envy, be so hideous in appearance?"
She no longer wept alone; tears were bedewing my cheeks. "You don’t know how many times I have asked myself that same question," I told her. "But, Christine…you must remember that as horrible as that face is, it is only a face, and of no more consequence than any other."
She shook her head. "I know that…dear God, I hope I am not so frivolous as to despise a clever man because he lacks a handsome countenance! But that wasn’t the worst part. The worst of it, the memory that continued to stifle me with terror long after the shock of his face had passed, was his anger. He lashed out at me with such sudden and terrible violence, shrieking and cursing like a demon loosed from Hell! I—I couldn’t even make sense of half of what he said, he was so incoherent with rage…but he—he said I could never be free of him, that I would have to remain underground forever…"
"But he let you go," Meg observed.
"Yes…he had no sooner said those words when he suddenly looked at me as if he were seeing me for the first time, as if he had only then noticed I was trembling and cowering on the floor before him. And all the savagery fled his brilliant silver eyes and he became mortally ashamed of himself, falling and cringing at my feet and weeping ‘Oh Christine, forgive me, I didn’t mean it…’ His misery and humility were so absolute that I couldn’t help but be moved to pity, and yet at the same time the swift alteration in his temper frightened me. I knew then that he was a very dangerous man, unpredictable and untamed, and yet that wonderful, terrible hunger he first evoked in me never stopped…" She was shivering violently, as if plagued by some unseen gale. "I’m not sure which is worse…the knowledge that he might lash out with that fearful violence at any moment, or the fact that knowing that doesn’t change the way I feel about him…"
I reached across the table to take her hand. "I know it may not help…but you are not the first to endure these feelings." She looked at me with sudden sympathy, and I felt strangely uncomfortable. "What happened afterwards?"
"Nothing of importance. We talked a great deal, and of course we sang….It felt so good to sing with him again; I could forget that everything had changed between us, I was able to pretend I was the same as I had been twenty-four hours before. And then this morning, he said I had to return to the Opera, that he did not wish to keep me from my career…and you found us."
I don’t know how long we sat there after Christine’s narrative died out. It might have been a minute, it might have been hours. I was the one to break the silence. "Meg, will you please go and hail a cab? I think Christine should go home and rest."
Meg went to do my bidding while I settled the bill and Christine collected herself enough to rise from her seat with a semblance of calm. But there was one more subject I was anxious to speak of, and I broached it as Christine and I were going to join my daughter outside. "I understand the Vicomte de Chagny visited you in your room after the gala."
"How did you—" Her surprised expression melted into a nervous laugh. "That is a rather foolish question, isn’t it, after what I’ve just learned?"
I think I smiled. "I can see I will no longer be able to impress you with my apparent ability of prognostication. But in this case, the truth is quite mundane. I happened to see the young man near your room not long after you…left." She colored. "How did you come to know him?" I inquired.
"My father and I spent a summer in Brittany once," she began. "It was a few months after my fourteenth birthday, and Papa had given me the most beautiful red scarf. I wore it to the seaside one day, and some mean-spirited child stole it from me and flung it into the waves. But then a boy my own age ran in after it—paying no heed to what the water would do to his fine clothes!—and brought it back to me." She cast her eyes down shyly, as if transformed into her younger self by the memory. "I found that terribly romantic, of course. We spent the rest of the summer together—his governess found it awfully inappropriate, but he didn’t care for her objections…."
"I can see why he made an impression on you. However—perhaps I haven’t the right to meddle in this—but given the circumstances, I don’t think it would be wise if you were to pursue—"
"Please, Madame, you needn’t caution me in this matter," she said, her eyes sad and noble. "I already know it would be futile to renew my attachment to Raoul. Even if…even if Erik were not a factor, our differing positions would make it impossible. People would think I am a loose woman, and they would consider him a scoundrel and a rake. Perhaps I shall have regrets…but I will endure them, in order to spare them both harm." She meant it then, not knowing how much she would be tested in the coming months, innocent of the trial by fire she was about to suffer. I tell you this not to open old wounds, monsieur, but to help you understand that she was concerned for your interests as well as his. I sometimes think that was her undoing: caring too much, so afraid of causing pain to another that she became paralyzed with indecision, and so determined to take the burdens herself that their weight nearly crushed her.
Meg and I helped Christine into the waiting cab, and we heard her direct the driver to her apartment. As we watched the coach pull off, Meg turned to me. "Well?"
"Well what?" I refuted. "You can’t expect me to answer a question when I don’t know the nature of the inquiry."
"You know very well what I mean," she said hotly. "None of this was a surprise to you, was it? Before you came in, Christine said you didn’t seem a bit surprised to find two people occupying a locked room, and one of them the…" She studied me a moment, chagrin spreading across her face. "It’s true, isn’t it?"
"What’s true?" But I knew I could not prevent this moment any longer.
"They’ve been telling stories for years," she said quietly, staring at me as if she scarcely knew me. "They say the Opera Ghost speaks through you, that you sold your soul in exchange for his secret…"
"Tales and nonsense," I replied, my voice rough with anguish. "But like all legends, there is a small grain of truth at the center." I reached out and lay a hand on Meg’s round, warm cheek. "Dear child, I would allay your fears if I could, but as I told Christine there are certain affairs of which I may not speak. Please do not beseech me farther. Understand I must remain silent, not only for my own sake but for yours as well."
The explanation did not appease her, as I knew it would not. She was her mother’s daughter in that respect. "I have an errand I must attend to," I said, touching my hand to the place where Erik’s note nestled in my bodice. "If you would know more of this affair, you’d do well to join me. You’re a clever child, Meg; perhaps you can solve this mystery unaided."
Go on to Chapter 19
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