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Chapter Text  章节正文

Le Fantôme de l’Opéra -
歌剧魅影 -
de l’histoire originale de M. Gaston Leroux, raconté dans la mode de s’époque
M. Gaston Leroux 的原始故事，以当时的时尚讲述
par Xanadian_Sled  由 Xanadian_Sled

Chapitre I - ‘Mon isolement d’orphelin…’

Father died when I was thirteen, in Perros-Guirec.

We had travelled there for les vacances d’été… not to enjoy it ourselves, of course—but to play music and support ourselves by means of those that were.

And we did just that… until my father was affected by la grippe towards the end of the season, and unexpectedly died two weeks later.

I recall sitting there and watching him from the end of his bed. I had it too—but somehow the man who lay growing weaker by the day, no longer resembled the hale and hearty norseman who had taken me from Sweden to France in the wake of my mother’s death seven years previously; he had steadily gone downhill after she died… I always thought it was increasing malnourishment, but it occurs to me now that perhaps it was the slow but most steady and silent killer of all : that of a broken heart.

It is more than I can go into even now—but the pain of his loss was such that, when I woke up one day to discover that I had somehow managed to survive the illness, I nevertheless waited for the next four weeks, for the same fate to befall me as well. But I didn’t die.

And that was the beginning of wishing that I would.

The woman whose home we were boarding at, Mme Simon, kept me on through the first of September out of her sadness for me; then she told me that she’d received a letter from her elder sister-in-law in Paris—a widow named Mme Valérius—whom she had told about my unfortunate circumstance, and who in turn had offered to take me in and care for me; Mme Valérius had seen my father and I perform in duet many times in neighbourhood cafés and busking on street-corners in the Marais, and had dearly enjoyed our act. She had no surviving children of her own, and thus felt compelled to look after me, having read of his death in the ‘ça et la’ section of the city papers... and so, by the end of that week, I boarded a train for Le Mans and arrived in Paris the following day, travelling third class the entire way… I was a young woman alone, without a single centime to her name, who had agonisingly left behind her father’s crypt and was merely trading one strange town for another.

Mama Valérius had been born into a family of musicians—thus one of the reasons why she had so immediately adored my father at our little concerts; she was pleased that I, too, loved music—but the truth was that my love for it had evaporated along with my father’s dying breath.

Creatively, I was dead.

Mama Valérius made it her duty to enrol me in school. I still spoke French with a strong Swedish accent, and did not employ the best grammar, so I was made fun of and given such a hard time by all the other girls… I was placed at the bottom of the class, and made to feel truly awful. There was only one other foreigner—a German girl with a French name, Sabine.

Sabine was the only one at school who was kind to me—and even though we were now fourteen, she still wore her golden hair in braids. Sabine, too, was poor and relied upon the kindness of good-hearted souls for her family’s progress in the world—her mother took in laundry and sewing as her father struggled and toiled doing manual labour, bouncing from job to job as the work ran out first here, then there. She was impossibly positive—‘something new always comes along, Christine—’ but I did not share her optimism.

After a year of this, Mama Valérius took a bit of her savings and enrolled me in a ballet school so I would be more possessive of grace and poise. My primary-school education was at an end, and it was unheard of in those days for girls to attend lycée, unless they wanted to become teachers… Mama must have also thought that perhaps entertainment should be my only protection against becoming a prostitute or a washer-woman, since I had no good prospects for getting married—and she may have thought it more likely that a career in the beaux-arts might lead to such.

While for me ballet class was yet another difficulty since I had not previously studied, I possessed a natural grace which had somehow not deserted me during my battle with la grippe—and in its own way it was slightly better than school because I at least did not have to rely upon spoken French to dance ! And, in any case, I had nothing better to do with myself, so I became a more or less capable ballerina by my seventeenth year. All the same, the ballet mistress, Mme Cécile, often complained that while I was indeed possessed of grace, I lacked all feeling; she often said that I moved like the wheels of a locomotive… facile, but mechanical.

Yet I could not raise any feeling in my heart; it was empty. I was dead. What reason was there to live—when I had no family and very few hopes ? When the French language was still, for me, such a struggle ? When I had no interest in marriage, and no hope that anyone would ever want to marry me anyway… when any zest I had once had for life, had gone with my father, the summer he suddenly succumbed ?

… The summer that death had neglected to take me along with him !

Ahhh… how very often, ever since that time, I had wished that it had !

Thus passed four years of dreary nothingness, during which, when the interruptions of war, pestilence, never-ending construction, violence and social upheaval did not threaten us—which at times seemed constant, such as those weeks of the Commune—I danced four afternoons a week in Mme Cécile’s studio and performed in six recitals a year; I helped Mama Valérius about the house and with her errands and chores as I might; I would venture out with Sabine to the park on rare occasions of good-weather, and we would lie in the grass and watch the clouds.

Sabine would ask me silly, rather mundane questions about the kind of man I wanted to marry, and tell me about the boy from a German family in Tours to whom her parents had arranged her marriage as a teenager, for that future time as he completed his training in engineering—and when we were twenty-one, that day came, and Mama and I attended Sabine’s wedding, and then she went away to Tours and that was that.

Sabine’s wedding was simple and uncomplicated—but there was a violinist present who reminded me so much of father ! He even played a song that had been in my and my father’s repertoire… the associations it brought back were so strong, that over the next few days I was assailed by memories I’d long ago locked away in the steamer-trunk of my mind…

And chief among them, was my father’s tale of the Angel of Music.

That night, as I lay in bed, I closed my eyes and let myself revisit the painful scene which I had blocked out for years : my father in his death-bed, while I sat at the foot of it, listening.

‘Christine, daughter mine… have I ever told you… the story of the Angel of Music ?’

‘… I think so, papa.’

‘But you don’t remember ?’

‘Well… I remember you have often spoken of the Angel. But I don’t know if I recall a story…’

‘Ah ! Well then… I must tell you… the story. For I want you to remember it… should you ever… need it.’

He paused for some time—gathering his strength, I realised now. Oh, how these realisations came to me now, which had escaped me as a child… how painful it was ! Tears streamed through my tightly-closed eyelashes and down across my cheek, pooling onto and then saturating my pillow while I cried silently, so as not to disturb Mama Valérius in the next room.

And then he began at length, with great labour :

‘The Angel of Music, is a deity who comes to those creative souls in need, at critical times of their lives… He is a benevolent spirit, one who bestows at birth the talents of all musicians, and upon whom he returns to rescue in their darkest hours of need… he nurtures their talents… gives them work… brings to light new inspiration, by which to illuminate the path of their lives… the Angel is good—wholly good. He lives in a place far removed from the human-race… sending to us from his distant abode, those tendrils of melody which we sometimes hear in the distant reaches of our mind, which have come to those like Josef Haydn… Mozart… Beethoven… von Weber… Schumann… and Chopin… all those who have written beautiful works for entire orchestras, Christine… not just concerti, or even sonatas for one instrument, like your grandfather’s old violin which I still play even now—but grand pieces, for six or seven viols each of all four types, violin and viola, cello, contrabass—and woodwinds ! Flute, oboe d’amore, clarinet, bassoon ! And percussion… the timpani, harpsichord, even piano… !

‘And the organ, Christine ! The Angel of Music loves the organ… he considers it the most sacred instrument of all… for it possesses the widest range, the most incredible expression that exists ! And Christine, my cherished daughter, you have heard none of these, for your poor papa has not been able to afford the tickets for you to hear them since your dear mama died ! But oh, Christine, the Angel of Music hears them all, and he holds them all dear to his own heart… however, most special of all to him is that instrument of the voice…for the voice is a unique gift indeed… you should always remember, when you sing, Christine, that he is the only one to whom you should sing—he, the Angel of Music ! For some day, during one of those times that he departs his isolated place of remove, he shall hear you when you raise your voice in song, and he shall come to you for the result of it, my dear… indeed, sweet girl, should you ever find yourself alone and in need, just sing for the Angel of Music… call for him, pray to him… and he shall come to you—I promise it, my dear… especially if someday you should find yourself alone. The Angel of Music will always be there for you, Christine !’

The memory of that story was like a knife in the chest ! Oh, how I cried… but yet I drifted off in the most peaceable sleep, despite my pain. And when I awoke in the morning, I was still highly cognisant of the strength of my recollection !

And so, I began to pray to the Angel of Music.

It was shortly after I began this rather arcane routine of prayer, that something finally happened that began a marked change the staid and drab routine of my life; Mme Cécile announced that the maîtresse de ballet of the brand-new Théâtre National de l’Opéra would be attending our next dance recital, to observe our class; the corps de ballet there was to be hand-picked.

All the other dancers in Mme Cécile’s studio were very excited about this, of course; from that point on, it was the constant background discussion in our class. The fact was that the new Opéra was looking for male and female dancers of all ages and levels to round out their roster of cast for the productions they were planning for the inaugural year. But I didn’t honestly care; I hosted no ambitions and I only barely cared that this new Opéra even existed; I could certainly never attend, for it was elite and rich, and I bore no desire or hope of being attached to such a place—in fact I had already shrugged it off as not only impossible, but unnecessary. For secretly, in my bed each night, I prayed to my deity, the Angel of Music, to come and take me away… and if there was no Angel of Music, my only remaining sincere desire was to die. I was always willing to accept one in place of the other—and neither was anything I feared.

For why fear death—when it surrounds us ? Why fear it, when it had been the repository for all those whom I loved best ? Why fear it, why run from it, why do anything other than embrace it, when death was truly that which welcomes every single one of us with open arms and a loving embrace ?

The day of our recital came… and how was it possible that all of our dancers made idiotic mistakes in their anxiety to perform well ? That they looked like a troupe of silly amateurs who had not actually attained any real degree of skill ? I felt a pang of heartache for our ballet mistress… Mme Cécile was a good dancer, and an excellent teacher—if a painfully honest one. I had never received her best praises; I did not deserve them… but she had done a better job with our humble classes than it appeared during the recital; in reflection, they had all been so excited, so ambitious, that it harmed their abilities and made them all so self-conscious that they could hardly dance gracefully… but I cared not. My nerves were not affected, for I didn’t care a whit one way or the other what happened. And because of this, in a strange turn of Fate, I turned out to be the best dancer of the entire recital.

So the maîtresse de ballet of the new Opéra wrote to me, by means of Mme Cécile, and extended an invitation for me to join the very first dance rehearsal the following week, where everyone would be sorted and classed. Mme Cécile gave me the letter in private before class began—and her face wore the most sincere look of both bafflement and pride.

‘Mademoiselle Daaé… I never honestly believed that you had the soul required of a true dancer. But you were the only one on that stage who did not disappoint me. And indeed, only one of your cool nature could withstand such large audiences as they will receive during the first season of the Opéra de Paris. Therefore I feel no small amount of pride that they have selected you, the only one from our little ballet school, to dance in their ranks !’

We began immediately—the season was still in some disarray as it was the very first. I was classed into the ballet chorus—it is not an enviable position, but it paid me enough money that for once I was able to begin giving Mama Valérius her due. I was grateful for that—if for nothing else; for I still privately preferred death to any other outlet, if indeed the Angel of Music did not exist… and I was beginning to suspect as much, that such an Angel did not exist. For I had heard no music in the reaches of my mind; I had experienced nothing over these past weeks. Thus I began to pray to the Angel less and less… I was losing heart, even as I made material gains.

Travelling to the 9th arrondissement every day was certainly a chore; I had to walk down a long, narrow rue, to catch an omnibus on the crowded Rue de Rivoli, which took me there from the Marais—and from there it was either another long walk or a second omnibus. I knew, that as the weather would begin to turn cold, it would become a dreadful trip !

Nevertheless, Mama Valérius boasted constantly about my new appointment to anyone who would listen, and asked me every day for news and descriptions of everything I saw there, those others in the company, and so on. And then she began saying how perhaps now I might finally meet a gentleman to marry—perhaps one of the opera singers, or one of the orchestral musicians, or even another dancer. It was so exhausting, even though I appreciated her pride—but it was not enough to make me feel like living. And it did not particularly fill me with anything remotely like joy.

We spent three solid weeks in the large, lovely, fully-mirrored ballet hall before I ever even saw or set foot in la salle de spectacle… and it was only then, that my heart beat with a sense of wonder for the first time since my papa’s death. It was such a breathtaking space—all that met my eye was bloodred velvet, beset in gilt splendour… and the most beautiful painted ceiling, and the most enchantingly gorgeous tiered chandelier ! The room was crowned with oval windows which gave the impression of a massive tiara. And rightly so—for it was so decadent and regal, I felt almost like an impostor even standing in the midst of it !

Ahhh, but I wanted to hide away within one of those many velvet boxes which surrounded the stage… and live there forever, never to be found by anyone, ever again !

There was another young woman in the ballet ranks, classed the same as me, but perhaps two or three years younger—Marguerite Giry, who went by Meg. Her mother was one of the matrons des loges… and she, too, had lost her father, and knew how it felt. So we bonded upon this point—and became friends. In many ways, she reminded me of Sabine, with her blonde hair, chaste innocence, and naïve excitement for life.

It wasn’t until that first season had ended and we were on summer break that I remember looking out over the pond in le Parc des Buttes-Chaumont—where communards who had invaded the beautiful Opéra during its half-constructed state during those frightening months of the Commune, had afterwards been taken and executed summarily, without any legal formality or due process of law—and I sat for a very long time, wondering once more if the Angel of Music which papa had told me about, was in fact something that failed to exist. Something that was a figment of his own imagination, something told me just to serve as a comfort, knowing he was shortly to die… something that was not real, and never had been, and never would be.

That August, when our rehearsals for the following season began, Meg and I were still classed together, and we were glad for our reunion in the ranks. We now felt more comfortable in the Opéra, and we began to stray far afield after practise in the effort of learning the building’s secrets—which seemed innumerable. The halls leading to the grand staircase were so enchanting and beautiful; the entrances to the loges and baignoires so luxurious; yet there were utilitarian aspects which seemed so curious—for even in their plainness, they were resplendent.

Finally, one day in early September—we had been left behind and forgotten about upon the stage when a murmur rippled amongst the other dancers that over a hundred dead rats had been found in the dressing-room of the lead soprano, and nearly everyone had rushed into the long corridor to observe and gawk at the spectacle. The soprano was a Spanish woman of such demanding and self-serving attitude that it was hilarious to one such as I, who had no cause to ever interact with her—and the managers, Messieurs Debienne et Poligny, were falling all over themselves to cater to her in her panic. Only Meg and I had stayed behind upon the stage; for we had no dressing-room—only the common space for the dancers ! And we didn’t like Carlotta, or pay attention to her varied dramas and tantrums. Meg initially giggled at just the thought of rats filling her private dressing-room, but then suddenly she grew quite serious.

‘My goodness, Christine ! It has only just occurred to me… those rats must be the work of the Phantom of the Opera !’

‘The Phantom of the Opera ?’

‘Yes ! You’ve heard the whispers… people have seen him upon the stage, in the deep shadows… up in the flies… in the upper corridors… they say he can appear and disappear at will !’

‘Oh, Meg… you shouldn’t believe such talk. This is a new building ! Whoever heard of a new edifice beset with ghosts ?!’

‘But Christine… it took years to build… any of the workers could have died while it was being constructed ! And our city is so old, think of what lay here before ! Remember Château Rouge ?’

I shrugged; I didn’t know anything about it.

‘I do not know much about old Paris. My father and I travelled so much that I never really attended school until I came to live with Mama Valérius.’

‘Oh, I see… didn't you say he played the violin ? And you sang with him, didn’t you ?’

‘Yes… I sang with him. But that was years ago now. I doubt I even recall how to utter a single note.’

‘But… don’t you still sing, out of love for the music ?’

‘No. Never. The desire has left me.’

‘Oh ! How sad ! Is it because you miss your father so much ?’

I sighed. ‘I do miss him… but no. It is not because of that. It is because… well… I don’t really know why.’

Neither of us said anything for a time, and I finally spoke again. ‘I suppose it’s because I thought the Angel of Music would come… and he never has.’

‘But if you never sing anymore… maybe that’s why ! You should sing a song for the Angel of Music now !’ she said softly, ‘No-one is in here but us—and in a place like this, he is sure to hear it ! This place is a temple to song; why wouldn’t the Angel be here ?’

‘Meg,’ I sighed, ‘there is no Angel of Music.’

‘Really ?! You have decided so ?’

‘More or less.’

‘Oh, Christine… but please ! If you won’t sing for the Angel of Music… sing for your father ! Sing for those memories of him… he would be so happy to hear you in such a grand and beautiful hall as this ! And who knows when you’ll get the chance again, with everyone else away worrying over La Carlotta…’

I sighed deeply. I supposed she had a point.

And it didn’t matter anyway… no-one was listening. No-one except her.

So I walked out to the footlights, which were dark and heavy at the edge of the stage… and I summoned up my memories of my parents in Sweden… then those many engagements with my father in which I sang along with him as he played his violin. And for just that moment only, I found my voice.

‘Le printemps ici, de cette village
est le plus beau depuis notre engagement
et mon coeur se sent tellement plaisir
car du bienfait de vos touches,
quand même vous êtes mort ;
ah, oui, maintenant vous êtes mort !’

I sang the song, and it resounded through the vast auditorium so beautifully, that my heart fluttered, and actually lifted—for what felt like the first time in nearly ten years ! So I continued on into the second verse:

‘Vous êtes mon seulement amour,
et mon seul rêve. J’espère que
quand la mort me trouve,
elle serait me prendre, pour délivré à vous !
Ahh, belle mort… donnez-moi le plaisir de vous !’

And as I sang… why, I could not possibly tell you what a strange sensation passed through me at that moment. It was as though something within me had simply been touched by magic… and I had transformed. Such a sensation of longing passed through me—such a desire for something unnamed… I didn’t even know what it was; it was simply desire !

It even seemed, as though I could hear upon the very wind—although no wind reached here at all !—the rich sound of something very beautiful, and very near, sighing and responding to my song !

Oh… if only it were the Angel of Music !

But… there was no Angel of Music…

Thus I returned home that night, despite that feeling which so nearly stirred my heart, once more restored to my usual uncaring and passive nature—and perhaps even in a blacker mood than before. For I was still essentially dead.

In fact, I recall that night feeling so dead, that I again asked whatever power which might be listening, why I was even still alive—such was my pain, and my desire to no longer feel it, no longer feel anything as it was only, ever, always pain !

Ahh, belle mort… donnez-moi le plaisir de vous !

Chapter Text

Chapitre II - ‘Le Fantôme de l’Opéra’

I sat in Box N° 5, alone as always, gloating over my success with the load of dead rats—of which I’d availed myself from the rat-catcher’s baskets left in the Third Cellar—and distributed liberally throughout Carlotta’s room; ahh, how the cow had truly bleated in horror ! So complete was her terror that I’d had to immediately fly from my hiding-place, and make my way out to la salle de spectacle, for my reaction of uncontrollable laughter would be sure to give me away and reveal the secret of my existence !

God, she’d deserved it ! And how fun it was, toying with those who falsely believed themselves born of talent so unblemished that it lent them truly perverse notions of self-importance ! La Carlotta was hardly important, and even less talented; as the resident Opera Ghost, it was indeed my job to remind these mortals that they were only that and nothing more—whereas I possessed powers beyond the wildest fantasies which their poor, enfeebled imaginations could conjure.

Moi, Erik, c’est le Fantôme de l’Opéra !

Thus, as I silently congratulated myself on my perfectly-conceived coup against the foul Carlotta, two young women who had remained upon the stage were utterly beneath my notice as they conversed between themselves. But slowly, they began to intrude upon my consciousness as their chatter became animated; short on patience and thus irritated by the distraction, I looked up to see who it was. I recognised the short blonde girl as my box-keeper’s daughter… I supposed I could not resent her too much therefore, as her mother, Mme Giry, was quite a dear lady, in that she was wholly complicit with me—and the other one, I did not know; she was tall, slim, and beautiful… she was imminently more graceful, and appeared some years older to my eye, than her companion.

I sat wondering why Mlle Giry was beseeching her so, when I remembered that I honestly did not give a good goddamn about whatever they might discuss; I stood from my chair in the shadows of Box N° 5 and began to move towards the hollow column fronted with marble, which hid my entrance to this loge, in order to leave and return to my home secreted deep beneath the opera house. The curved panel slid noiselessly aside, and I was just about to step within, when something reached my ears that stopped me in my tracks and made every hair of my entire body stand on end.

It was a song ! But nay… it was not a song; it was a voice—indeed, the most beautiful voice I had ever heard in my life !!

A voice so sweet and enchanting, that I do not recall turning, or taking the steps to the edge of my box, to peer out openly towards the stage—for I did not turn, I did not step; I floated. And I do not recall falling to my knees there as a worshipper at prayer in a church; I do not remember a torrent of tears falling unbidden from my eyes, making my mask impossible to wear as I cried… but that’s how I found myself when it was over—cowering in genuflection, quivering with powerful emotion, gushing forth tears, hands at my chest that they may still my heart, eyes riveted to the one from whom the voice had come: her. That unknown woman !

My mouth opened and I sighed the barest of musical responses; the blood drained into my nether-regions as I was overwhelmed by feelings I had frankly never felt for another—the sensation was blinding, it was stupefying, it was more than I could manage by far.

‘Oh, Christine Daaé,’ said Mlle Giry’s voice when the song had ended, ‘you sing so very beautifully ! Just imagine if this room was full of people, how they would applaud for you now ! What a crime it is that you are merely a dancer ! You should be singing upon this stage !’

The woman did not respond; she seemed rooted to the spot before the dark footlights, appearing to look straight at my box as though she knew I was there. I was invisible to her, of course, and I knew this—but a terrific sensation of fear coursed through me nevertheless; my god… this divine creature could never see me—she could never know me !!!

I hurled myself to the ground, my back against the balcony, sweating and shivering as though I had caught la grippe and knowing with all of my heart that I had just fallen in love, with a strength and a power that I had previously thought nonexistent. I had never been in love; never even believed in love. Comradeship, sympathy, pity, pure undying hatred and bitterness—those things I knew were real. But love ? True love ? Never ! …until now.

For that woman with the voice—what had young Giry called her ? Christine Daaé. A curious name; obviously foreign… and a voice like spun silver ! Untrained, of course; unready for any kind of public demonstration, and badly in need of someone who could refine her talent, help her realise the heights of which she was clearly capable of reaching—but that voice was raw ore of the purest quality I had ever encountered. That voice of sterling timbre and colour, had taken a sword to my body and soul and cleaved it in half, then sorted through the detritus of my organs and taken my heart in its hand; it had breathed previously-unknown life and love into that instrument, then put it back and re-constructed my person around it and re-animated the corpse by the blackest of magic.

Man alive… it had happened… it was her. And I knew it.

Christine Daaé was now my raison d’être; she was my one true love. It had taken forty-nine long years to realise it, to encounter her at last, and god only knew how I was going to manage the burden of the knowledge—but at least I had found her. She was real. And she was here.

I spent the next two days on an obsessive quest to learn everything I could about her. There wasn’t much to learn : she was living in with an old widow in the Marais; neither of her parents were alive; she was Swedish. She had practically no friends; she had attended ballet school due to a sacrifice upon the part of the old woman, who was a lifelong devotee of les beaux arts. She was unmarried… and she seemed to have no interest in life itself.

Indeed, I myself heard her ask no-one in particular, as I sat listening outside her bedroom window in the darkness, ‘please… if you exist, then come to me, oh Angel of Music—or let me die like I desire !’

It was then, I knew exactly what to do.

Nevertheless, this was a trial I could not undertake alone. The hold of such tumultuous emotions over me, necessitated taking into confidence the only friend I myself truly had… Nadir Kahn, a former chief of police whom I had brought to Paris many years before—when together, as fugitives, we had managed a dangerous escape from our former appointments to the Shah-en-Shah of Persia, in Tehran.

It was well past midnight when I rang the bell at my friend’s home; light still burned in the windows of his first-floor rooms, so it was clear he had not yet retired.

And indeed, such was his curious degree of patience and forgiveness where I was concerned, that although he might well have cursed another man for the late (not to mention uninvited) intrusion—as well as the fact that the hour of my call necessitated he answer the door himself—when he saw that it was I who stood there, he simply extended his arm in welcome, instantly drawing me inside.

Hanging my hat and cloak upon a hook in the vestibule, we moved into his drawing-room, where once seated in comfortable armchairs in front of a small hearth, my friend spoke.

‘Erik… you stink of wine. Yet you came here… so clearly you still have your wits about you. But something tells me you have not come for a chess match… what brings you to my abode this night ?’

I sighed heavily, my shoulders drooping, and gazed into the empty fire-grate for a long moment before addressing the question.

‘Ahh, daroga… you are surely my only true friend.’

‘That seems unfair to your Madame Giry.’

‘Well… that is true. I suppose I must include her as well.’

‘So that makes two.’

‘Indeed it does. Blessings far greater than I deserve, to be sure.’

‘Allah be praised. And what about Charles Garnier ?’

‘I would hardly call us friends, Nadir. But perhaps… esteemed colleagues.’

He shrugged indifferently. ‘As you wish.’

I looked up to pointedly survey my friend. ‘Let me ask you this, Nadir—let us see if anything in your experience in Allah’s realm is relevant to a… dilemma I currently find myself without any means to resolve.’

Nadir’s black eyebrows briefly rose in quiet amusement. ‘Pray tell, Erik… what possible dilemma is there upon this earth with which your genius cannot grapple ?’

I sat silently, knowing the question was rhetorical—even if the handsome Persian bastard was mocking me.

‘I think we’re both going to need a cigarette for this one, Nadir,’ I proclaimed; and the amused glint in Nadir’s eyes quickly vanished as he realised this must actually be quite serious—for I only ever very rarely smoked; from long experience, he knew I only ever did so in circumstances where it was an element required of symbolic bonding, in diplomatic negotiations between hostile parties—that, or it was a true dark night of the soul.

So Nadir reached out to an elegant box which sat upon the table next to him, and folded back its hinged lid ; its red felt interior was well-stocked with cigarettes, from which he took two; handing one to me, he then took a match and struck it, extended it to me, then quickly touched it to his own; he languidly waved his hand to extinguish it, then threw it into the cold fire-grate as we sat silently amidst that initial swirling puff of smoke.

Once he’d exhaled fully and drawn upon it again, he asked :

‘Have you killed someone ?’

‘No, daroga… for all the deaths to my credit, I would know how to conduct myself in the aftermath of yet one more.’

‘Then what ?’

But still I did not answer. How was I supposed to tell him that I had fallen in love ?!

My friend studied me curiously amidst my reticence, appraising me with that damnable investigator’s air of his—and then suddenly he hit uncomfortably close to home.

‘Ah! Perhaps an issue of conscience…an affair of the human heart. Of love and decency. For this is the only tract upon earth which your genius, Erik, cannot penetrate.’

I uttered an involuntary cry; my elegant pose crumpled. Nadir had hit his mark…and it had been so easy for him ! His instinct was good. Either that, or he simply knew me !

‘Daroga…I haven’t come here for you to tell me I’m a fool. Because that surely is, and has been, obvious for the entire time you’ve known me.’

Nadir’s eyes crinkled in genuine amusement.

‘Humility ! Well !’ he chuckled, unable to help himself. ‘It must really be something quite thorny.’ He exhaled a lungful of smoke. ‘Let’s have it out, then. I shall do my very best to help you find a solution.’

I looked up again into his perceptive brown eyes.

‘Thank you, Nadir. I am privileged indeed to avail myself to your counsel. After all, you are a man of… some experience.’

I drew upon my cigarette, and finally began at length as I expelled the smoke from my lungs :

‘You are correct. I… I have fallen in love. And I don’t know what to do… for I have never been in this situation. I feel… I feel it’s quite impossible—for how can I declare myself to her—a dark and terrifying shadow—to such a fair maiden as this ? But yet I must find a way… for this young woman, so lovely and ripe, is on the verge of dying upon the vine! She is awash in the pain of a soul who is ignored and unloved… she too will fall into the abyss which long ago claimed me, if I cannot somehow prevent it. And I believe that I can—indeed, I must—but the idea of it terrifies me !’

‘By Allah !’ my middle-eastern friend muttered in astonishment. ‘Indeed—that the most fearless, most coldly capable man I have ever known, who has struck fear into the hearts of countless men—is afraid of love ! Why, this young woman must be something truly special to have had such an effect upon you, Erik… I have long known how deeply engrained is your dismissiveness for the fairer sex, and your steady avoidance of the same. And you are no longer a young man, lusty and reckless… dangerous, yes… but never reckless; everything you do is calculated to assess the risk involved. So this… this is something eccentrically novel ! It piques my fascination !’

‘I am not a mere curiosity for piquing anyone’s fascination !’ I said hotly. ‘Do you really believe I am so unlike any other man, and utterly beyond all emotion ?’

‘My friend… you know this is not what I am saying. I am simply allowing for the singularity of it—this conversation alone, testifies to that fact.’

I forcefully set aside my irritation with his worst habit—that of the insufferable language of one in law-enforcement—and ploughed on.

‘Nadir… I have seen this girl go about her daily routine. She tries, of course, to put on her best face, but…’ here, I broke off, staring wide-eyed into the empty fireplace, suddenly seeing the facts before me for the first time, ‘… it is a mask. An unfeeling mask, outwardly displaying happiness where beneath, there is only pain and despair !’

His eyes stared at me unblinkingly, the cigarette within his hand having gone out without his even realising it.

‘Erik… you possess a well of compassion and depth which you have always striven to hide… indeed, I would not be alive, sitting here speaking with you were it not so. But upon my word… it is far more considerable than your supercilious genius would permit to appear.’

I crumpled, hiding even the uncovered side of my face behind my hands; my shoulders shook, and I sobbed quietly in heartfelt agony, my voice now breaking with strong emotion.

‘My intentions towards her are only honourable… because I… I love her. Thus I am resolved to approach her. Rejection awaits me—this I know without question—but I am going to approach her. Yet my love for her is not permitted. It would be a most abhorrent sin against this supremely angelic creature ! To curse her with my love ? I could never allow it… she should never accept it ! But, perhaps, I can be some small source of comfort to her…’

‘Erik, my friend… there is no sense in attempting to foretell the future; only Allah dictates those things which come. Love is complicated… it is full of apparent contradictions, it comes with maddening ups and downs, it can transform at will into various permutations. This is simply the nature of love. And all those possibilities lie within our own hearts. It is what makes us human. And frankly… it is entirely worth the effort, worth the fear, worth the risk.’

My reaction to this, was to explode in a wailing rash of tears; I rocked back and forth in replete misery, finally sliding out of my chair onto the rug, pooling into a weeping mess at Nadir’s feet. In all our long years of association, the daroga had never seen me reduced to anything like this !

‘Nadir… it will kill me if she sees my face and turns away. I… I wouldn’t be able to bear this life any longer if she did.’

At these words, I wept like a child. And Nadir, kind soul that he was, placed his brown hand upon my shoulder in sympathy.

‘Erik, honestly…’ he said with some exasperation, raising his voice over my renewed sobs as I sat before him upon his floor, having surely lost all traces of whatever dignity I once had in his eyes. ‘Do you want to hear my true opinion ? Would you really like my counsel as you said before ?’

I sat up, my eyes fastening onto him with intensity. ‘Yes, Nadir… please tell me unguardedly.’

‘Alright. Well, while I do not know this woman, it is entirely possible that she—moreso than any other—could be capable of granting you something precious indeed : reciprocity. But you must have the courage to venture out; you must show her she is not mistaken, my friend. You must show her who you really are. And you must survive it, Erik—come what may.’

At these words, I again broke down in tears; for I knew he was right, and that his advice was true.

Several minutes passed while Nadir smoked two more cigarettes in succession, waiting for me to recover myself. Never had he expected such a tale as this; certainly not tonight, possibly not ever, but—now that it had happened, I had to do just as he said, and pick myself up and ready myself for what would surely be the most important encounter of my entire life.

The next evening, I prepared by way of moving Mademoiselle Daaé’s reticule into a place where she would have significant difficulty in locating it, thus ensuring she was the last of all the dancers to exit the common ballet dressing room; indeed, she would be the last one out of the entire company to leave for the night. I would have to do something about this impossible logistical situation, of course, and inform MM Debienne and Poligny that she was to receive her own space—and with any luck, it would be worth having done so; but this night would determine all.

She was upon hands and knees, looking for a third time beneath all the dressing-tables, when I at last raised my voice in song from my hiding place.

‘Christine… Christine… Christine…’

She immediately stopped what she was doing and sat back upon her heels, her eyes wide and her mouth agape.

‘My god,’ she said in a whisper. ‘No-one is here any longer… and yet I could have sworn I heard a voice !’

‘You did hear a voice,’ I answered softly. ‘It is I… the Angel of Music.’

The gasp which issued from her throat was so strong that I saw the sharp intake of air affect her entire frame; she looked all around her, the expression upon her face defying comprehension. Her trembling hands flew to her cheeks, then covered her mouth.

‘But… it can’t be !’ she cried. It still seemed as though she was talking to herself…

‘Christine… do not be afraid. Do you hear me ? Do not tremble. For I am benevolent… I am here because you have called upon me. I am here… to dispel your solitude, to give you comfort through the language which we both speak… that of music !’

Her eyes continued to dart wildly around the room, seeing nothing as she got to her feet.

‘But I cannot see you !’ she finally cried aloud to me. ‘Where are you ?’

‘I am everywhere,’ I said, employing my most singular talent for ventriloquism, causing my voice to sound from multiple places around the room.

She spun in a graceful circle and her face shone in wonder.

‘Angel… could it really be ? Oh Angel… I have prayed for so long that you would come ! I had even given up… I have wanted to die !’

‘Ahh, no, my precious child… you must not give up… please understand that I am forever wandering the many planes of all existence, and I am sorry if it has taken time to hear your call… for it is my work to hear all the music of the universe, and it was not until three days ago that I realised your need of me. And this has been my first opportunity to speak to you in such a way that you might hear me.’

‘Angel !’ she gasped, tears escaping her eyes and trailing down her face in a pitiable show of feeling, ‘my father—oh, I had forgotten these many years !—but he told me you existed… he said that if I needed you, you would come !’

‘And so I have, Christine… I have come to you !’ I sighed, placing my hand to back of the mirror in front of me—through which I could see out, but no-one could see in—wishing so badly that I could reveal myself to her !

‘Oh, merciful heavens… The Angel of Music !’

‘Yes, my dear ! The Angel of Music has come, to give you the most sacred gift of all… to exchange with you the most heavenly and ecstatic reprieve the soul can possibly know : that of divine song !’

I began to sing for her a song of my own creation :

‘Fear not those moments of solitude,
for they are full of peace.
Fear not the whispers of the crowds
when they are ill at ease;
Withdraw into yourself and find
the part of you that is sublime;
and to that which will heal your soul
relinquish all your self-control,
the music which I give you in your heart—
for music is the greatest of all art.’

I poured all of my feeling into the words as I sang—and she swooned in response : her eyes closed and she fell to her knees, her skirts heaping around her as her body swayed; trembling fingers clutched at her breast in yearning, while rivers of tears streamed down her lovely face.

‘Oh, Angel,’ she sighed, ‘your music is so… so beautiful ! In all my life, I’ve never heard anything so exquisite… your voice is enchanting… how it makes me long for I know not even what…’

She reached out her hands into the air, groping at nothing. While her words enflamed my heart with the profoundest stirrings of love I had ever felt—the sight of her moving to my voice and reaching out as if to try and find me, made me feel as though I might choke upon my own tears.

‘Christine… I would like to train your voice. You are capable of making it a very fine instrument indeed… if you will let me teach you, I will help you reach heights you never thought possible. And it will aid in your career, as well… would you like that ? Would you let your Angel come to you regularly, to teach you as only he can ?’

‘Angel !’ she gasped, ‘Yes—I would give anything for the chance ! Especially if you… if it means I could hear you sing as well… nothing has ever made me feel so alive… Nothing, ever !’

‘Very well, my dear… let me hear you now. Can you sing each phrase after me ?’

A lump had built up in my throat, for ever since I had heard her voice three nights ago, I had physically ached to hear it again—like a man under the spell of the sirens !

So I sang once more the first line of verse : ‘Fear not those moments of solitude, for they are full of peace…’

And she repeated them to me… the sound of her voice sent the thrill of ecstasy throughout my being, and enflamed my groin with desire so strong it nearly rendered me incapable of thought.

‘Now, I am going to tell you what to do… and you must listen to your Angel, yes ? Rise up to your feet, and stand very straight… yes, exactly… now bend your knees very slightly, and push your shoulders back. Take a very deep breath—and sing the line again. “Fear not”…’ I prompted, and she took it up from me—the second attempt was better by far !

By the time she’d made it through the first verse, her technique was so improved that it left me shaken and breathless—there in my hidden place, I had to lean upon the wall and run my hand along the front of my trousers, so overwhelming was the strange mix of feelings which came over me.

She had made it all the way through the song, when I told her briskly that I had to take my leave; and I fled from the location forthwith. And as soon as I reached the sanctity of the stonework tunnels, I pulled my swollen cock from my trousers and stroked myself vigorously… furiously !

Nevermind the fact that I had never engaged in such an act with anyone… I had some idea of how it worked; I had seen countless artworks and happened upon dozens of randy couples who had sequestered themselves the privacy of the woods in the gypsy camps of my teenage years.

I saw Christine upon her knees before me, wearing a shimmering gown.

‘Oh, Angel… grace me with a lesson, teach me to sing.’

‘Yes, my darling… come to me… let me touch your throat. Let your Angel of Music teach you how to use your lips and tongue… let your Angel of Music teach you, beautiful Christine. Open your mouth to receive him.’

She did as she was told, opening her lips and tilting her head back; I stepped up to her beautiful face and pressed my hard, throbbing cock into her mouth—slowly, slowly, pressing in as she placed her hands upon me. The silken sensation of her tongue upon my bulb, the feeling of her hands around the base of me, the hot wetness of her throat, as I dipped myself in and out between her lips…

‘Angel… don’t pull away… I want to taste you,’ she whispered with desperation, opening her gown so that her perfect nude body was visible beneath me. ‘I want you to teach me… I need you to unlock the tight clasp of my aching soul !’

‘Then open up your legs, Christine, lay back and open your legs so that your Angel can prise you open with his cock, my sweet… let your Angel fuck you like you need him to… like you want him to… isn’t that what you want ?’

‘Yes… yes, please, show me what it means to be alive !’

I knelt down and pressed my burning erection into the centre of her body, and it was so overwhelming that I almost came immediately.

‘Yes, my darling… let your Angel fuck your cunt just like this… your Angel is so hard for you… can you feel it, Christine ? Can you feel how much I needed to find you… needed to fuck you… needed to come inside you ? Oh, Christine…’

Standing there, pathetically alone in the tunnel that was so close over the top of my head, I came into my own hand, my body spasming from the desperate need for her which now consumed me.

Damn it, Erik, I thought to myself as I stood there trembling, if this is only the first voice lesson, you, man, are in deep fucking trouble.

I trudged down the tunnel which lead to the underground lake, far below the stage.

‘She’s never going to touch you,’ I ranted aloud when I reached its bank. ‘She’s never going to want you. Especially if she ever sees your fucking face !’

I allowed myself to crumple onto the ground, dissolving into tears of angry pain. Why ?! Why couldn’t I have been born as any normal man… with a face that was whole and handsome ? Why had I been born a monster… a hideous freak… just as the gitano man who’d enslaved me had said—‘No woman will ever fuck a man whose face looks like half of a corpse… unless you fuck them from behind, so they can’t see… that’s the only way you’ll ever get any…’

I rolled over and vomited into the water from the sharp physical discomfort of the sudden and unwelcome memory from my violent and unhappy past.

Oh, Christine Daaé ! How badly your Erik needs you… and you don’t even know he is really a man, and not an angel… that there is nothing even remotely angelic about him ! Et tu ne sais pas encore qu’il a un nom !

Chapter Text

Chapitre III - ‘L'Ange de la Musique’

It wasn’t until my return to the Opéra, for dance rehearsal three days later, that at last the first thing occurred, since the death of my father—and frankly, by comparison, ever in my life—that made me feel alive… that made me feel grateful that blood coursed through my veins; that filled me with a desire to remain upon this plane—and that filled me with a desire for something I did not even understand !

Stupidly, I had set my reticule upon the dressing-table in our communal dressing-room; by the time I returned, some five hours later, it was gone. Of course I did not suspect thievery—my purse was a homely affair, crocheted by Mama Valérius in her favourite shade of brown—and it contained absolutely nothing of value; therefore I only suspected what usually happened : things were in the way, and they got moved, and therefore, mislaid. I had searched everywhere twice by the time Meg, who’d been helping me search for it, had to beg off in order to leave with her mother—Mme Giry was a box-keeper, but also a general keeper-of-order in the corridors of the dressing rooms, and it was the custom of herself and Meg to take supper as early as they could. So they left… and I was alone. Indeed, I could not leave before locating it—as my five-sous fare for the omnibus was there, as was my key to the lodgings of the good Mama Valérius.

Thus I continued to search. I had looked once more in all the drawers in the dressing-tables along the wall, and now knelt upon my hands and knees, looking upon the floor below them, when a voice spoke to me out of the ether, which simultaneously managed to make my blood run both hot and cold.

It was the voice of an angel !

And not just any angel… but that of the Angel of Music—at last !!! Just as my father had foretold, had promised would come !

He sang to me… yes, he sang, he most beautiful song I had ever heard in my life. It was as though hands were gliding down over my entire body and touching my bare skin, penetrating my very being !… and his words—his words truly pierced my heart, as though my chest had been opened and it beat visibly before him !

How could this heavenly and beautiful voice so plumb the depths of my soul, as though he himself knew the pain which I felt ? It was impossible !

But that is just what he did. He sang… and his voice was like a tongue of flame which licked up and consumed me, from the inside out.

If I seem a bit incapable of explaining what happened… it is because, I am; that first encounter with him, passed as though it was a dream. I recall his voice surrounding me from all corners of the room—I recall him leading me through a vocal exercise, and making corrections to my posture, and drawing out a tone from me which sounded foreign even to my own ears.

And I remember him suddenly leaving me—and all returned to grim and sombre reality; I found myself upon my hands and knees in the centre of the room, unsure how I got to be that way, looking directly at my reticule which lay there below the folding screen by the far wall.

Had I just imagined everything ? Had it been some kind of a vision ? Was I losing my mind ?

I didn’t honestly know.

Yet I felt alive ! Alive, but beset by a sense of physical longing which was infuriating—a sensation unlike anything I’d ever experienced… I felt as though I’d been swimming in the sea for far too long, deprived of vital oxygen, and suddenly surfaced, gulping in fresh, sweet air. And yet, it was far more complex than that…

I retrieved my reticule from the floor—wondering how on earth Meg and I had both managed to overlook it for so long—and left the Opéra, exiting the building from the rear entrance. Some minutes later I climbed aboard a timely omnibus which was headed down Rue Halévy, to Rue de Rivoli… there I took a second omnibus home to Mama Valérius, in les petites rues of the Marais.

‘My goodness, Christine dear—but you are late tonight !’ she called out from the parlour. ‘I was beginning to worry about you !’

‘Oh, I do apologise, Mama—I did not intend to cause you any alarm. I was… I was with my new voice teacher. The Angel of Music has come !’

Mama stood from her chair by the tiny hearth, dropping her knitting to the floor.

‘The Angel of Music ?! Whatever do you mean ?’

‘What I mean to say is, The Angel of Music—whom father always told me would come to me someday—has come ! He is real, and he has come… and he is giving me voice lessons ! He has agreed to be my teacher. And I would have lessons from him, even if I had no desire to sing—for his voice is the most resplendently golden voice I have ever heard, Mama… I felt alive, Mama, hearing him sing… and he brought out musicality from my own voice such as I have never heard ! It was… it was an incredible experience—almost like a dream !’

‘My goodness, Christine… but what about the cost ? What is he charging you ?’

‘He is charging me nothing, Mama ! He is an angel !’

‘Well, gracious me ! Dear girl… how is it even possible ! Unless a true miracle has indeed occurred !’

She was so pleased to see the happy tears in my eyes, and the look of joy upon my face, that she hurried to me and embraced me.

‘Oh, my poor dear girl… how I have worried about you so, ever since you came ! I have prayed that something like this would happen for you… how I have prayed for the spark of life to be restored to you !’

I was too exhausted to eat, so she bade me at least take a cup of broth up to my room while I readied myself for bed. And I withdrew to my little bedroom there, overlooking the ugly courtyard which stank of the cesspit and reeking grey laundry, where I could at least reflect in the peace of darkness upon everything I had just experienced.

I sank down upon my bed, and for the fiftieth time since I had left the Opéra that night, wondered if it had really been real. I re-lived every moment once more in my mind, as best I could. I closed my eyes and focussed upon the golden sound of his supernaturally perfect voice…

‘Fear not those moments of solitude… for they are full of peace.’

The words came back to me with an immediacy which coursed a violent shiver up my spine.

I hummed the melody to myself… and that haunting and strange melody, the very fact that I knew it at all, told me everything had been real… I had not lied to Mama Valérius, nor recounted something from a fit of hallucination. No… the Angel of Music had really come !

He had come… he had found me… and he was going to come again ! He was going to continue to teach me… he would be my Maestro !

And I knew with a primordial knowledge, deep in the depths of my heart, that I would never love anyone else in my life—except the Angel himself. I had felt it at the time… but it had been too extraordinary an experience to consider. But as I reflected upon it now, I felt it keenly.

I sleeplessly lay in bed that night, Mama Valérius’s soft snores eventually sounding through the thin walls. In the darkness I heard the Angel’s voice in my mind, again and again… the lush, cascading, velvet luxuriousness of it induced a strange tingling, bubbling sensation between my thighs.

Ahhh… what had this strange angel awoken within me ?

I continued to think of him until I felt so incredibly needful that I clamped my knees together and prayed to him fervently.

Oh, Angel of Music… if only you could come to me in my sleep… how I would welcome you in my bed !

The following day, I was informed that I would be moving to La Carlotta’s former dressing room, at the very end of the long corridor which led from the stage wings; after the incident with the dead rats, she was refusing to stay in it, for she felt it was cursed—thus she had been moved to the first dressing-room past the stage.

‘But Madame Giry,’ I said in surprise, ‘I am only a chorus-girl. How is it that I—’

‘This is what the managers want, Miss Daaé—so you just go get your things, and move in. When Fate smiles at you, you don’t ask questions ! I say, you’re worse than Meg !’

She shook her head, causing the black feather on her hat to waggle and bob; she handed me the key from her apron-pocket, and then turned and bustled down the hall with other things to attend to.

So, gathering my meagre belongings and necessities, I left the communal space of Meg and the other ballerinas—and entered my new private room.

I had never set foot in it until I opened the door, and was astonished that a room so large would be all my very own. One entire wall was covered in a massive mirror which stretched from corner to corner, with gilt moulding at its top; it doubled the space just by appearance alone. There was a large divan of yellow brocade, a white rococo dressing table with an angled mirror and a hardback chair and, a washstand with a white-and-blue basin and pitcher; the two inner corners across from the mirror held a small side-table with an empty vase, and a tapestried folding screen; upon the wall by the door a brass rack was hung lengthwise, from which a multitude of costumes hung. Even in its sparseness, the room was far more grand than anything I had ever known.

I was crossing to the basin to wash myself before changing when I noticed that upon the flat of the dressing-table lay a single red rose; it was so fresh that it still held dewdrops within the petals. And beneath it lay an envelope !

It was edged in thick black—mourning stationery—and it bore my name in bloodred ink.

I swallowed as I took it within my hand and looked closely at the writing. It was a strange, but beautiful and elegant hand. I sat down upon the chair at the vanity and turned it over; it was sealed. I opened the drawers at my sides, looking for a letter-opener, but found nothing; so I carefully prised open one corner with my nail and began to tear it carefully the rest of the way. I had received very few letters in my life, and I had a feeling about this one… a very hopeful feeling…

At last I had it opened, and withdrew the folded paper from inside. The same bloodred ink read :

My dear Christine,
Please accept this rose
as a token of my regard for you.
I am remiss for having left you
so quickly last night,
without explanation.
Your voice is so very beautiful !
You must develop it more—
but it is nevertheless lovely.
If you will continue to
accept lessons with me,
I shall return to you tonight.
Your new dressing room
will afford us more privacy,
and will hopefully be
more comfortable for you.
Please, say nothing to anyone about us.
It will be our private affair—
expressly between us.
In the meantime… I am your servant
and I shall always watch over you
and protect you.
In our mutual devotion
to music, I remain
Your Angel

I clutched the letter to my chest. It was the most beautiful thing I had ever read !

In fact… it almost read like a love letter. My eyes kept returning to the line, ‘it will be our private affair’… how it made my heart pound and my limbs grow heavy ! ‘I shall return to you tonight’… the Angel of Music would visit again in only a few hours ! I closed my eyes and drew a deep breath, and kissed the writing upon the paper; I buried my nose within the rose the Angel had left, and kissed it as well.

Oh… I was in love with an Angel ! It seemed so preposterous… but I was truly in love !

The night’s performance went as expected; our audience was growing, and the Opéra was now unquestionably the new, popular venue in town for those of the high class. My rôle, like all others in the chorus, was straightforward and uncomplicated, though it meant changing costumes three times in each act.

By the time it was over, I was beside myself with excitement—for my Angel was coming !

Les Giry had invited me to join them for supper—but I made an excuse, and locked myself in my room to clean up and change.

I was so nervous that I didn’t know what to do; should I stand ? Should I sit ? The divan felt too soft; the chair at the vanity felt too hard. I paced back and forth, wondering when the Angel would come. My anxious eye fell upon the rose that the Angel had left earlier… and I crossed to it and again held it to my nose, inhaling its rich fragrance, when suddenly the perfect, mellifluous voice reached my ears… the physical impact of his voice upon my person was incredible; I shuddered violently from the top of my head, all the way down to my hips. The voice was even more beautiful than I had recalled !!

‘The Angel of Music has returned to you once more, Christine… would you like another lesson ?’

‘Angel !’ I called out after that wondrous voice which filled the room; I had suddenly begun to tremble with that strange feeling that had previously overtaken me in his presence. ‘I’m so glad you’ve come back ! Yes… please… I would like to study with you every day if I could…’

‘Every day… ? Are you sure ? You might have other things you would rather do…’

‘No !’ I insisted, desperate to find any way to ensure he would return again and again. ‘Anything you would like to teach me… I would like to learn. I would rather do nothing else… than spend my nights with you !’

There was a pause. ‘Is that really how you feel ?’

‘Yes, my Angel… you are my Maestro. And I am your devotee.’

The voice was tender when he spoke again. ‘Your words… are so full of passion, Christine.’

‘I… I have not felt any passion for a very, very long time… I have not even cared about music, I have not cared about anything… until you came. You alone have replenished my desire to live.’

‘I will come to you every night, Christine, if that is what you wish.’

‘Yes, oh Angel… it is my only desire. Teach me to sing !’

‘Very well, my dear girl… I shall teach you.’

‘Thank you for the rose you left,’ I added, ‘and for the beautiful letter. I shall treasure it… I love roses. They are my favourite flower.’

‘They are symbolic of much,’ the Angel said, ‘especially of love. And you and I both love music—this is why you called to me, and why I came to you, is it not ?’

‘Yes—yes, Maestro Angel… and I am so grateful for it.’

‘What would you like to sing tonight, then ?’

‘Oh… could we sing the song you taught me last night ? I have been singing it ever since…’

‘Very well… then in that case we shall sing it again. But before we do, my dear, you must learn to breathe properly. And I shall show you how.’

‘Yes, Maestro… please. What should I do ?’

The voice modulated with a tone of intensity.

‘Come and stand before the mirror, in the centre of the room, Christine… so you may see yourself. Just as in ballet, you must be aware of your carriage and poise… Now do you remember what I told you last night ? Stand erect, with your knees bent slightly, and your shoulders back… yes… now draw in a very deep breath through your nose.’

I closed my eyes and did as he said.

‘Now, slowly expel it through your mouth. Do not even use the force you would use to extinguish a candle.’

Once more, I followed his instruction.

‘Now again, breathe in—the same way as before. Yes, very good… and exhale… yes, my dear, it will come naturally to you very quickly. Now do it again—and this time I want you to hold your breath once you draw it…’ Then his voice dropped to a whisper : ‘I want you to become familiar with the feeling of fulness within your body, Christine.’

For whatever reason, the strange tingling feeling between my legs which had made itself quite obvious when I first heard his voice upon the air, intensified considerably—and I bit my lip, and nodded.

‘Now sing a note as you exhale… whatever comes into your mind.’

I did so; the warble of nerves in my voice was quite present, and I strove to control it.

‘No, my dear—do not contrive to affect, either positively or negatively, your vibrato… it is a natural component of the human voice. Let it ring out as it will… you will feel it vibrate in the back of your throat… that is where I want you to feel it.’

His every sentence felt like a physical caress—and I was capable of doing nothing but what he said. His voice soaked me in a golden rain, until I was wet through…

And this was how it was, until finally he asked me to sing the song from last night—and he joined me while I did so—adding the most lovely and haunting harmony that I had ever heard !

It was so magnificent; I could even almost hear music in the background, and the beauty of the moment was such that it took my breath away. I fell to my knees before the mirror once we had finished, trembling, the feeling between my legs nearly unbearable.

‘Christine, my dear… do you feel well ?’

‘I am simply shaken, Maestro… the music, your voice, is just so beautiful. I am in love with it.’

‘It is beautiful, my Christine, because you are my pupil,’ he sighed. ‘Now it grows late, and you must be getting home, my dear… we shall meet again tomorrow night. Until then… au revoir.’

I clutched at my heart, the sense of loss already overwhelming. ‘Au revoir, mon maître,’ I gasped, trying to control the tears which had suddenly filled my eyes at his goodbye.

Thus we had lessons every night; and in the meantime, it was found that I had received a significant rise in pay. It was enough to now rent myself a small apartment—so long as I stayed in the cheaper quarter just to the north of the Opéra—and would thereby be much closer to work rather than having to make the long trek to the home of Mama Valérius.

I had worried that Mama would be lonely, especially after having cared for me all these years—but she insisted that I was to live my own life, and that clearly the emergence of the Angel of Music in my life had been a turn of all our fortunes for the better; she then revealed to me that tickets for upper gallery seats for every show of the season had mysteriously been sent to her earlier in the week, along with five-hundred francs and instruction that she was to buy herself an evening gown and to attend every performance.

‘The letter even said, Christine dear, that a cab would come for me, as well as fetch me back home… expenses paid ! Can you even believe that anyone would ever do such a thing… it said I have been recognised as an important lifelong patron of the arts…’

My heart swelled—for even without seeing the black-edged envelope she had received containing the tickets, I knew it had been the Angel who had seen to her gift.

And as the weeks passed, it was a rare night indeed that I did not have a lesson with him—and the nature of our interactions during these times became so intimate; I felt that the Angel had touched a part of me, perceived something within me, that no-one else ever had. This in turn filled me with the desire to deepen our connection even more, so that his would be the only intimacy I would ever know.

‘Christine… your abilities are enhancing considerably thanks to our lessons,’ he said one night, as we performed an aria from an opera called Salomé, with which I was utterly unfamiliar. It was difficult—but strangely beautiful, and quite different from the material I was accustomed to hearing so far at the Opéra.

‘Someday soon,’ he continued, ‘you shall indeed make a great opera singer. There is still much preparation to be done before you are ready for such a rôle—but I shall ensure that you are ready. And when at last you are, you shall have much more than a little apartment—I promise it.’

‘Oh, my Angel… how I adore you ! I dearly wish that you had a form… even if just for a moment… so that I might put my arms around you and show you the extent of my gratitude and devotion to you.’

There was a long silence; had he nothing to say in response ?

‘Am I speaking out of turn ?’ I asked nervously; ‘or is it perhaps blasphemous to say such a thing ? I don’t mean it that way, if so… I only say it at all, because I so dearly love our time together !’

‘Hélas, my dear,’ he answered softly. ‘Forgive my silence… it merely fills my heart with gladness, to experience such gratitude.’

‘But surely the Angel of Music knows only gratitude from all those upon whom he bestows his blessing !’ I cried.

‘Ahh, sweet Christine,’ his voice purred, ‘if you only knew how those of the world take music for granted. Nay… this is one of the reasons why I prefer to teach you. You may be, in fact, the most singular woman I have ever encountered.’ There was, it seemed, a note of wistfulness to his melodious tone; perhaps he, too, longed for the same thing that I did…

The nights in my new little mansard were simple ones—and I got home so late from performances and lessons now, that I often fell into bed exhausted. And once there, all I thought about was the next time I would meet with my teacher… and the sound of his voice—the heat which it stoked within me, the way it made my body buzz with excitement whenever he would express his pleasure.

And it was here, for the first time, in the privacy of my very own rooms, that one night, while I reminisced over the beauty of his voice, I pulled up my nightgown in frustration and touched myself between the legs… to my shock, I found I was wet and slick. One particular place was incredibly sensitive… and it felt so good to touch it, that I found it hard to stop. I called out softly for my Angel, wishing there was any way he could do such things to me…

Then one day I wondered; could I be united with the Angel in death ? I was certain that I loved him… I was certain that I wanted to be joined with him for eternity, just as living people are in marriage.

So the next time he came to me—I decided to ask him.

‘Maestro… may I ask you a question ?’

‘But of course, my dear.’

‘If I died… could we be together ?’

‘I’m afraid I don’t understand what you mean.’

‘Well… I was thinking, that if I wanted to be with you always… perhaps I should die.’

‘No, my dear—you must never think such a thing.’

‘Oh, but Angel… I long to be with you… there is no-one on this earth whom I love so much as you.’

‘Christine, my dear… you flatter me.’

‘No… I am sincere. And if you are an eternal being… perhaps it would be best if I was, as well.’

‘But… if you brought about your own end, it would surely separate us.’

‘Then what if I simply prayed for death… the same as I used to pray for your audience ? Is there an Angel of Death—who might deliver me to you ?’

‘Why, Christine… why ever are you saying such things, my dear ? Are you so unhappy with our lessons together ?’

‘No, Angel—it is because I want to be with you,’ I moaned, tears welling up in my eyes and a lump coming into my throat. ‘Because I long for you to know me, because I recoil from the idea of a life in which I am separated from you, without knowing the sensation of your touch !’

‘Ahhh, my sweet,’ said the Angel, ‘but if I came to you as a man—it might not please you as much as my voice alone !’

I shook my head. ‘I fail to understand why you would think so… my body burns for you, sweet Angel. Your voice fills me with desire which I know is unholy…’

‘Christine… you cannot really mean it… you must know that your Angel also thinks of you so highly…’

‘When I hear your voice,’ I cried, ‘even when I simply remember it, I am possessed by the most terrible need ! By the most insatiable hunger !’ I clutched at my breast, looking up to the ceiling. ‘Your voice is like the touch of something… something vital and necessary, something I crave, something I long for every moment of every day ! I simply long to be with you, my Angel !’

‘My darling girl… you have no idea how your words affect me so…’

That night, while I lie in my bed, I had a dream that was as strong as any real experience.

A man stood before me whose face I could not see—but his hands reached out, and his fingers slid between my own, pulling me close to him.

‘Dear Angel…’ I whispered. ‘I know it’s you.’

He pressed his body against mine.

‘Oh, Christine, you have no idea how I worship you…’

In the strange darkness, I felt his lips come to rest against the side of my neck, and then open; the heat of his tongue gliding over my skin, his teeth nipping at my skin, made me feel as though I might either melt or explode. Everything about him spoke of intense fervour, wild abandon, desperate need, deepest passion. My knees began to buckle as I turned my face to seek his lips with my own.

‘Yes, my Angel… please… take me with you… make love to me…’ I moaned into his neck as I grasped his arm and shoulder.

A animalistic sound escaped him as he pressed his hips hard against me, his tongue and mouth sliding up my throat towards my chin, and I collapsed against him.

I woke from the dream gasping for breath, my skin warm where I would have sworn his hands had just been upon me; I was covered in sweat, and the hair around my scalp was damp.

Only an angel could have haunted my dreams so nebulously, his golden voice penetrating my slumber with its ability to envelop everything in a velvet fog, the way I wanted his arms to envelop me. I felt like an opium addict—whose very desire to remain in the clutches of that mysterious essence had come to rule their entire lives… it was going to kill me if we could not be united…

I lay there in the darkness, recovering from the strength of my attraction to a man I had never seen, and would not know if I passed him in the corridor… but whose voice hinted at the quality of man that he was, and which I loved more than anything else in life.

Was I really willing to trade everything to have him come to life as a man… could I really barter the life of a divine being, solely to sate my own selfish desire for him ?

Yes… although it was evil of me, and heinous to admit it, I wanted it more than anything.

I wanted the Angel of Music !

Chapter Text

Chapitre IV - ‘La ressemblance d’une rose à le trésor d’une femme…’

It is dangerous indeed, to muse idly on the topic of lust for a woman. As unaccustomed as I was to it, I was nothing more or less than a man… despite whatever the world around us may believe to the contrary. And when confronted with a woman who sang so beautifully, who was so sweet, fragrant, ripe… is there any man alive who would not wish to pluck that flower for himself ?… to bury his face within her rich and forbidden bouquet?

Things had gotten much worse for me… much worse. For one night, after our now-customary evening lesson, I saw something I should never have seen… and the power of it had hastened my obsession, my madness, to an intolerable degree; indeed, I was now at last on the verge of making that decision which I knew would determine my true Fate…

Christine had caused me to fixate on roses. And not for their beauty, their scent, or their horticultural allure… but because I now knew that their softly opening buds—in those moments just before full bloom—so closely resembled the heavenly perfection of Christine’s gorgeous haven, beneath her skirts, between her legs.

Of course… she did not know that I had seen it; and I had not contrived to do it. Yet the forbidden knowledge was destroying me; I was no longer a man capable of ordinary behaviour or rational thought… now, nearly every moment of my days and nights were absorbed in the most aberrant sexual fantasies involving the deepest possible placement of my engorged cock within her tempting scarlet depths.

The way it came about was thus :

Our lesson had ended as usual one night. Now that she lived in her own apartment and was so much closer, our lessons ran later; it was her new habit to gather her things and leave the Opéra once our session had ended—and it was now mine to follow her home, to ensure she arrived there unmolested and safe.

But upon this night, in my guise as the Angel of Music, I bade her good-night—and it was a good-night rather heavily laden with innuendo.

‘Sweet Christine… I am afraid it is once more time for us to part.’

‘Oh, my Angel… how I do hate saying good-bye to you !’

‘But we shall be together again tomorrow, as always.’

‘How I wish it did not have to end. I can never get my fill of you…’

‘Ahh Christine… I could certainly fill you… even more than you could possibly imagine.’

‘Then I wish you would. What a pleasure that would be !’

‘Pleasure it would be, indeed. But my dear… these lessons are for you—so that you will someday be regarded as one of the great singers of our time—which is certainly your destiny, should you choose it. Now… I must take my leave of you, sweet Christine… until tomorrow night, at our usual time. Good-night, my dear.’

‘Good-night, my Angel.’

But unlike most nights, she remained standing where she was, eyes closed and breathing heavily, for a very long time; then she crossed softly to her divan, and sat upon its edge, then fell upon her back and clutched her bosom, breathing heavily.

Whereas initially I was concerned that perhaps she had suddenly fallen ill, I remained in my place to monitor her; I would not hasten to make my own exit until she moved to gather her things as usual. But she laid there for quite some time… and then, after many long moments, I heard her whisper heavily :

‘Oh, my Angel… if only you knew how I need you !’

And then she did something that utterly destroyed my ability to retain even the flimsiest grip upon sanity, and converted me into a man wholly possessed by the demon of carnal desire.

She drew her hands down slowly over her stomach, and reached down below her abdomen, past her hips, and began to pull up her skirts. Her legs splayed out over the edge of the cushions, one of them reaching beyond the side of the divan nearest the mirror; the rising fabric of her skirts slowly unveiling her long, black-stockinged appendages until she had revealed them completely—there, in full view of where I stood secretly behind the mirror. I could feel all the blood in my body draining quickly into my groin…

Pulling open the divide in her drawers, the tops of her alabaster thighs above her stockings shone in front of me, beset by an arresting carpet of tight, dark brown curls between her legs; I slowly sank to my knees behind the three millimetres of silver-backed plate glass which separated us, scarcely able to even blink as I took in the beautiful sight. My breath was so heavy that it kept fogging the glass before me, and I had to continually lean back away from the glass in order that I might see…

And then… she began to touch herself… revealing to my secret view, that intensely appetising rose bud which lay between her thighs. My mouth began to water, and I was now very hard indeed…

‘My Angel,’ she whispered, ‘how I long for your voice, all night long… how I wish you could appear to me in a physical body… and love me…’

All my hair stood up on end; in only a matter of seconds my trousers were open and my cock was in hand; I stroked my length sensuously, employing the same rhythm as her fingers as they caressed the delicate petals between her legs.

‘My beloved,’ she breathed, ‘my beloved Angel…’

She began to thrust two fingers into herself, in and out, in and out, her fingers quickly shining with her essence; I reached out and placed my hand upon that part of the glass behind which her treasure was displayed as I stroked my cock ever more fiercely; my eyes shifted continuously between the ecstasy of her face, and the delicious promise of her beautiful rose-red cunt, for which I salivated desperately.

‘I need you, Angel,’ she whispered, her eyes closed. ‘I need you here !’

God, how I wanted to taste her, to smell her, to fuck her; how I wanted to hear her call my very own name ! But she didn’t even know that I had a name !!

‘Angel !’ she cried passionately, her rising voice trembling in the urgency of her need, ‘surely there’s a way for us to come together…’

She worked at herself madly; moisture ran down her hand and spattered the floor beneath her, as I came hard and spurted upon the lower half of the mirror.

Well… we just had come together. Just not in the way she meant.

And with the release of much pent-up desire, there was now the sudden surge of even more, of another kind; and my heart dropped into the pit of my stomach as I considered how what she was asking was all at once both my dearest dream and my greatest nightmare.

I closed my eyes and sank back upon my heels, breathing heavily, yet as quietly as I could. This was what I deserved for deceiving the girl so nimbly… and due only to my own fear that she would reject me when she saw that I only had half a face !

After some minutes, Christine recovered from the most titillating thing I had ever witnessed—and she put her skirts back in order, then gathered her things at last, and left the room, extinguishing the lamps on her way out. I cleaned myself with a handkerchief, and exited my hideaway by means of a panel which led directly to the exterior, waiting for her in the darkness of the shadows cast between the street-lamps… then I stealthily followed her home, in the chill of the night air, the wind blowing the heady perfume of her into my face the entire time.

Thus assured she was enclosed within the safe confines of the tall, narrow doors of her apartment building, it was time for another visit with the daroga—and with no time to waste; I hailed a hansom cab and was quickly headed south once more, towards the Rue de Rivoli.

Of course I could never admit to him that we had just pleasured ourselves together after her last voice lesson—and even less so that I had been behind a one-way glass, watching without her knowledge—but I would have to admit that I had not declared myself as openly as might another man have done from the very beginning—and that now I was truly in a bind, for it was presently clear to me that she desired to know me in person… thus I desperately needed his advice once more.

Once again finding me upon his doorstep at a late hour, he quickly waved me in, and sat me down across from him in the drawing-room; this time he perfunctorily handed me a cigarette without even being asked, looking grave as he struck and held out his match to light it.

‘I suppose you are here again about the woman with whom you are in love ?’ he asked through a blue haze of smoke.

‘Indeed I am.’

‘Well, Erik… I had wondered what was going on. You have failed to appear for any of our usual games of chess for the past… why, it’s been nearly three months now. So I have taken it as a sign that things were going either very well, or very badly.’

I blew out my own haze of smoke—tobacco was surely bad for the voice, but it was a heaven in the sense that it sent an overwhelming sensation of relaxation down to my very toes—and answered him.

‘Well… it’s been a bit of both, really… to tell you the truth, Nadir.’

He arched a black eyebrow. ‘Unsurprising.’ Then he shrugged. ‘This is, after all, Erik—your first-ever attempt at courtship. And to be quite blunt about it, my friend… you haven’t got the first bloody clue for how to proceed. And that’s not a sensation I would imagine you’d weather well, quite frankly. You’re far more likely to end up in some—may Allah forbid it, but—some insane circumstance which no other man would ever be likely to find himself… such is your very diverse experience in life, and the curious extent of your predilections. Mixed with inexperience to this degree—I’d say it’s a very, very dangerous recipe… and it could end up exploding in your face.’

My friend shrugged, and then laughed sardonically. ‘But I suppose your greatest asset, Erik—in this sort of situation—is that if something explodes in your face, no-one would ever know the difference, to look at you.’

My nostrils flared, and I blew a lungful of air straight across the space between us, directly into his face, out of sheer spite.

‘I strangled the last man who dared to say such a thing to me,’ I said flatly, ‘an action which I do not regret to this day.’

‘I know,’ he said with a charming smile, ‘I was there.’

‘Is that all that friendship entails ?’ I asked, ‘Freedom from the certainty that you would otherwise be destroyed for such cheek ?’

‘That’s what friendship entails,’ Nadir said easily, ‘if the friend in question is you. I’d posit that, for other men, the question of murder might be a bit more of an extreme consideration, best left only for questions of, say, if the friend had slept with one of his daughters, or stolen from his treasure house.’

I smiled at this.

‘And that’s why you are my friend, Nadir… because your sense of justice is nevertheless somewhat flexible by Christian standards.’

‘Christians are alhamir.’

I shrugged benignly. ‘You’ll get no argument from me upon that point.’

‘But that’s because you are kafir in all regards,’ he said, waggling his finger at me while exhaling smoke.

‘Ahh—but I am not kafir when it comes to the transformative possibilities of love.’

‘Yes, yes… let us get back to the topic at hand. So you are still in love with the woman, I take it ?’

‘Oh yes… even moreso than the last time I saw you, if the truth be told.’

He nodded. ‘And so you have pursued some kind of… relation with her since then ? You have declared yourself ?’

‘Well—in a way.’

He squinted at me suspiciously. ‘Pray tell.’

I heaved a sigh of malcontent. ‘Well… I offered to give her voice-lessons.’

Nadir’s dark brown eyes widened in surprise. ‘Voice-lessons !’

‘Which she accepted.’

He clapped his hand to his forehead. ‘You’re in love with a woman—so you offer to become her tutor ?!’

‘She needed the training !’ I snapped testily. ‘You should have heard her sing ! Voice like molten ore… but it needs… casting and burnishing. Polish.’

‘So to you, Erik, the way to a woman’s heart is through her brain, eh ?’ Nadir shot back. ‘Well, I don’t know why I’m surprised. It’s… it’s utterly your way. But don’t you think it places you in a kind of a… father figure sort of rôle ? Don’t you think that would be a bit hard to overcome ?’

I swallowed thickly; why, no—I had utterly bypassed the ‘father figure’ problem by pretending to be an astral being ! But I couldn’t tell him that…

‘What I did,’ I began, truly at a loss, ‘was I made this offer to her in such a way that I presented myself as a disembodied voice. And I offered her lessons, and she accepted. And in the course of receiving lessons from me in this manner—’

‘Wait a moment, just a moment,’ interrupted Nadir. ‘You mean you didn’t even actually approach her ? You simply employed your—your magical trickery with your voice only, and didn’t even reveal yourself to her ? So—what ? She believes you are some sort of a ghost ? Or an—’ here he paused, then burst into wild laughter, ‘—some sort of an angel ?!’

I let out a groan of extreme displeasure. By god, I was a fool, to have come to this man for help ! Would that I have had any other option… ! The man may have been my friend, but I still maintained a comfortable padding of lies between us so as to make the friendship habitable at all... and he was getting dangerously close to exposing this fact.

‘For your information, Nadir,’ I began, realising as I said it that I sincerely had no retort at the ready, ‘I have the voice that might lend credit to such an idea. Don’t make me sing for you…’

‘Oh I’ve heard it, I’ve heard it—and yes, I know, I’ve been hypnotised by it myself ! Alright, so you have sung to her as the most spellbinding voice she has ever heard, and she succumbed to your prodigious magic. You have offered her voice lessons. Now what ?’

‘Well, precisely the problem. For she now wants me to appear to her in person… she rather insists on it, actually. She begged me to come to her as a physical man, if it was at all possible. And I can’t very well do that, now, can I ?!’

The daroga sighed heavily. ‘Only you, Erik, could get yourself into a bizarre conundrum such as this !’ He opened the box at his side, and pulled out a second cigarette—which he lit from the first.

‘Well then…’ he continued, reasoning succinctly, ‘she wants you to appear to her ? Then grant her wish.’

‘But—’ I began to protest.

‘Bring her to the Temple of Music that is your home, Erik… expose yourself as fully as you can in this manner, permit her to see who you really are—behind your figurative mask of protection. And then, let her come to her own conclusions… let her take the next step. It is really the best, possibly even the only, way.’

And I, having no ability to even argue with my friend’s logic on this point, reluctantly agreed.

‘But what about my face ?’

‘What about it ?’ asked Nadir rhetorically, waving his arm casually through the cloud of smoke which surrounded him. ‘Maybe she’ll be intrigued by that mask of yours. Maybe the dark and mysterious type appeals to her—maybe it’s why she accepted the notion of voice lessons from a disembodied voice, without so much as a thought to the contrary—I do not know her, so I cannot say. And neither can you; you simply will not know, until you take the steps to find out. But Erik…’ he leaned forward in his chair, and looked me dead in the eye—‘if she responds badly, it could be the most painful thing you’ve ever experienced. There is no pain so gut-wrenching, as the pain of rejection.’

‘Don’t I well know it,’ I spat acidly.

‘It’s different, when it’s love,’ he warned. ‘And because you have no idea how she will react—you simply must prepare yourself in case it is what she does. Women are fickle things… men the world over would give a great deal just to have half an understanding of why they do the things they do, and how to anticipate them ! You’ll do well to remember that even my wife, may she now rest peaceably in the afterlife with Allah, regularly baffled the hell out of me when she was alive. But for all that, she affected me. I couldn’t bring myself to see another as her equal… either during, or since, the time she was alive.’ Here he trailed off momentarily, before adding with a tinge of bitterness, ‘…and thus I disgraced myself, in the eyes of my brothers and cousins, for refusing to take the other wives I was entitled to.’

I sighed loudly in despair, and threw the rest of my cigarette into the fire-grate.

‘I don’t mean to try to either dissuade or deter you, Erik,’ he continued on, ‘but it’s the honest truth of these kinds of situations. Clearly, you must declare yourself to this woman… but she could hurt you badly, and if it happens, it’s something you must accept. On the other hand… if you appear to her like an image from a dream, and she consents… then she will make you the happiest man on the planet. And frankly… I think it would be quite good, indeed, for you to experience such a feeling.’

I stared at him for some time, weighing his words—and then rising to my feet, I reached out to shake the hand of my friend the daroga, and showed myself to his front door.

Nadir was right; and thus I determined what I had to do. I could not resist Christine Daaé. Even if she was the cause of my further damnation, even if she led me to my doom… she was all that I wanted. She was everything I had ever wanted. And the way we’d been carrying on, sadly could not sustain itself… not now, not after what I’d seen tonight.

No… tonight had pushed me over the edge. So I resolved, that if she asked me to come to her—if she asked me directly, I would reveal myself to her at last, for a short time only—and then, if she was not revolted by the sight of me, and still wished it—if she truly, truly wished me to return, I would come to her as myself—as Erik—and the Angel of Music would be no more.

Indeed, I would come up with a plan…

But first… first I had to buy a bouquet of roses, and eat them.

In the meantime, preparations for the German opera I had striven so hard earlier in the season to convince Debienne and Poligny to stage—Salomé—were under way; I cut short our lesson the following night, because the dance rehearsals were becoming strenuous and Christine was clearly exhausted—despite the clear-as-day fact that the spirit of the la fée verte was imbuing her with a sense of vivaciousness which was charming indeed; it certainly made her less inhibited with me, and while I enjoyed it, I nevertheless felt compelled to discourage it.

And then the next night, when I again began to cut our lesson short, she begged me—begged me in earnest, to let her stay.

‘Please, Angel… please do not curtail our time together again ! It is the only time I get to… to spend with you,’ she said sadly.

‘Christine,’ I chided gently, ‘I am thinking only of you. The dances you are undertaking for this production are not simple—and I know that you have taken to drinking absinthe recently, to assuage your physical pain.’

She gasped. ‘Angel ! How did you know—’

‘I can see the difference it makes in you, dear… and I can see the bruises beneath your arm, from where you have been lifted again and again.’

‘Is it wrong of me ?’ she asked fretfully.

‘No… it is not wrong. It is simply what it is… a means by which to cope. But you must realise it is not what is best for your throat, if you truly wish to sing with all the power you are capable.’

She moved to the end of the divan and sat down dejectedly, her shoulders slumped, acting for all the world like the most pitiful creature I had ever seen.

So naturally, I relented, and we carried on for another hour, singing the aria from Salomé—for even if she didn’t realise it, she needed to know this piece as well as she possibly could !

But all too soon came the time of our usual denouement.

‘Angel…’ she asked demurely, ‘may I ask you a question ?’

‘You are always welcome to do so,’ I remarked, ‘without needing permission to ask, my dear.’

‘Well… what are the rules for an angel ?’

‘The rules ?’ I repeated in surprise.

‘Yes… that is to say—if you wanted to appear in the form of a person… could you do so ? Or… are you… are you perhaps not allowed to do that ? Would it be—too incredible ? And therefore is only permitted in certain circumstances ?’

I thought quickly. ‘Well… we are all, of course, bound by those things which we can and cannot do. And no matter what we are… there are limitations we cannot transcend. Such as the fact that you cannot fly; and the fact that I, for instance, cannot create worlds in distant galaxies. These things are simply governed by the laws of nature.’

She made a sound of assent while she listened—clearly indicating that she expected me to say more.

‘You ask if I am allowed, as it were, to appear in human form. Well, there is no body of spirit which prohibits me from doing so, it is true.’

‘So… so you could appear materially…’

‘If the situation really warranted it, yes.’

‘And… so… what warrants such a thing ?’ she asked obliquely, her eyes searching the floor, but clearly riveted to the internal workings of her mind.

God… such a question !

‘Hmm… well… it could be that any truly direct request might bring it about.’

She sat in silence, pondering this, when suddenly I issued an edict which I hoped would bring about such a circumstance… if I was lucky.

‘In any case, lamentably, we are at the end of our lesson. And because of the première of the new opera is nigh and because it is a particularly exhausting production, and also because you need the rest, we shall not have lessons for the next two nights.’

‘But, Angel ! Please… I truly don’t need any rest !’ she cried in protest.

‘No, I really must insist, my dear… it is quite clear that you must take the time to nurture yourself. Two nights only, Christine—and then we shall again resume.’

Of course, I had every intention of being there any time she was in her dressing room for those two nights… but I would not make my presence known; nevertheless, my hope was that, if deprived of our usual interactions, she would miss them, and might—just might—ask me to appear—ergo, to materialise. And if she did… I would be there to ensure it happened.

And even if my plan backfired, and she did not ask me to appear… then she needed to take those evenings for herself; for she was so exhausted that I truly regretted allowing her to convince me to continue our lesson for the extra hour that I did… her supreme fatigue was more than apparent as she walked home afterwards, her footsteps uneven and weaving in the thin veil of snow which covered the streets, as I darkly dogged her from behind.

Chapter Text

Chapitre V - ‘Sa première visite fut comme un rêve…’

I was so tired of being on my feet; after four days of constant, excruciating rehearsal, my ankles were swollen, my toes were bruised, my left thigh was sore from where my dancing parter, François, had held onto me as I had hooked my knee over his shoulder again and again—and my back was simply killing me.

I sat in my dressing-room facing the mirror which spanned the entire wall. The Opéra was long dark, all the personnages and crew of the upcoming production of Salomé gone home—except for myself. The round, frosted glass shades of the gas-lamps upon the wall glowed softly while I tossed back a glass of la fée verte. I didn’t yet wish to venture home; I just wanted to continue sitting here in my wrapper and drain this glass, maybe even drain a second…

A warm feeling rose in the back of my throat, and a pleasant buzzy tingle reached out all the way to my fingertips… ahhh ! The Angel of Music didn’t seem to approve of my drinking—but he hadn’t forbade it, and I wasn’t due for another lesson with him until the day after tomorrow. And I hadn’t heard his dulcet tones issue unexpectedly throughout the room—so he must have really meant it that I take these nights for myself, and was off flying around in his heavenly sphere, or whatever it was that such angels did when they weren’t giving mere mortals voice lessons.

I leaned back on my divan and closed my eyes as I savoured the liquorice tinge of the cold alcohol; I had brought in some icicles which hung from the statuary out back; walking down the long corridors, the ice-cold water dripping off them between my fingers had been so cold it had taken my breath away. And it gave the water in my pitcher such a wonderful chill; I had soaked a rag with some of the water and rested it upon my bruised thigh while I drank. However was I going to stand up straight again ? Sometimes I was fairly sick to death of being a dancer. But I saw now that it was also a privilege—one for which I owed much to Mama Valérius, my good benefactress; many young, single women in my place were forced to become shopgirls, secretaries, or laundresses; I had not the skill to work in a shop, had not the ability to take dictation, and didn’t want to ruin my hands with endless washing in scalding water and rough lye soap for sixteen hours a day. And those were the only options, if one hoped to avoid the trap of prostitution.

No…in that light, dancing my little derrière off was the best possible work a woman such as myself could find; rehearsals such as these were punishing, but they were atypical, usually only ever occurring for a few days before the première of a virgin work.

So, I really couldn’t complain. And, in any case, it was nothing which the varied merits of the Green Fairy, and a little bit of time, could not resolve in a splendid marriage of collocation.

I threw my head back upon the cushion as the frigid liquid trickled down my throat, rendering its heavenly effect upon my senses. Oh, if only some fabulous machine existed that could play music at my command !—anything I wished to hear ! How I would have luxuriated in such wonderful impossibility ! But, no such music box existed that I knew of—so I leaned back in silence, hearing only those obscure sounds as permeated the walls of my dressing room. Who knew from whence they emanated ? At this point, however, thanks to the Green Fairy’s goodly influence, I was beyond care.

A swirl of golden sparks flew around me in a lovely double-helix as I listened with all of my focus to the beguiling music which played in my mind. What was it ? I had no idea ! It pulsated wildly—passionately—writhing with a rhythmic quality which, due to my fatigue, my body resisted… but yet could not withstand. What was it ?

‘Christine…’ floated almost imperceptibly on the top of the soaring cadences of its marche triomphale.

Was it calling to me ?

It was !!

My lips opened of their own animation; a haunting melody escaped my throat. I was hardly in control of my own response—the Green Fairy must be wholly responsible !

‘Come to me, I implore you; do as you may, I shall not protest. I sense you there in the shadows; obscure yourself no longer.’

‘Christine,’ answered the voice, heavenly and seductive.

‘Come to me; do not deny me,’ I called earnestly.

‘Christine !’

The voice flamed into a definite embodiment in my mind. It was the Angel of Music—my Angel of Music ! Yet he was no longer an invisible angel… he was a man, fully grown and in complete realisation of his powers, and efficacy, of seduction. He was a man !!

In my mind’s eye, I knelt down before him. ‘Angel… I know your voice, and the magnitude of your splendour and magnificence. Please… grace me with your physical presence…’

The Angel laughed. He laughed ?! Did angels laugh ? It struck me as oddly discordant in what was otherwise an utterly divine moment.

‘My darling child… you know not of what you speak. My magnificence is an illusion. Have you ever before looked upon an angel ? Do you know the terrifying nature of their visages ?’

‘No, my Angel… I do not… but long I have wished to—for so lovely, so perfect is your voice, that I have wanted nothing more than to luxuriate in the certainty of your person.’

He did not answer right away. ‘Very well, my Christine,’ the resplendent voice intoned at last, ‘I shall declare myself to you… though I fear your sensibility may not welcome such an incommodious revelation. Watch your mirror closely, my dear… I am going to appear from within it.’

I looked wildly at the silvered surface, and there—as though passing through the wall itself—a man in a flowing black cloak and wide-brimmed plumed hat appeared. Oh god, how beautiful he was ! How intriguing and mysterious—for he also wore a demi-mask covering half his face. What a strange and enigmatic thing it was !

My heart beat an increasingly rapid tattoo… who was this arresting man ? Was this preternatural being really my Angel of Music ? My god…

He reached out towards me with an unnaturally pale hand—paleness I might have associated with one who has never seen the light of the sun. But what an absurd notion that was—who never sees the sun ? But of course, perhaps angels do not colour as humans do. Perhaps this strange hue was simply one of complete absence of hue.

And yet, when his fingers made contact with my hand—it was an otherworldly sensation; his hands were like the ice I’d brought inside earlier ! But it was indisputably a human touch. So he was real in some capacity, even if only at this very moment. An angel become flesh…

That coldness drove a shiver down my spine; as preposterous as it sounds, I swear the eyes which met mine glowed in the shadow under the brim of that marvellous plumed hat.

‘Does the sight of me strike fear within you, Christine ?’

‘No… I am not afraid.’

‘Why then do you tremble ?’

‘Your touch is so frigid upon my skin. And your presence is so—so overwhelming—that I can scarcely still my heart. I simply cannot believe you are here—that you are finally here ! Are you really—my angel ?’

‘I am your angel, Christine. But I am also a man.’

‘If you are a man, you must have a name. May I know it ?’

His piercing eyes held mine fast. ‘You may call me Erik.’

Erik !

‘That is a name from my Swedish homeland ! Are you—’

‘Ahh, no—I am not Swedish,’ he said, presaging my question; ‘I was named for a man of the cloth, who baptised me in my infancy. Indeed, it’s nothing but the sheerest coincidence—if you believe in coincidence, my dear.’

‘There is no such thing as coincidence,’ I responded earnestly. ‘There is nothing but Fate—that which is decreed by the spirits and written in the stars.’

‘Then I must say, I believe it must be Fate, to be sure.’

‘Erik.’ I whispered the name, and his eyes closed as I did so, the visible half of his masked face bearing something akin to ecstasy.

‘I never honestly thought to hear you utter it.’

‘You didn’t ?’

‘Why should I ? Perhaps the appearance of a masked spectre would terrify you.’

I smiled at him. I don’t know why, but even considering his cold touch, something about him kindled a fire within me; something about him elicited the warmest concern I had felt towards anyone after the death of my belovéd papa.

‘You’re not terrifying. You’re not what I expected—that’s true—but you do not frighten me.’

‘May I touch your face, my dear Christine ?’ he asked in an anguished tone.

I looked down at our joined hands and observed his long, ivory fingers; meeting his eyes once more, I lifted my forearm, and brought his hand to my face. His touch upon my cheek was glacial, but my entire body was now suffused with an unnatural heat which radiated from me in powerful waves—I was even starting to sweat—and now I craved the coolness of that touch, just as I had earlier relished the chill of the icicle and the cold trickle of the absinthe down my throat.

‘You’re so incredibly warm,’ he murmured.

‘Do I feel good to you ?’ I asked, taken aback at my own forwardness.

‘Yes… and the sensation of it surprises me. I cannot, in fact, even remember the last time I touched anyone… it’s so much more—stimulating—than I would ever have thought.’

‘I like the way you feel, too… Erik.’

This time I couldn’t help but observe that a tremor ran through him as well. His eyes again closed and his shoulders sagged.

‘Oh, Christine,’ he uttered in a velvet whisper. ‘Your voice…’ Suddenly his eyes snapped open and he looked intensely into my own. ‘Sing for me !’

‘Sing ? Why… I…’

His fingers trailed over my jaw and down to my throat, caressing the skin beneath my chin. He gently tilted my face back, and his smooth, liquid whisper cascaded over me, eroding any trace of resistance it found.

‘Sing for me.’

The strange phenomenon of the music which issued from nowhere repeated itself; marvellous and strange it was—completely unknown to me. Once more, my mouth opened of its own accord, and I vocalised without even thinking about melody or pitch; I simply sang what came—what I felt. I focused upon the feeling of his fingertips as they traced down into the hollow between my clavicles. God, I didn’t want that touch to end—the fire within my body threatened to consume me; the place between my legs surged with a sensation I had only known during our lessons—only this time, it was so much more potent, so much more impossible to ignore !

I reached up and clasped my hand around his, squeezing his palm and slowly dragging it down along my sternum, over the thin silk and lace of my wrapper to rest upon my breast. He raised his free hand to remove his hat, which he dropped unceremoniously to the floor; with the new light which fell upon his face, I could see the track of tears streaming from his uncovered eye.

‘Erik… does my singing not please you ?’

‘Your singing is beautiful. Just the sound of your voice—it leaves me shaken… and utterly heartbroken.’

‘Why heartbroken ?’

‘Because, for all your perfection, Christine, you could never love me.’

‘But I do love you, Angel… I have, ever since you first spoke to me.’

His gleaming eyes once more bore into mine, as though searching for something. Did he not believe me ? I raised my hand to his face now, and wiped away his tears. He started, as though affected by some frightful energy—then looked at the floor, as if ashamed.

‘Christine…’

Reaching out gently, I drew his face back towards me and moved closer to him. Our proximity only intensified the sense of warmth which pervaded my being. I longed for him to run his cold hands along my legs, my arms, my waist, my back…

‘You cannot mean it, Christine. You cannot love your poor angel… much as he may desire it, you cannot actually know of what you speak… I have never known the kind of earthly life which you most surely deserve, and most surely want…’

‘Maestro, you possess the most pristinely-gilded voice I have ever heard,’ I said softly. ‘You of such unearthly ability would surely only live an unearthly life. I fail to see why that would be any great liability. Of course I love you. These past three months of your voice in the air, have been heavenly… I have loved you the entire time.’

His hand tightened upon my breast and, beneath it, the pace of my heart again quickened; then abruptly, he withdrew his hands from me, snatched up his hat from the floor, and pulled away. The loss of his chill grip was keen—I wasn’t ready to relinquish it.

‘I must leave now, Christine, before this precipitates something beyond my control,’ he hissed as though in pain.

‘Erik—no ! Please don’t go—not yet !’ I reached out for him with both hands, but he only took another step further back, maintaining his wide berth.

‘I must, my child, I must. It would be dangerous to stay.’

‘Dangerous ? But you can’t actually mean that…please, I beg you not to leave !’

‘I shall return to you. After the première in two days—I promise I shall return, if you desire it.’

‘Oh, but I do ! I desire—’ I fully intended to supplicate him until he changed his mind—but he stifled my words with a commanding gesture which I could only obey.

‘Get yourself home, my dear—it’s quite late. I shall be watching to ensure no ill befalls you. And should you still wish to see me—call for me in two day’s time, and I shall come.’

And with that, he turned upon his heel, black cloak flowing gracefully around him as he moved away from me with silent steps towards the mirror; he vanished just as suddenly as he’d appeared.

I leapt up after him, but my grasping hands only met solid glass. How had he done it ? He was truly no ordinary being !

Turning and leaning my back upon the mirror, I realised I was gasping for air. My body pulsed with a frenetic tension like I’d never known—what was this ? I closed my eyes in an attempt to steady myself; all I could see was his hand upon my breast, drawing lower and lower. Dark flames of desire licked at my sweat-drenched skin…

He was right; it was late—very late—and I needed to get home. He said he’d be watching me…

Half an hour later I unlocked the door to the tiny mansarde which I occupied in a six-storey walk-up a few blocks north of the Opéra. My still-aching limbs protested the long climb, but there was nothing to be done about it; it was all I could afford. As soon as the door was latched behind me and I’d lit a single candlestick, I began to remove my clothes; midway through I moved to the window and looked out upon the quiet moonlit street. A thin coating of snow dusted the surfaces of everything; the grisly filth of old snowfall had been hidden by this fresh layer, which had begun to accumulate before I’d started on my way home. I went straight to bed without even donning my nightgown; I was sure to be frozen solid by morning, but I needed to pretend my hand was Erik’s, and find out what might’ve happened had he continued tracing further and further down over my belly…

Blowing out the candle, I was engulfed in both darkness and desire.

Chapter Text

Chapitre VI - ‘Quelques rêves prennent l'allure de cauchemars…’

I followed Christine until I saw her safely inside her building. Such a squalid quarter… it had, of course, been improved by Haussman’s revisionism, but even so, it was hardly one of the choicest arrondissements of the Right Bank, considering the relative poverty of those who inhabited it.

In any case, I turned back, noting with an internal agony the set of footprints in the freshly-fallen snow — one small, one large — which I knew to be Christine’s and my own. Her feet were so dainty, but her boots were worn at the heel and, I could see, getting thin in the centres of the soles. I had a new pair of boots awaiting her at the Théâtre de l’Opéra, and a wardrobe filled with dresses which I had designed expressly for her — but I could not give them to her yet. No, not yet… perhaps next time. Perhaps after the première of Salomé, she would call for me and I could at last induce her to accompany me to my underground home… for that was where I had dwelt for many years now, five cellars below in a house by the lake which I had convinced my architectural partner Garnier to encase in concrete, in the name of foundational integrity.

Yes… perhaps, in two days’ time, she would come there, of her own volition and by her own choosing. I would trust her, whereas I could not trust myself !

But a doubtful voice made itself known amidst my hopeful plans : what if she doesn’t choose to come ? What if she doesn’t even remember this meeting ? After all, the girl had been steadily sipping absinthe some time before I’d reached the entrance through the mirror which lay at the end of the Communard’s hidden passage… who knows how reliable either her reaction tonight, or her memory in the morning, might be ?

I exhaled a troubled breath, its vapour crystallising in the frigid air around me as I continued on my way. I couldn’t think of such things… not after seeing the passion in her features, her heaving bosom beneath my palm, the silvery ghost of her perfect voice echoing in my mind. I had to continue with my plans, perhaps even modify them based upon the now very real possibility in her reception. Shudder at the very idea as I may, I had to… think positively. And, in all truth, despite the strong physical distraction of my very painful erection, there was a kernel of hope within me about her, which I genuinely wished to nourish and see grow into something quite substantial.

Thus mired in my thoughts, I reached the concealed Rue Scribe entrance to the cellars and vanished into it. But I had not even reached the lake before I had to attend to that most objectionable distraction — that, made infinitely worse by decades of neglect, scorn, and revulsion ; Christine had awoken within me an inferno of desire which now screamed for satiation. It had ignited when I first heard her sing… it had blazed when I had seen her pleasure herself whilst alone and calling for the ‘Angel’… now it had raged into something uncontrollable at the touch of her hand. Had I not wrested myself away from her when I did, I wouldn’t have been capable of it even a single moment later… yet she had begged me not to let go ! By gods, she had pleaded !

Whoever heard of such a beautiful creature begging a beast such as I, not to let go of her ! Such a thing had never before happened in the whole of my life !

But were she to see the face behind my mask, she would surely scream in horror from a desire to escape me…

Ahh, the humour of Fate is black, indeed !

Forcibly banishing such bleak reflections from my mind, I allowed myself to travel back to what had conspired between Christine and myself earlier in her dressing room. Although clearly tired, even bruised and in pain from the unreasonable demands exacted by the dance rehearsals, she was radiantly beautiful, her brown curls cascading over her shoulders — and wearing almost nothing… that thin slip of a dressing-gown wrapped loosely around her slender frame, its lace sleeves accentuating the delicate bones of her arms and wrists, its silken fabric draping her bare body the way I have so often imagined my own hands caressing it, so thin as to leave nothing to the imagination even in such dim illumination. She had let me touch her face — and I could not help my anxious fingers, I had to touch the throat from whence that argent voice issued forth… her skin was so warm ; the warmth simply exuded from her entire being — like nothing, no-one, I have ever encountered. I wondered : who here was the true angel ? For while I myself have been shamelessly masquerading as the Angel of Music for her sake these past three months, this woman is clearly a being of some higher order, refulgent and pristine.

Again, I revisited the physical sensation of my fingertips upon her jaw, so close to her perfect lips ; I once again felt the curve of her larynx, the dip of her suprasternal notch as she breathed and gasped and sang under my touch. Oh, the hypnotic movements of her body as she sang — the ecstasy upon her face as I filled her mind with music ; she responds so immediately to anything I might project, she hears it too…

And when she grasped my hand and pulled it down over her bosom, I watched it almost as though it were happening to some other man ; this sainted woman couldn’t be inviting me to touch her further ! Was it the absinthe talking ? Did she see me as a real man ? Yet even more inconceivably, she spoke of loving me… love ?! What does this mere babe know of love !

Yet, at that… what do I, Erik, know of it ? I who have never experienced it in the least, except for the few animals under my care these many years ? — until I heard the voice of Christine Daaé, and the hard, compressed lump of anthracite which was my heart suddenly flamed to life ?

Fifty years on, and I had only lived for three months. Ha ! Perhaps a mere babe did know more of love than I.

The echo of her tender, pleading words in my ear ; the feel of her breast, with only that thin layer of silk between her nipple and my thumb — I tried to etch that moment in place, while my sinister hand mechanically unfastened my trousers as I stood there in the draughty pitch darkness of the tunnel ; it urgently pressed against the damp cotton of my drawers. I needed to feel Christine, needed to internalise the entirety of her being within my soul. Perhaps then I would be made whole, perhaps then I could finally seal the gaping wound that had been my desperate desire for someone to love me. For I had been desperate — but not so much that I was willing to settle for just anything ; not so much that I would resort to a whore out of mere physical need. No… I’ve always been far too proud and disdainful for that.

My fingers had loosed the buttons of my drawers, my hand furiously pulling and caressing myself as I imagined her body beneath the silk, her bare skin against my own, her resplendent voice calling out my name, while I pressed my throbbing need into that delectable rosebud — that dark place between her legs from which all that pulsating energy had emanated — I could sense it ! The air was so thick with the scent of her — how overwhelming it was ! And the ecstasy of her singing could only be matched by the ecstasy of her screaming orgasm as I drove into her again and again, seeing myself bringing her to the edge of la petite mort — meeting her on the edge of that very precipice, the two of us, together ! Together, myself and Christine — Christine and I ! She would be my bride… and I would be her husband ! Yes… yes !

I did not allow myself to acknowledge the problem of the face which hid behind my mask… wouldn’t permit myself to consider the many impassable obstacles which surely the odds of my surmounting were high indeed. No… I dare not think about that now.

Finally, having somewhat slaked the torturous pressure that had been holding my body and mind captive for the better part of an hour now, I wiped myself clean with a handkerchief — how many times had I done this now ? Too many to count ! — re-fastened my trousers and stalked in silence the rest of the way through black, labyrinthine tunnels to the front door of my home. Here, there was nothing to greet me except the plaintive mewing of Aaisha. I expected her to treat me suspiciously — but she leaned lovingly against my leg, looking up with brilliant green eyes to see if perhaps I’d brought home a rat for her to play with. I knelt down and stroked her silver fur… such a precious creature she was.

I opened the door once more and let her out.

‘Go find the rat you want, my darling… Erik is remiss for having failed to bring one for you. So go choose the one you like best, and bring it back for your supper, my love.’

Her green eyes blazed for just a moment, and she silently swished her tail and dashed out of sight.

‘But beware the rat-catcher, my sweet !’ I called out, my words resonating in the empty darkness.

The following day I spent arranging my little house just so ; if Christine was coming, the damned place had to be spotless. I would allow my bride-to-be no opportunity to conclude that her Erik was a slovenly fool, or that I expected her to do any of my housework. Nay ; Christine was too precious to be taken for granted in such a despicable way.

So in my homeliest shirtsleeves and garters, I scoured the entire place, focussing primarily on the Louis Philippe room with its heavy furniture — my sole inheritance from an unloving mother ; while it wasn’t fashionable, and wasn’t to my personal taste, it possessed a feminine charm which I felt would be familiar to Christine and might, therefore, lend her a sense of ease and comfort if she chose to stay in my home — which I planned to invite her to do. There were two charming rag-rugs upon the floor, on either side of the bed, so no matter which side she chose to sleep on, her lovely feet need not touch the cold floor upon rising ; there was a fireplace hearth neatly stocked with seasoned firewood ; the regulator clock upon the wall was wound, its pendulum swinging steadily ; the items upon her vanity were free of dust and ready for her use, with three matching pieces of embroidery, one beneath each tray. The marble-topped commode was sparse, containing only an antique ceramic vase which I’d brought back from Persia, and two small sculptures of the Muses which applied to Christine : Euterpe and Terpsichore. I had truly attempted to do everything possible to make her feel at home.

The work was exhausting, and had the added benefit of preventing me from the harmful spectre of self-sabotage. I ate lightly, bathed, and went to bed. My stomach was a fitful bundle of nerves ; I could only think about the upcoming première of Salomé.

The musical work of Salomé was grand indeed. I had guided the score beneath the very noses of Debienne and Poligny ; it was written by a German and this was something not done in Paris — but it was a work of such incredible daring and genius, that I had rather, shall we say, insisted it be performed. I’d had to entirely restore the libretto to the original French, of course, for either of les messieurs to even consider staging it — really a shame, as the composer had put so much thought into the German adaptation — but it had been worked up as their farewell gala, and I was most eager to control every aspect of the production that I could. Not only would it be a fitting spectacle for the occasion — but it would be the perfect pièce d’entrée for my Christine, who wasn’t anticipating the change ; Señora Carlotta had been cast in the principle rôle, but this had all been according to plan… no woman in France so deserved the ‘illness’ that was going to overtake her during the entr’acte !

God, how I wished that foul woman would simply return to Spain — or, at the very least, drop into a sudden sinkhole as she walked along the street with her idiotic entourage — but I’d had more important things consuming my focus these last three months; therefore my next calculated act of intimidation was long overdue.

In any case, the Dance of the Seven Veils had of course shocked and astonished all involved in the production. A few of the more conservative members of the crew had quit in favour of more staid carpenterial work. But the requirements of the dance itself had meant from the outset that Carlotta was unable to perform it ; thus, Christine had been cast as the double who would stand in the part while Carlotta initially sung from the wings, then completed the dance, and then during a brief blackout the switch would be made and Carlotta would return to the stage after the dance was complete. However, Christine was more than prepared to sing the entire second act after she danced — and she would, in fact, sing it tomorrow night !

And then, afterwards, with any compassionate mercy from whatever supernatural beings may in fact exist… Christine would consent to join me in my house by the lake, and become my wife.

It was to the accompaniment of thoughts such as these, that I fell asleep at last.

An unearthly green light surrounded us; I opened my mouth against Christine’s neck and tasted her sweat upon my tongue. My fingers gripped her breast ; her nipple was once again beneath my thumb… I traced around its outline and it grew harder. I grew harder. Christine’s breath against my cheek was perfumed with roses. I traced her jaw with my tongue, taking her soft earlobe between my teeth. My bare stomach pressed hard against hers. Her hands reached down my back, grasping my buttocks and pulling me into her sacred depths. Our mouths touched. A dazzling song swirled around us, music like nothing I have ever composed… her gasping was melodic ; she exhaled into my mouth and I kissed her deeply. The green light grew stronger, seeping beneath my eyelids. Although I was inside her, I couldn’t feel her… Christine… my darling, my siren, my madness…

I awoke abruptly, sheathed in perspiration. I again closed my eyes, willing that vision of her body, bathed in green light, to return to the forefront of my mind. If only it were real ! My fist pumped insistently along the length of my torturously blood-engorged flesh… god, I was having to do this terribly often — such was my extraordinary hunger for her ! But I would have given anything for her form to materialise there beside me where I lay, for her hand to be stroking me instead… I thirsted for the taste of her, for the sound of her. I was a devil of a man possessed by the vision of an angel.

Spent and exhausted, I rolled onto my face and begged the dream to return.

The next evening at last drew nigh. I dressed fastidiously and carefully as always. I had much to supervise this night ! Let it never be said that the Phantom of the Opera doesn’t earn the monthly salary he is paid ! I alone safeguard and ensure the smooth operation of this entire establishment — whether the ‘managers’ admit it or not.

I built this building… I love it with every fibre of my being. Garnier had the credit — I'd insisted upon it — but I did the work, along with a band of artisans who carried out my exacting instruction as much out of fear as want of money.

Donning my cloak and second-best black hat — I always preferred my second-best hat when I was adopting my habit of le fantôme (besides, Christine had already seen me in my best hat, and modern gentlemen have precious few means of modifying their style compared to women in any case) — I kissed Aaisha on the head as she sat watching stoically by the front door, and departed.

First, I headed up to my listening-post at the director’s offices. M Poligny was sucking down some unknown, but assuredly high-proof, liquor from a hip-flask every time M Debienne’s back was turned — which was exactly half the time, for he paced nervously back and forth as they worried the new managers ‘could yet back out of the deal’. Fools — the quartet of them ! I’d already observed the new pretenders, Messieurs Moncharmin and Richard, when they’d come to appraise the soundness of overtaking the management of the Opéra ; while not quite as foolish as their soon-to-be predecessors, I nevertheless intended to manipulate them into being my puppets just the same.

There was a knock upon the door ; Debienne froze and turned, catching Poligny in the act of pulling from his flask ; Poligny, upset at this fresh exposure of his pathetic weakness, fumbled in his grip and the alcoholic liquid spilt all over his celluloid collar and shirt-front before he could recover from his error.

‘You damned sot !’ hissed Debienne. ‘Get that out of sight !’

But Poligny was already doing just that — screwing the lid on tight (most likely to save whatever precious drops of the liquid still remained inside) and stuffing it into his right-hand jacket pocket, just in time for Debienne to whirl and open the door in the scraping, simpering manner befitting a disingenuous servant who has stolen from his master and bedded his wife in his absence ; Poligny leapt up from his chair at the bureau to sloppily join in the blatant charade.

Repulsed as I was by the scene, Richard, followed by Moncharmin, entered the office with broad smiles, evidently oblivious to the strangely waxen visages of their hosts and the reek of spilt grain alcohol. I rolled my eyes in bored disgust as they all shook hands and were shown the locations of each pertinent account-book, schedule and what-not. After some moments there was a knock upon the door ; the managers’ secretary reported the opera was starting ; they all quickly filed out of the office, at which point I moved on down the Communard’s passage until I reached a place where my thumb — in the correct indentation — moved a hidden door into a new corridor, which I entered.

I found the recess nearest Carlotta’s dressing room and surveyed the premises. It was empty, so I opened a concealed partition, entered the room, and busied myself with a task which required quite some time ; at last I returned to the main passage and retraced my steps. Accessing a panel which lead the stage area, I began to climb ; the first half of the act was nearly over by the time I reached my red velvet seat in Box N° 5. The good Mme Giry had left a programme for me upon the ledge — but I ignored it… erelong, the cast listed in that programme would be outdated !

Intermission arrived ; the grande salle hummed with a din of voices ; I sat back in the shadows with my arms crossed, gleefully imagining Carlotta meeting her fate in the dressing room. The minutes crawled by… when finally, the house lights were dimmed and the act continued with Herod, his wife, and Salomé. As the curtains parted, it was clear from the silhouette of Salomé alone that the casting change had been made as I’d planned. Now for her to astonish the audience with her Dance of the Seven Veils, and seduce them with her voice!

Christine was marvellous in the rôle. Her body was lithe and sensuous as she eventually took centre stage and began the dance, slowly removing each veil as the music swelled to a voluptuous climax. Christine, almost nude upon the stage, tumbled dramatically to the floor as the dance ended. Herod fawned over his step-daughter’s performance, giving her just enough time to regain her breath and composure, and when Salomé began her insistent demands for the head of Jochanaan, Christine’s voice carried throughout la salle de spectacle like an enticing cloud of mist which softened and enhanced the very air itself.

As Christine sang, I was transported to another place ; I had not the ability to take notice of the audience’s reaction, of the combined spell of shock and amazement which surely rested over the entire space ; a mighty silence reigned during Salomé’s aria as Christine’s every note charmed and held them all in thrall. The powerful orchestra, every part so sagely written and arranged, only underscored her remarkable ability ; I was beset by successive waves of tremor as her song washed over me.

Ahh… the woman was utter perfection !

‘Bravissima,’ I whispered into the air once her final note had sounded.

Inevitably, the final tumultuous scene arrived in which she caressed and kissed Jochanaan’s severed head in an outrageous display of madness ; Herod imperiously ordered his guards to kill her, and she was trapped amidst their onslaught. The curtains hadn’t even fallen closed before my seat was empty and I was once again making my way towards the long dressing-room corridors. The raucous echo of tremendous applause followed me as I did so ; Christine had been a complete success !

I dawdled near the corner normally occupied by La Carlotta ; the room was dark and empty, and strangely enough I could not hear the chirrup of a single frog ! I had filled everything she would need for the final role — wig, costume, and various other crevices of her room — with a quantity of the dear creatures ; I would have to tend to this, and rescue any and all that I could — but for now, I had to see whether Christine would call for me as I so dearly hoped that she would.

As I made my way down the Communard’s passage, a frightful thought occurred to me : what if I had made a mistake by sharing the divinity of Christine’s voice with the entirety of Paris ? What if I had unwittingly become the architect of too great a success ? Could her abilities someday take her away from me ? A sense of profound dread shot through me at the very idea of it.

But then, did not Christine honestly deserve whatever success came about of her natural abilities ? It would hardly have been fair of me to discover and hone her talents, then install her in a cage like an exotic songbird… no, I could not do that to her ; and I would not, no matter what it meant. I wanted her to stay with me — but it must be her own choice. She must come to love me, not just the idea of myself as her Angel of Music, but my real self — Erik — by her will alone. And all I could do was await the call of Fate.

But standing there alone in the dark, surrounded by the hum of a thousand voices on the other side of the wall, I heard a different call : ‘Angel ?’

My back straightened and I whirled around. Was she calling for me after all ? Had she remembered ?

‘Angel of Music,’ she called, ‘come to me… show yourself ; did I only dream of you, or was it real ?’

In exquisite delight, I extended the music within my mind to reach her. ‘My darling child… do you call to me again ?’

Her voice became excited. ‘Oh my Angel ; I beg of you ! appear to me once more !’

Actuating the hidden mechanism which permitted me to pass through the mirrored wall of her dressing-room, I appeared. Christine sat facing me, once again wrapped in her dressing-gown, a satisfying look of complete astonishment upon her face.

‘I am here at your behest, Christine,’ I said. ‘Will you come with me… will you let me guide you to the place where I dwell ?’

Her wide blue eyes shining brightly, she stood. ‘I will come with you, my Angel !’

Did she not recall my name ? Had she been too impaired the night she’d summoned me the first time ?

‘Christine… I am neither angel nor spirit nor phantom… I am Erik !’

She gasped, her hands flying to her mouth. ‘Then it wasn’t a dream !’

I held out my hand towards her, beckoning her near. ‘It was no dream. Come to me.’

She slowly extended her hand until our fingertips touched. ‘So you’re truly real… and not simply a figment of imagination, dwelling only in my mind… I’d convinced myself by morning that I’d hallucinated everything…’

‘Come with me,’ I implored — and she stepped nearer… nearer. I wrapped my arm around her, and in a single step we were back through the mirrored wall and heading down the Communard’s passage.

She had done it… she had chosen to come ! And now I was taking her to my home !

Chapter Text

Chapitre VII - ‘Le retour d'un spectre de la passé’

Erik had returned !

I had convinced myself the visions of two nights before were fevered dreams borne by some inner desperation, but no… I had called him… and he had come ! And not only that… but he took me through the wall — as if by magic !

Shortly before this, however, a series of strange events had occurred… very strange events, which clearly come to my recollection even now, and which I shall first divulge.

The curtains had just closed for intermission ; I was standing in the wings at stage left, so I crossed and was headed to the corridor which lead to the dressing rooms when, up ahead, there sounded a blood-curdling scream that could only have been La Carlotta. By the time I reached the door of her dressing room, five or six others had come too ; we looked in to see innumerable frogs leaping everywhere. Carlotta continued to scream, turning to and fro — but everywhere she went, there was another frog. One of the veils for the next scene was in her hand ; her wig laid upon her dressing table and three frogs looked out innocently from inside it.

‘La rana, la rana, la raaaannaaaa ! Geet dem off from meee !’ she cried. ‘Aaaíííí ! Deese will to geeve me warts ! Aaaaííí !’ and she carried on screaming and turning in panicked circles.

Piangi pushed his way in from behind us in his Herod costume. ‘Carlotta — you are a-going to a-ruin youra voice thisa way ! Why are —’

‘Piangi !’ Carlotta screamed, utterly stricken ; she reached out for him and seized him by the shoulders, reverting to her native tongue. ‘Mata las ranas ! Desaparecerlos ! Quitalos, matalos ! Que de diablo es eso, porque lo sucede ?! Dime, por favor… diiiiimeee !! La fortuna maledad ! Aaaaíííííííí !!!!!!’

Mme Giry and La Sorelli had both hurried down the hallway by then, and Meg appeared from the other direction to look in upon the spectacle as well, her brown eyes wide as saucers.

Piangi was pulling the distraught Carlotta out of the room, calling loudly for members of her entourage to help.

‘Esmeralda, Mariangel, Almudena, Carlitos ! Getta La Carlotta outta here ! Take her home, she’s a-lose her minda ! Get her out… make-a sure there’sa no rana in her clothes !’

The growing crowd in the hallway parted as three women and a man rushed up with shocked and repulsed expressions, carefully scrutinising Carlotta before they touched her ; with a look of alarm, Carlitos pulled a lacy handkerchief out of his breast pocket and opened it before wrapping it around Carlotta’s forearm and pulling her away with the help of the others.

‘Vaya conmigo,’ I heard one of the women say quietly as they coaxed her along ; Piangi took a last look into the room before taking two steps backwards and then fleeing the scene.

The ballet girls shrieked intermittently as they looked at the chaos of Carlotta’s dressing room. For myself I just wondered, how on earth did so many frogs find their way into an opera house ?

Two girls ran off, saying they were going to check their own dressing rooms ; Meg Giry grabbed my elbow and pulled me aside as her mother banged her stout black stick upon the floor and ordered everyone to leave. She turned fearlessly, went into the room without a sound and shut the door behind her.

‘Christine ! You know who did that, don’t you ?’ Meg whispered urgently.

I shook my head, looking at her blankly. ‘I haven’t the slightest notion ! How could I… ?’

Her eyes glittered mischievously. ‘It must’ve been The Phantom… only he could make a hundred frogs appear in the middle of the city in winter, in the middle of a performance !’

She so often spoke of The Phantom ! And I could never quite tell whether she spoke of him with reverence and admiration, or with fear ; perhaps it was a trace of both.

‘No matter who did it,’ I said, ‘it was quite the job. Now Carlotta is gone, and —’ I trailed off, the reality of the situation suddenly dawning on me.

‘That’s right,’ Meg finished, ‘‘now… you have to sing the part and finish the opera !’ A furtive smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, as I realised a voice far down the corridor was shouting out the five-minute warning.

‘You’ve got to get dressed !’ ‘I’ve got to get dressed !’ Meg and I squealed in unison.

I turned and we dashed down the hallway to my dressing room ; Meg wasn’t due upon the stage until some time after the opening dance, so she had time to help me change my costume and layer myself with the veils. I hurriedly pinned Salomé’s gilt headdress into my hair and tied it back loosely ; ready in record time, I tore out of my dressing room, calling out my thanks to Meg over my shoulder. Ahh, Meg… she was truly my only friend !

I hurried to my place just as the stage manager was clapping his hands for the crew to extinguish the backstage lamps ; we stood in darkness for some moments when the entr’acte suite ended and the set’s torches were touched off by black-clad stagehands who quickly disappeared as the curtains opened. The footlights were turned up, and the scene music began. I was to sing the entire second half of the act… and Salomé’s beautiful aria ! And all just because I’d happened to mention that I knew the work, thus had been assigned as understudy !

As I sang, I could sense his presence… that of the Angel of Music. Or, Erik… he had said his name was Erik… if I hadn’t wholly invented such a thing out of my own imagination. Imagine… an angel with a Swedish name ! How many drinks had I had that night, anyway ? Mama Valérius would have surely been scandalised if she’d known I was now drinking absinthe after work, and receiving a strange man in black whom I did not know, clothed only in my dressing gown…

The last half of the act simply flew by. I danced the dance ; I threw myself at Piangi’s feet; I argued with his character ; I sang the aria. I had just closed my mouth after its final phrase when I heard a golden tongue in my ear :

‘Bravissima...’

It was him. I couldn’t repress the shudder I felt at the thrill which ripped through my entire body at that sound.

Then a head was brought out on a platter, and with the aid of the suddenly intense feelings which now charged through my veins, I whirled myself around it in ecstasy, finally taking the gruesome thing in my hands and pretending to kiss it. From upstage, Piangi’s character roared to the remaining dancers who all descended upon me from both sides of the stage, pretending to bury me in a furious attack. That was the end.

When the curtain again opened, there was thunderous applause… I had never heard anything like it ! Was it because the story was so scandalous, the libretto so cutting ? But before long, it was my turn to bow, and when I did the noise only increased. The entire salle de spectacle was roaring… for me ! Could it really be ?!

Showers of flowers landed downstage at my feet. I was genuinely astonished !

After three curtain calls, I was finally able to make my way to the wings, where the two old managers — Debienne and Poligny — and the two new ones — Moncharmin and Richard — awaited me with seemingly surprised congratulations. Meg was there, Mme Giry was there, La Sorelli, little Jammes, and some others — but I just wanted to get back to my dressing room and call for my angel. In my dream — if it was in fact a dream — he’d said he would come ; so as to put my mind at ease and resolve my confusion, I had to at least try. So I pressed through the throng, and at last reached the corridor.

I passed Carlotta’s dark dressing room, which stood with the door open ; Mme Giry must have managed to dispatch all the frogs. What an unusual woman !

But only three steps beyond Carlotta’s room, I was accosted by a strange blond man with a thin moustache who wore a naval uniform.

‘Christine ?’

‘Yes ?’

‘Christine Daaé ?’

‘Yes… and you are ?’

‘Why — don’t you remember me ? I’m the boy who rescued your red woollen scarf from the sea when we were children in Perros-Guirec… I’m Raoul de Chagny.’

Chapter Text

Chapitre VIII - ‘La musique de la nuit est encore douce…’

I stood there looking at the man without even the remotest memory coming to me. A boy who rescued my scarf ?

‘I’m so sorry. Can you tell me when this supposedly happened ?’ I asked politely.

‘Oh, it certainly happened, I would never forget a name like yours. Your father is a violinist, if memory serves ?’ he asked haughtily, his upper lip frightfully thin under that pencil-thin moustache.

‘Yes… or at least, he was… Papa’s been dead for the past nine years now.’ His obvious ignorance of my father’s death, no matter his claim to have known me years past, was not winning him any favour. My eyes flicked down to really take in that moustache… and I realised, for the first time, that pencil-thin moustaches simply didn’t work for blond men. They really required some pigment, to remotely come off well. This man… it just didn’t suit him.

But in hindsight, it occurred to me that this man had obviously grown such a thing upon his upper lip so as to offset the fact that he looked rather womanly. And it’s true he’d have made an attractive female ; his hair was shoulder length and wavy, the colour of honey ; his eyes were a pleasant colour (although I forget which, precisely) and his entire complexion complemented the blue-and-gold of his naval uniform. His hips were narrow ; something about his physique suggested a man who’d only very recently lost quite a bit of weight.

‘What did you say your name was again ?’ I asked.

‘Raoul,’ he said, now a bit put out. ‘Raoul de Chagny.’ He leaned subtly into the surname, as though it should mean anything to me.

‘Oh,’ I finally said, ‘I think I might recall having lost a scarf once in the sea. But I thought I had to buy a new one to replace it.’

His pale brows knitted together above the bridge of his rather sharp nose. ‘I can assure you that’s not the case.’ Then he looked around, smiled a dazzling smile, and took a step closer to me, placing his hand upon my arm. ‘It’s rather noisy out here — isn’t there someplace we can go where we can hear ourselves talk ? Perhaps one of my other memories will spark a recollection.’

‘Well, I was on my way to my dressing room to change —’

‘That’s perfect. Lead the way.’

I groaned inwardly. I had been about to say, ‘because I have something important to attend to,’ but I felt as though I had to be more hospitable somehow. Very well… five minutes, that’s all I would give him — and then he had to go. I stepped around him and continued down the corridor to my dressing room, which was the last door on the right.

‘So you said you knew my father Gustave ?’

‘Yes… one summer in Perros-Guirec. He would play the most delightful airs in the town square… caprices… waltzes… he was so capable and talented. A truly remarkable artist. I shouldn’t be at all surprised that you grew up to be such an amazing musician yourself.’

‘Oh… that’s kind of you to say.’ My heart warmed as I thought of my belovéd papa. ‘I really can’t take any credit for it, I confess. Papa was a wonderful teacher, and my voice teacher has been amazing as well.’

‘That’s certainly true,’ he agreed, ‘but you’re obviously quite an attentive pupil. Then again, I would expect no less — you were always such a quick study when we were children. You always made me feel… well, don’t take this the wrong way, but it was always clear you were the more intelligent of we two.’

I blushed ; that surely wasn’t me he was talking about ! I’d never felt like a particularly intelligent girl. Certainly, I was poorly educated and attended school quite irregularly… it was simply a by-product of the wandering which Papa became accustomed to, after Mama had passed away.

I opened my dressing room door and was about to tell him goodbye, but he walked into the room without invitation and looked around.

‘What a lovely room. Do you share it with anyone ?’

‘Euh — no, it’s just mine.’ I entered behind him, pointedly leaving the door open, walked to my dressing table, and sat down; I began to remove the pins from my hair and Salomé’s headdress. Perhaps he would take the hint, be a gentleman, and leave.

Imagine my shock, then, when I heard the door close. I turned in the chair ; he stood leaning upon the door, his thumbs stuck in his belt.

He grinned charmingly. ‘So you really don’t remember me ?’

‘Well —’

‘Let’s see. We built sandcastles, and mine fell apart, but yours was perfect. You let me put my flower at the top, though — wasn’t that sweet ?’

I lowered my hands to my lap. I did recall building sandcastles… but there were always plenty of children at the beach.

‘And that house that you and your father lived in — what was it called ?’

‘Le Paon et la Fontaine ? We didn’t really live there, it was just a boarding house —’

‘Yes — that’s it ! My family always lived in the villa down the way — Les Arbres d’Or. And one time I was out in the lane and you walked by and told me you’d heard from some of the other children that our house was haunted, and wanted to know if it was true.’

Now, I did recall there being a story of a haunted house in the area ! Perhaps I had known him after all. ‘Yes… was it you who lived there ?’

‘Well — I never saw any ghosts. And that’s what I told you.’

‘I remember some children saying they heard disturbing voices on the wind… and sounds of crying ! Yes, that I recall quite vividly !’ I turned back to the mirror and returned to unpinning my hair.

He laughed good-naturedly. ‘Oh, that was real enough. But those weren’t ghosts.’

‘Are you so sure ?’

‘Positive.’ He sighed deeply, and crossed his arms over his chest. ‘I hate to tell you this, Christine, but… those sounds were my parents. My father, the Comte de Chagny at the time, was… there’s no other word for it ; he was a tyrant. And my mother’s means of dealing with it was simply to drink herself to death.’

‘Oh… I’m so sorry to hear that.’ I looked at him by means of the mirror ; his delicate countenance was stern, but there was no trace of sadness.

‘I’m not telling you this for sympathy, Christine, it’s just… well, I feel like we’ve known each other our entire lives, so I know I can trust you. And that’s simply the truth of what happened back then. But those days are over. This is now.’

‘I see. Well, that’s an admirable way to look at it.’

‘Yes — I’m like you in that I believe a person has to be strong in order to keep going.’

Well — I didn’t recall ever saying that, and I didn’t even necessarily agree with the statement ; but it wasn’t a conversation I wanted to have, so I simply nodded.

‘You and I were great playmates, Christine — in fact, I’ve always considered you one of the best friends I ever had.’

I looked at him. Could he really mean that ? Surely not ! I didn’t even remember this man ; and yet he considered someone like me to be one of his best friends in the past ? He must have led quite a terribly lonely life, in that case.

‘But it’s been so many years, Monsieur de Chagny. You surely must have made better friends at school, whom you knew for many years.’

He held up in hand in protest. ‘Please — call me Raoul, I insist. We’re such old friends, Christine ! Let’s not stand on formality.’ He paused. ‘In any case, no… the truth is, all my peers… well, I don’t mean this to sound badly — but I know you’ll understand. They just — it was impossible to relate to them ; there were certain things they simply couldn’t appreciate.’

I understood that, to be sure. ‘Oh, indeed — one is set apart because of various sensitivities and experiences... and no-one ever really speaks your language ?’

He held my gaze intently in the mirror and took a few steps towards me, his voice sympathetic. ‘Exactly, Christine. And that’s what we’ve always had in common — why I’ve always known we were kindred spirits. And, sure enough, although it was years ago that we knew each other so well, I never forgot you — that’s why I was so stunned when I realised it was you singing on stage tonight. I’m simply amazed at the way God has brought us together again — just at the perfect time.’

‘The perfect time ? How so ?’

‘Why, because I just arrived back in France for six months of shore-leave, before we depart for an Arctic recovery mission. So we have plenty of time to renew our friendship — and my family just happen to be patrons of the opera, so we have box seats. My brother Philippe is now the Comte, and I am the Vicomte.’

That’s right — he’d said his father was a Comte ! Well, if he was from a noble family, I certainly had no business talking to him so casually. But, I had to admit, he certainly seemed friendly enough.

‘Come out to dinner with me ! We can catch up on all that’s happened since our last summer together. It’ll be lovely. I'll go find my driver and have him fetch the carriage. I’ll take you to my favourite place. Give me just a moment — I’ll return shortly.’

And with that — he left the room, shutting the door behind him.

I looked after him only for a moment, slightly aghast at the audacity of a perfect stranger — when suddenly I remembered my Angel ! I had looked forward to calling him these past two days. I leapt up from the table, hurried to the door, and turned the key in the lock ; I quickly removed the rest of my costume — there wasn’t much to take off — and crossed to where the folding screen stood. I stepped into my drawers, buttoning them at the side and then slipping my chemise on over that ; I felt little excitement about squeezing myself into my corset after such an exhausting performance, but there was little choice in the matter — I wouldn’t fit into my dress if I did not — so I dutifully pulled it off the screen from where it hung, held it around myself and fastened up the busk. I approached the mirror, turning my back to it and craning my neck over my shoulder so as to see to grasp the laces properly ; once it felt suitably tight, I tied the strings in a long bow and turned to the heap upon a chair which held the rest of my clothes.

Suddenly the hairs stood up on the back of my neck ; I could feel him. Was he here ? My body thrilled with a surge of delicious energy which ran from my toes to my fingertips, radiating out from the pit of my stomach. My heart fluttered and I drew a shallow breath. Erik.

My dressing-gown hung on the edge of the folding screen ; I snatched it up and wrapped it around me hurriedly, then turned to face the mirror and approached it once more ; in the vision I’d had, the Angel had walked through the centre of it, as though there had been no barrier at all.

‘Angel ?’ I called timidly. Was he there ?

I waited a moment or two ; I could still feel the charge in the air, and the sense of it gave me hope. ‘Angel of Music,’ I spoke reverently, ‘come to me. Show yourself. Did I only dream of you… or was it real ?’

Suddenly — just as it always did during our lessons — an exquisite music entered my head. What was this marvellous song ? Where did it come from ? It had to be him — it had to be !

And then — the golden helix that was his voice swirled around me like an elixir of life.

‘‘My darling child… do you call to me again ?’

At the sound of his melodious words, I began to feel faint. The sense that this could happen without absinthe — indeed, without a drop of any alcohol of any kind — was so overwhelming that it made me feel faint ! I took two steps back and sat upon the edge of the divan, facing the mirror, and clasped my hands together. I could hardly contain my joy.

‘Oh my Angel ; I beg of you ! appear to me once more !’

And appear he did ! Miraculously — just as he’d done before — there he was, the mirror simply admitting him, as though no solid surface could withstand his divinity ! Tall, slender, elegantly clothed in a fine black waistcoat of watered silk, a pristine shirtfront dotted with shining onyx buttons, a woollen evening suit and the same long, sweeping cloak I recalled from before. He wore a plain, wide-brimmed hat — that was different — but… yes… he wore a demi-mask. But was his name really Erik ? If it was…

‘I am here at your behest, Christine,’ he announced in his regal manner. ‘Will you come with me ? Will you let me guide you to the place where I dwell ?’

What did this mean — where would he take me ? It didn’t matter… I didn’t care. Whether we physically ascended through the clouds or whether he simply spoke, it was heaven, one and the same!

I stood up from the divan, unable to tear my eyes away from him. ‘I will come with you, my Angel !’

His eyes — the one I could see clearly looked somewhat dark, but the one behind the mask almost seemed to glow with a golden phosphorescence — held me fast.

‘Christine,’ he said soberly, ‘I am neither angel nor spirit nor phantom… I am Erik !’

I gasped as an involuntary shudder overtook my entire body. ‘Then it wasn’t a dream !’

His lips distorted in a curious movement and his teeth flashed ; he held out his hand. ‘Come to me.’

His pull was magnetic, irresistible ; no part of me could have refused him — nothing in this world could have induced me to stay where I was. I raised my hand and approached him ; he wrapped his cold, long fingers around my palm, and his touch set off something which felt like a thousand needles pricking every inch of my skin.

‘So you’re truly real — and not simply a figment of imagination, dwelling only in my mind… I’d convinced myself by morning that I’d hallucinated everything…’ I stammered, somehow still finding it hard to believe that I hadn’t wholly imagined everything. But this was real ! He was a man !

‘Come with me,’ he said silkily, his arm encircling me, his cloak covering us both, and suddenly the wall opened to admit us both into a corridor like nothing I have ever seen.

In the back of my consciousness, I thought I heard someone call my name and perhaps the sound of knocking at the door — but I didn’t care. Erik was real… he wasn’t just an angel, he was a man ! And I was with him, he had asked me to come with him ! My feet barely even touched the ground, so buoyant did I feel, so light and sustained by this strange energy was I… I clung to Erik’s finely-clad left arm, as he summoned a flaming torch out of thin air, guiding us down the dark path… the unmasked side of his face closest by me, and in the flickering light, I realised his features were fantastically arresting. He held the torch up in his right hand, pulled his arm out of my grasp and again wrapped it around my waist. I laced my fingers into his at my side, unwilling to let go of him. Every so often he would look down at me, and in the shadows cast by the firelight I could tell that, indeed, his eyes somehow gave off an unnatural light.

What was he ? Strange man !

‘Do you hear it, Christine… do you hear the music ?’

The sound of my name in his throat was intoxication itself ; that transcendent symphony still resounded in my ears. What was it ?

‘I can hear it. Is it your music ?’

‘Yes, my darling.’

A series of spine-tingling glissandi sent a corresponding set of chills down my back ; heat flamed inside of me.

‘Where is the music coming from, Erik ?’

We stopped moving, and he raised his hand to my face, his fingers of ice just grazing my cheek as his luminous eyes plumbed the depths of my own. The distinct scent of amber wafted from his clothing, and I eagerly breathed it in.

‘I am projecting it from my consciousness. In this most singular way we are, somehow, of one mind, Christine. Do not ask me to explain it… I cannot.’

Spellbound, I merely held his gaze, unsure how to respond — but it didn’t matter; in another moment we had continued on our way.

I didn’t pay attention to the path we took ; I was only aware that we seemed to be descending into the bowels of some labyrinth. Mysterious tunnels opened up before us to cavernous spaces ; the darkness was complete, except for the light of our torch. At last we came to a small waterway, which glowed with an unearthly light, and as he held the torch aloft I saw to my complete shock that a small gondola awaited us. He stepped onto the ledge where the boat was moored, and held out his hand to help me aboard ; I knelt down upon the many cushions as he used the torch to light a lantern which hung from the vessel’s bow, then dipped it in the water to douse the flame, and placed the smoking stub in an iron ring which protruded from the wall.

He lightly leapt aboard the boat, which did not list at all under his weight ; he reached back in the darkness behind me and then a long pole was in his hand, which he moved back and forth easily, and we cut through the water silently, exiting through a tunnel and suddenly clouds of fog surrounded us. The light from our prow cast continually-changing reflections upon the water’s surface, and the air around us glittered strangely from the effect.

‘What is this, Erik ?’ I asked him quietly, my voice nevertheless reverberating throughout this enigmatic place.

‘This is the lake one must cross to reach my home.’

‘I’ve never seen anything like this in my life.’

‘Neither have most others, my dear. You are the first I have ever brought here.’

‘The first ?’

‘My domain is open to no-one… unless I wish it so.’

We passed through another narrow, serpentine tunnel and one more large cavern before, at last, the bow of the gondola eased up to another mooring at the base of a short stone staircase. He stepped around me on cat feet and tied us off, once again offered his hand to help me up, and then guided me up the steps, slowly, while he began to hum along to the music which I heard in my mind. Did he really mean what he'd said about us being of one mind — we could hear the same music ?

I opened my mouth and began to sing softly ; his mouth distorted in that odd ripple once more, and I realised he was smiling. How curious… I had never seen anything like it. It must please him that I was singing to his music ! As I watched his half-hidden face in the glimmering light of the lantern he’d taken from the bow, I realised I wanted the chance to study this intriguing expression at greater length.

His hand once again rose to softly touch my face, and brushed down along my neck, and I held out the note for as long as I could — somehow, he seemed to summon the strength from within me, bringing out capability I didn’t even know I had ; that’s how it had always worked, although he’d only spoken to me before. But now, it seemed, he could just touch me and I understood what he wanted, drawing forth the desired technique as if by some inexplicable sorcery.

The note faded into the ether of that strange environment, and then so did the music in my mind as well. I closed my eyes, listening to the haunting reverberation ; it was replaced by the soft sounds of our breathing...

Chapter Text

Chapitre IX - ‘La petite mort de l’âme’

Christine’s throat, beneath the light clasp of my hand, expanded and contracted ever more significantly, and suddenly my compleat awareness could focus only upon that sole source of life — it was as though everything else in existence, as of that moment, had ceased to be : there was no sky, no sun or moon, clouds or stars ; there was no Paris, no history of kings, revolution, emperors, or republic ; there was neither light nor darkness, heat nor cold, struggle nor success, life nor death ; there no longer existed the possibility of the realms of heaven or hell ; even music itself perished… there was only Christine Daaé, and the fact that she stood before me willingly. And her breath — the sound of it, the sensation of it entering her body at this point beneath my fingers, the miracle of her animation — suddenly became a point of transfixion, something I needed to survey closely, to analyse in detail, to probe intimately, to understand minutely…

For her breath was an ostinato of the strangest, and yet most beguiling kind. Her lips were just barely parted… I could see the moist, silvery reflection of the lamp’s illumination upon the surface of her tongue within ; from whereupon, was the emanation of her. I bent my head more closely, her breath seeming to pull me in with the strange gravity of a celestial body.

I wanted to synchronise my breath with her own, to resonate in sympathy, to share the same life-source…

‘Christine,’ I whispered.

She did not respond in words, but instead bent her head back, her face lifting gently towards mine, eyes still closed, lips still parted… her neck, naked and unadorned, so close… I needed badly to taste her.

I lowered my head more still, hand trembling as I slid it to her shoulder and slowly pulled her closer. My lips pressed lightly against her throat and she uttered a sound which went straight to my abdomen ; her hand found the edge of my shoulder and clenched it tightly ; there was a crash of metal and breaking glass which barely registered as I dropped the lantern and the light was extinguished, plunging us into blackness.

Her body pressed against me, her other hand lifted to my mask ; I let go of her shoulder and swiftly pulled her arm away, as the fingers which had dropped the lantern raked up her back, feeling the outline of her corset beneath her thin dressing-gown. She moaned luxuriously as my mouth opened against her throat and I tasted her at last… salt, sweet, and something oddly bitter — perhaps the vestiges of her perfume. The fingers of my left hand enmeshed themselves within her hair, those of the right grazed over her backside, then gripped the protrusion of her left hipbone and pulled it into mine ; my trousers only became tighter as I grew beneath the contact which I had desired so insanely for far too long now.

I pulled away just for a moment ; being this close to her was uniformly overwhelming.

‘Christine,’ I panted.

‘Erik !’ she cried softly, her hand once more raised to my mask, but she simply touched it, aligning my face with her own. Her eyes were open ; her widely-dilated pupils locked onto mine in the darkness. ‘Kiss me !’

It was a request I’d never thought would be made of me.

I had never kissed anyone ; I wasn’t even sure I knew precisely how one went about it… but it was nothing I hadn’t observed between others many times from the places I concealed myself as one with the shadows, either in the streets of the 9^e arrondissement at night, or the loges of the Opéra…

Tilting my head somewhat to avoid pinching her nose with my mask, I pressed my lips upon hers. It was such heaven that I did it again… and again. Then I opened my mouth, for I wanted to taste her here, too. I felt her tongue slide along my own — and a thousand colours exploded in my head all at once. My knees were about to buckle, when suddenly her body went limp in my arms ; startled out of my trance, I stumbled momentarily, but caught us both before we could fall. She had fainted !

Despite the suddenness of it all, I reached down and slipped an arm under her knees, lifting and cradling her against my chest. Her head fell back, her chestnut hair dangling like wisteria ; the skirt of her dressing-gown fell open and draped over my hand, revealing ruffled drawers all the way up to the top of her thigh. I closed my eyes against the evil magnetism of it, for the sight drew me just as strongly as had her throat and lips. Gods above, what in hell’s name had happened to cause her to faint ? Was it my face — did she already suspect ? Was it my kiss — did I simply not know what I was doing ? Was I a fool ?

At all events, there was no answer for it now ; my bound duty was to ensure she would recover — so keeping my eyes fixed steadily upon the front door, I turned and took her into my home, carrying her limp form over the threshold and wondering what on earth I should do.

Hellfire and damnation… I hadn’t considered such a possibility ! I had imagined Christine screaming and running away ; Christine finding my accommodations less than ideal ; Christine desiring only to sing and not wanting me to touch her — and then my private fantasy, Christine requesting to visit the mairie with me the following day to become my bride, and then myself joyfully presenting her with the trousseau which I had already lovingly prepared for her. But this — kissing the woman, and then she fainting dead away ? This I had not envisioned. And then there was the added complication that now, because of the arousing development of our kiss, my body was raging for her ; the only thing to be done, was put her somewhere safe and then get myself the hell away.

But where should I put her ?

Should I put her in the room I’d prepared for her ? I headed that direction, then stopped short. What if she awoke and found everything I’d left in the wardrobe for her, and thinking it was someone else’s, became frightened and ran away ? No, that wouldn’t do… I’d take her to my room. So I turned, and headed in that direction—but then realised, if she awoke from a faint in a man’s bedroom, it might induce her to think me less than honourable. I turned around yet again and stood there stupidly in the passage, completely at a loss, silently cursing myself, sighing malcontentedly at this ludicrous comédie d’erreur.

At last I elected that her bedroom, though be it strange to her, was the lesser of two evils… so I carried her down the corridor, laid her softly down upon the bed, and then turned and rushed to the music room to quite literally pound away at my pipe-organ ; considering that now a lady was present in my home, I certainly wasn’t at liberty to do anything more.

I tore off my hat and cloak and flung them over a wooden music-stand as I crossed the room ; I tore off my jacket and tossed it over the chair at the desk where my manuscripts and ink-pot lay. I furiously unbuttoned my boots and tossed them over my shoulder as I slid onto the bench, pressing my feet onto two gloriously disharmonious minor seconds a twelfth apart ; my hands reaching out to either side, I pulled out nearly all the stops. My fingers crashed upon the manuals, willing all my physical and sexual frustrations to leech out of me and into the keys. Was there any musical piece that could contain and express such torment ? Ahh, yes — but only one… Don Juan Triumphant !

I know not for how long I played, in utter physical agony. The work did nothing to alleviate my unbearable desire… I played until my fingertips ached, until the arches of my stockinged feet screamed no more ; the discordant cacophony of Don Juan echoed off the walls until it was an absolute din of every tone and semi-tone. I sang along furiously as I played, desirous of forgetting the phenomenon of Christine’s body pressed against mine, yet unable to think of anything else. And it came through the music, betraying my greatest weakness — the caresses I longed to give and receive, the interrupted kiss which I longed to continue.

Suddenly I felt a hand upon my shoulder, and in my surprise my limbs leapt off the keys and pedals, the music ceasing abruptly. Christine stood there, still in her dressing-gown, her chest heaving and the most inexplicable look upon her face. The echo of my own madness still resounded in the air like a petulant ghost.

‘Erik,’ she gasped breathlessly.

My god… I should have realised. Not only could she hear my music in her mind, but she was in tune with its meaning ; she understood it… now that she'd heard the theme of Don Juan, my soul had been bared... now she knew all !

‘Christine,’ I began, knowing I couldn’t explain myself, but certain I had to at least try ; her hand lifted from my shoulder, her fingernails traced over my mask to my ear, her fingernails closing upon its edge. I closed my eyes and recoiled in fear… she was going to unmask me ! She would see my face, and now everything would end, before it could even begin ! The woman I loved was going to expose me… betray me !

But… my nightmare did not come to pass ; she didn’t unmask me. She simply grasped my jaw… and kissed me.

Chairs and music-stands crashed across the floor of the music room as our heavy limbs took ungainly steps under the crushing, drunken weight of desire. Our mouths locked together, I held Christine to the wall, one hand upon her breast, the other untying the sash of her dressing-gown, dragging my sensitive fingers down the length of her torso as we both groaned in the harmony of ecstasy. I could feel Christine’s hands tearing my waistcoat buttons open, pulling the shirttails free of my waistband, her hips pressing sensuously against my trouser-front as she tortured me in an entirely new way. Her corset was easy enough to dispatch thanks to its busk closure ; my ravenous hands trailed down towards her legs and pulled up the hem of her chemise.

Her ruffled drawers were a marvel and although I understood their design in theory, actually laying my hands upon them with Christine inside them was something I found quite novel. At length I found the opening between the legs, and reached inside — finding that lovely feminine rose which I had seen her stroking in her dressing-room as she pleasured herself while calling for the ‘Angel’... my fingers plundered the petals I found there, caressing them gently and insistently. Additionally, I detected extraordinary moisture — and warmth; warmth unlike anything I had ever known. It was impossibly soft and tender, something akin to silk and air. To my surprise, there were folds within folds, the extent of which artworks had never properly made clear, but which any given specimen of Roseae itself did admirably… yet how did they work ? What should I do ? It was all so delicate ; I exerted the greatest caution, for at this stage I unquestionably had no idea what I was doing… and in the meantime, my own loins burned with a heat so intense I thought it might even cause me to perish before her very eyes.

And then, as if she’d psychically transcribed my thoughts, suddenly her own wandering hands alighted upon that throbbing place between my legs and pressed against it through the fabric of my trousers ; with a gasp I seized her hand beneath my own and guided it up and down, along the length of the fly-front while I fumbled at the buttons with my non-dominant hand. My breathing was so heavy that it probably caused steam to rise from drainage covers in the streets all the way down to the Rue de Rivoli.

‘Yes, Christine… yes… ahhhh… !’

Her hand delved into the layers of fabric which covered me, rubbing, caressing, timid at first but with greater and greater pressure at my prompting — however, the more she did so, the more desperate I became to remove all barriers to her touch ; my usual dexterity had been obliterated by the intoxication of lust, and I had no patience for the banal minutiae of fastenings, so I simply ripped them all open with a growl of irritation.

Just as I sprang mercifully free of the terrible cloister of my trousers, and her bare hand wrapped around my flesh — mine !! — the fingers of my left hand slipped inside the mysterious crevice between her legs, into which I had previously seen her fingers disappear… and intuitively I knew this was both the beginning and the end of the universe. Christine, the sacred path to anything and everything that might have any bearing upon my spirit… not to mention, the end of my long, unbearable, decades-long, virginal hell.

‘Ohhh… Erik… !’ she cried, apparently every bit as transported away as myself.

Trousers and drawers both dropped to my knees as we also seemed to simultaneously realise the impracticality of our present location ; it must have taken a veritable eternity to stumble down the corridor to my bedroom as we both clumsily shed clothes along the way while remaining locked in one another’s embrace. No tapers were lit anywhere ; I fixed that with a distracted snap of my fingers as we passed a candelabra — the first magician’s trick I ever learnt. I fell backwards upon my bed, and gestured she should follow.

‘Come to me, Christine…’

Pulling her chemise to her waist, she spread her knees wide and climbed up, slowly advancing astride me until the magical place I’d discovered within her folds lined up perfectly with my impassioned lance. She then lifted her arms in the air and removed the garment — her last vestige of clothing — and threw it unceremoniously into the air behind her, where it landed at the foot of the bed without a sound.

Oh, my heavens… how resplendent, how succulent she was ! Her long, brown hair cascaded over her shoulders ; her perfect breasts heaved with every breath ; that crowning patch of curls between her legs was so alluring… so devastating was the scope of her beauty that I was equally torn between the desire to gaze at this goddess before me, and the urgent need to situate myself between her legs. Admittedly, I wasn’t precisely sure how this would work — but as long as I could align us, I imagined I could accomplish both at once.

‘Christine… my darling… may I… ?’

She nodded her head vigorously and closed her eyes while she drew a deep breath. Ahh, how I wanted nothing more than to be at her mercy !

I held her hips and lifted her above me, aiming myself into her carefully… just the sensation of her entrance at the end of me was almost enough to destroy me. One try, two tries, then at last I could feel myself start to penetrate her ; she gasped sharply and pushed herself down further.

At last, our bodies fused — every cell of my body screaming for release as Christine took me into her — further… further.

‘Erik ! You feel so — !’

Whatever she might have said, the look on her face one of beatific contentment, the two of us now merged in a posture of the most indescribable perfection.

‘Are you alright, Christine ?’

‘Yes… I’m fine. Are you ?’

‘Yes. And you feel… divine.’

There was truly no other word to describe the feeling.

We held each other’s eyes as we began to move… she placed her hands upon my chest and partially lifted herself above me ; my hands upon her waist, I guided her as high as I dared. Then she descended upon me again…

Although our initial rhythm was slightly erratic, it soon evened out as I quickly came to appreciate the mechanics of our bodies’ interaction ; I grasped her hips between my hands in order to regulate our movements and the degree of my depth within her as she sat upon me, in a furious effort to maintain this beautiful experience for as long as possible. The sensation of her closing in around me, utterly enveloping me, was — I vouchsafe, nothing whatsoever like the feeling of my cursed hand. Never had I been so perfectly sheathed ! Perspiration poured off my forehead, trickling irritatingly between my face and my mask ; it beaded my forearms and chest, and dampened the nape of my neck and back. But my cock cleaved her body again and again… oh, it was too much… too much !

For what had seemed my entire lifetime, my body had rested impossibly upon a tightrope anchored by desire at one end and despair on the other, my balance maintained through flexibility and perfect tension. But now as I made love to Christine, the rope was so taut, the tension so great, that within me there arose an unbearable discomfort ; I even felt myself about to cramp. I don’t know whether I may have grimaced in pain… and then, suddenly, when I couldn’t have withstood it even a second longer — I fell from the tightrope into empty space ; every trace of stress, heartache, fear, pressure, rejection, simply vanished.

Body, mind, and spirit all floated freely in an abstract haze…

I was a perfect being in the infinitely mysterious universe… so this was death !

I shall accept to die like this. I shall go without bitterness or complaint.

But then, slam ! — the most profound explosion of energy wracked my entire body and I was returned to myself there in the bed with Christine. Radiating out from my centre, upon which she sat, a staggering flood of sensation was unleashed upon my person ; I was wholly possessed by the primary shock and its subsequent waves, and far too late, I realised my seed was erupting into her depths. All I could manage was to utter a feeble sound, before this strange state finally subsided and I was once again under my own power — if at a considerably attenuated strength.

Despite all my misery-filled years of self-caress, I had been woefully unprepared for this first true experience… it was so much more intense ! My head fell back upon the mattress, and Christine fell forward, collapsing on top of me after I withdrew from her. She rested her head upon my damp shoulder, which she kissed again and again. I wrapped both of my arms around her and held her with my eyes closed, and we laid like this for quite some time.

Then I was jolted awake, realising I must have drifted off with Christine in my arms, by the sound of her voice.

‘Erik, my dear ?’

Erik, my dear. Erik, my dear !

‘Yes, sweet Christine ?’

‘Can I tell you something ?’

‘You can tell me anything.’

‘I… I’ve fallen in love with you.’

I sputtered slightly, and tilted my head to get a better view of her face. Had I misheard her ?

‘Ehm… pardon ?’

She raised her head and looked directly at me, her blue eyes clear and her cheeks pink.

‘I’m in love with you, Erik. And I have been, since we first began our lessons together.’

My breath stilled in my chest due to the mad hammering which suddenly began there ; clasping her against me, I rolled onto my left side and she slid onto the mattress next to me. I pulled her close, my knee threading between her legs and my right hand resting upon her left clavicle.

‘Christine… do you really mean it ?’

‘Yes, Erik.’

I was astounded. How could she really feel that way, when she still knew so comparatively little about me ? About the life I had lived, the shameful deeds I had committed, for reasons of both vengeance and employment ? And yet — to be fair, she did not even know of my successes — and neither did she know of my material security due to those successes. Her emotions, therefore, could only be pure, borne of our communion through music — the purest connection of spirit one could ever hope to achieve.

Lifting my hand to grasp her cheek, I lowered my head and kissed her lingeringly upon the lips, then gazed into the sapphire pools of her eyes.

‘I am also in love with you, Christine. Very deeply.’

She traced her fingernails up my bare arm and stopped at my shoulder.

‘I noticed… I hope I’m not prying, dear, but I noticed that you have so many of these long, white lines all over you… are they scars ?’

‘Ahh… yes. I… I am quite scarred. It happened over a period of years in my youth… when I was enslaved in a gypsy camp and forced to perform magic for another’s profit in every town we came to.’

Her eyes widened, and when she spoke her sterling voice was filled with horror. ‘Enslaved ? ’

My head dropped and I closed my eyes ; I could hardly stand to recall those days — so I merely nodded.

Her hand snaked around to my back and pulled me even closer to her. ‘But oh, my darling… why ? Why would anyone do that to you ? To you, especially, Erik ?’

So it had come to this already ; this was the moment… I had to tell her.

‘Because I am badly disfigured. I have been from birth.’

In mortal dread, I awaited her reaction ; every second felt like minutes in the silence which followed.

‘Ahh, so that’s the reason for your mask…’ she whispered in realisation.

I nodded, grateful that both my position, and the mask as well, perhaps concealed the pain which would otherwise surely show upon my face.

‘Oh, my darling,’ she soothed, laying a hand upon the top of my head and stroking my hair down to my ear, ‘I see. Now all is clear to me.’ Then she took my chin and whispered. ‘Erik… look at me.’

I lifted my face and met her gaze, curious if now perhaps this was where it would all end. But no — she surprised me again ! She leaned in and kissed the mask… again, and again.

My eyes closed in the fulness of her tenderness. That one moment of humanity — that one time in my life being given any dignity whatsoever… it was so foreign a sensation to me that I, in the moment, didn’t even recognise it for what it was.

‘Erik, my Angel,’ she said softly, ‘I understand this must pain you deeply, my darling… and I will not ask you to reveal yourself to me completely, until you are ready. And when you are… you can show me. But I shall still look upon you with love, Erik… I shall never judge you for these scars, or for what is hidden by your mask… these things were done to you, you did not choose them, and you cannot change them… but I love you, Erik, for the man whom you do choose to be… a man who aspires to create and foster beauty, despite the horrors he has suffered in the past.’

I opened my eyes, looking directly into hers. The dear woman did not even know as yet what inner strength might be required to keep that promise she had just made… but for now, the promise itself was enough, and I felt the greatest degree of consolation I could ever imagine.

No, I wasn’t yet ready to let her see. Perhaps, if she truly learned to love me first… and then saw my face… maybe she could love me enough that she could master her disgust, and still see the soul of the man behind my repulsive face… and still love him. Maybe she could.

And just this was enough to send the blood racing to my extremities, re-instilling me with the physical and spiritual vigour I needed to pleasure her again. I reached up and enlaced my fingers into her luxurious hair, then slowly moved over her, pushing her backwards into the mattress, covering her body with my own ; my right knee pressed her left leg out to the side and I shifted my hips against hers suggestively, looking deeply into her crystalline eyes and taking in the loveliness of her mouth.

‘Christine… you are the only woman I have ever wanted… the only woman I have ever loved. I am going to make love to you once again, the way I hope to make love to you every day for the rest of our lives, if you will consent to be my wife and stay by my side and join me…’ I bent my head and kissed her collarbone — ‘serve with me in the temple of music…’ I kissed the other side of her neck — ‘be my muse, my deity, my supreme embodiment of lyrical perfection…’ I kissed heavily beneath her jaw, my breath quickly becoming ragged — ‘the originator of my desire, the crux of my most treasured fantasy, the oblivion into which I seek to integrate every molecule of my being…’ I brushed my lips against hers — ‘Christine…’ I kissed her more urgently — ‘Christine…’ now even more urgently still — ‘Christine…’

I reverently kissed those precious lips as I felt her arms wrap around my waist, her fingers spread across my back — Christine was mine now, just as much as I was hers. This was far more than a man taking his pleasure with a woman ; this was utter worship, and I fully intended to ensure that Christine know the fullest extent of my feeling for her, with no room for any doubt.

Just briefly, I pulled away and met her eyes once more ; her face wore a look which fully ignited that fire below my navel. Twisting back slightly, I reached back with my left hand and, with a simple gesture from across the room, extinguished the few candles which still burned — the second magician’s trick I’d ever learnt — and we were devoured by immaculate darkness.

Only then did I remove my mask, letting it fall to the floor.

Our movement together was now synchronous and fluid. Her hands clung to my torso as we melted into another all-consuming kiss, and I pressed the apex of my fulness back into her chasm once more, renewed in my resolve to never let her go, to protect her from all earthly harm.

I was ready to again embrace that strange sense of near-death which culminated in the expression of my love for Christine.

Chapter Text

Chapitre X - ‘Derrière l’illusion de la façade…’

During lunch on my third day at Erik’s house, he reminded me that we must both return to the world above as it was Salomé’s second performance that night; so rapturous had been our first encounters in love that we had lost all sense of time ; so loath was I to leave him at all that I insisted he stay with me in my dressing room until I had to leave for the stage, and made him promise that he would watch me from Box Five (which was not far away), and that, at curtain call, he would instantly reappear again in my dressing room — all things to which he agreed unconditionally, just because I had asked it of him.

And so the evening went, much as had the first performance, except that Carlotta sang the full second half of the act ; I had learned from Meg Giry during intermission that Carlotta had been persuaded to return by the acceptance of several demands she’d made of MM Moncharmin and Richard — which included the installation of no less than four new locks upon her dressing room door, to which only she would possess the keys.

(‘As though mere locks upon the door will make any kind of material difference !’ Erik laughed when I later told him this last piece of news ; I didn’t understand his remark, but the degree of humour he found in it was amusing to me.)

In the corridor, on my way back to my dressing room, I spotted the naval uniform of the Vicomte Raoul de Chagny and quickly ducked behind a turnoff, peeking out to observe him first ; he looked irritated, stopping those who crossed his path and asking them questions ; I instantly ducked into the corps de ballet dressing room and pulled off my headdress, tucked up my hair beneath a frizzy red plaited wig, donned a padded caftan and then dashed back into the corridor, quietly passing behind him as he exchanged heated words with Joseph Buquet.

‘I tell you, Vicomte, I know nothing,’ Buquet was saying, his greasy face apparently earnest.

‘Where the hell is Daaé ?’ demanded Raoul in a low and menacing voice. ‘We had an agreement, you shithead — and yet this is the first I’m hearing that you know nothing ? ’ His tone was insidiously quiet but shockingly rude — even if Buquet was only a stage-hand ! In my shock at overhearing this exchange, I stopped and looked at them in confusion ; Buquet’s blank eyes floated towards me, betraying my presence, and Raoul turned quickly to address whomever might be standing there.

‘Get lost, peasant girl,’ he spat acidly over his shoulder, without even actually looking at me.

I did not wait to hear anything further. I turned the corner after my dressing room, then used the opportunity to duck behind a rack of costumes which were being brought down the passage on another stand-hand’s shoulder, and used it as cover to sneak into my own dressing room unobserved. As I turned the key in the lock, I mentally reviewed what I’d just overheard of Raoul in the hallway.

What the hell was that ?

That wasn’t the man who’d so ingratiatingly insisted only a few days ago I was his long-lost best friend. And then there was the niggling fact that I honestly didn’t remember him. That said, there did seem to be a few shared experiences from long, long ago — I couldn’t deny that — and he did know a lot about my father and I. Yet he’d just spoken to me cruelly, condescendingly, without realising I was ‘Daaé ’— and then, even more bafflingly, was talking to Buquet in a way which was, frankly, incomprehensible.

An agreement ? What kind of an agreement — what was he even talking about ? Did it mean that he and Buquet had an agreement ? Or had he been referring to himself and me ?

I shook my head and shrugged. I didn’t understand, but I also wasn’t sure if it even mattered. People in the noble classes often spoke to their social ‘inferiors’ in such an arrogant manner… it was simply how they were taught. And there was the added fact that, for whatever reason, I had compulsively disguised myself from him. Why had I done that ? It had been spontaneous on my part. But he didn’t frighten me ; he just… I simply didn’t have time for him.

I sighed and sat at my dressing table, pulling off the wig and caftan. I really didn’t care. I just wanted to get back home to Erik.

Home to Erik ? Was I really already thinking of his home as mine too, so soon ? I supposed I was ; he’d told me to think of it as such, in any case. His house was warm and comfortable ; there was no wind blowing through the rafters, no leaking window when it rained, no communal privy next to my bedroom. It may have been just as much of a climb to get there — only in the opposite direction — but that didn’t bother me. And the way Erik and I now spent much of our free time together was… quite delicious.

I rolled down my stockings, throwing them over the back of my divan, then stood up to change into the dress I’d come in — a charming yellow day-dress covered with a printed design of blue flowers — when suddenly Erik appeared right through the centre of the mirror as he’d done before ; it still happened so quickly that I couldn’t see how he was managing it, despite having accompanied him this way on two occasions now ! When we left tonight, I would have to pay very close attention, to see how he did it… !

‘You’re still not dressed to leave, my dear Christine ?’ he asked, seemingly surprised.

‘And you weren’t here when I arrived, my dear Erik ?’ I shot back in return, ‘— when you know I need your help to get this dress on ?’

His entire expression changed instantly, and he grinned in a self-satisfied manner.

‘I won’t deny that I saw no harm in getting a few dresses for you which might require… some assistance,’ he sniffed, turning to survey my dressing table. ‘What on earth is that monstrous wig, Christine ?’

‘Oh, that’s just something I snatched from the corps de ballet to be silly. I thought about doing the next performance with it instead of my own hair.’

Erik made an odd sound in the back of his throat. ‘I do hope you’re only joking, Christine. Though I myself would never joke about Richard Strauss’s work.’

Without answering, I dropped the scant bits of the Salomé costume I still wore while standing there in front of him. Reaching around me from behind, his hands instantly went to my breasts, then trickled down the front of my torso until his fingers reached my navel. He pressed his hips into me then ; I could feel that he already wanted me.

‘Erik,’ I whispered, ‘help me dress and let’s get out of here.’

‘Anxious to leave, are we ? Was there something in particular you wanted to do ?’ he asked mockingly.

‘Yes,’ I answered coyly, holding up my chemise above me and threading my arms inside.

‘And that would be ?’ he asked, pulling the hem down over my body as I shook out my corset.

‘You.’ I pulled the corset around me and fastened it in the front as he centred it behind me and evened out the laces in back, which I’d never even untied.

He was quiet for only a moment.

‘Well,’ he said at last, his eyes twinkling, ‘I suppose that explains why you’re going sans-culottes.’

In this fashion, six performances went by over the following two weeks, and I didn’t see Raoul for the first three ; during the fourth, I managed to again avoid him — but after the fifth performance, he finally caught me. I had even developed the habit of taking the long way around, using a circuitous route to reach the farther passage to my dressing room ; I was halfway down the corridor when I felt a hand grab my arm and pull me back.

‘Christine Daaé ! Where have you been ?’

I was spun in place by the hand upon my arm and — there stood the Vicomte.

‘Vicomte de Chagny,’ I said politely.

His attractive smile flashed before my face.

‘Look, for you, I’m not a vicomte. I’m Raoul. We’re best friends, remember ? That’s why I’m so upset that I haven’t seen you since that night you disappeared ! — we were supposed to have supper together, remember ? So it’s happening tonight for sure. And I won’t take no for an answer, Christine !’

He folded his arms before me in mock indignation, his face wearing an expectant look ; I stared at him momentarily, unsure how to respond, when he began to smile and laugh with amusement.

‘I say, Christine — you’re just as easy to fool with now as you were when we were children.’

His eyes shone mischievously, and he was just so—so… good-natured and charming — that I simply shook my head and laughed at him. It was impossible not to like him on some level.

‘Raoul, look, you’ll have to take no for an answer tonight, because I already have plans.’

‘Ahh, no, that’s not how it works — how it works is, you cancel your other plans and we go out instead. Like we were supposed to. Because we already had plans last week and when I returned to your dressing room, you were gone —’

‘I know, I know, and I’m sorry,’ I said, holding up my hands, ‘but I have to do the same thing tonight. Look, come after the next performance and I’ll have dinner with you then, alright ?’

He stepped in close to me and extended his arm past me to rest upon the wall ; he hooked his right thumb into the belt of his naval uniform.

‘Is that a promise, Christine Daaé ? Because Raoul de Chagny always keeps his promises.’

He peered at me expectantly with raised eyebrows ; he exaggerated the look the longer I said nothing, until I finally had to laugh once more.

‘Yes, Raoul, I promise. I’ll see you then, alright ?’

He pulled his hand from the wall and pointed his index finger right at my face. ‘I’m holding you to that promise, Christine. And I don’t know how I’m going to survive on my own until then, but — I’ll find a way. I usually do.’ And he broke into a laugh before once again flashing his attractive smile — but then he stepped in even closer towards me, and lowered his voice so that only I could hear him.

‘I’m just going to go ahead and say it—and don’t take this the wrong way, but — since we’re finally back in each other’s lives, I just… I’ve realised how much I’ve really missed you, Christine. And I’m really, really looking forward to catching up again. I just want you to know that.’

‘Thanks, Raoul,’ I said, patting him fraternally on the arm and taking a step back ; I needed to be going. ‘Next time, alright ? See you then.’

He made a point of holding my gaze as long as he could before I walked away.

I stopped when I reached my dressing room door ; would he still be watching me if I turned around ? If he was, it would alarm me ; if he wasn’t, then he was alright. I took a breath, then turned back to look ; all I saw were his long blond waves disappearing down the corridor.

I exhaled sharply in relief. What was it about that man ?

I quickly thought back to that conversation I’d overheard between him and Buquet the week before ; what had that been about ? Maybe he’d just been in a bad mood, had a bad evening… maybe even a really bad evening ; otherwise he seemed so genuinely good-natured and gregarious.

I shook my head and opened my dressing room door ; I had more important things to think about. I closed and locked the door behind me, and looked around ; Erik still wasn’t here—again ?

‘Erik ?’ I called, throwing off the padded caftan I’d taken to wearing habitually in the hallway after my final scene, and started to undress.

His voice startled me from behind. ‘Who was that girlish boy you were talking to just a few moments ago, Christine ?’

‘Erik ! Why didn’t you say hello when I walked in ?’

‘Because I only just entered after you.’

‘Then how do you know I was talking to a —“girlish boy” ?’ I asked, giggling at his use of the phrase; it was admittedly petty, but accurate.

‘Because I see everything that happens in my opera house. And I have many ways to observe.’

‘He’s the younger brother of one of our patrons,’ I answered, thrusting my arms into my dress bodice and holding it up at my shoulders before turning around so he could hook up the back. ‘He recognised me last week and he said we were friends as children. He wants to have dinner together at some point. I’ve been avoiding him, but I suppose I really ought to meet with him just once. He’s on shore leave before a polar expedition… I suppose he could easily end up never coming back. So I really should go.’

Erik made a sound of acknowledgement. ‘But why have you been avoiding him ?’

‘Well, because — he insists I was the best friend he’s ever had.’

‘Were you not ?’

‘Well — he certainly talks about places I knew and things that did happen, but — when it comes to him, my mind draws a blank. I do recall a rich family staying just outside the village, but… I don’t know, Erik. I don’t know if the last happy memories of my father are just too painful to recall, or what. But for some reason, I just don’t like thinking about that time in my life.’

‘Hmm. I can absolutely identify with that,’ he said sympathetically, finishing the bodice as I bent over slightly and stepped into the matching skirt ; once I’d drawn it up to my waist, he took the two corners from my hands in back and began to hook them together as well. ‘Darling, I’m going to have to design some morning dresses for you so we don’t have to bother with your real clothes on nights like this.’

‘Oh, Erik dear — that would be so kind and generous of you ! Would you really do that for me ?’

‘I would do anything for you, Christine,’ he said seriously, tapping me on the hip to signal he was finished.

I turned around and placed my hands upon his chest.

‘Erik… you’re so precious to me. Thank you.’

He expelled a long breath.

‘The feeling is mutual, my dear. Now… let’s go home. You have three nights off after this performance, and I have a bottle of champagne waiting in the chill waters of the lake for us.’

Half a bottle of champagne was certainly enough to rid myself of all painful thoughts of my father, unanswered questions about Raoul, my sore muscles from the Dance of the Seven Veils, and my irritation with Carlotta intentionally screaming some of her loudest notes into my ear as I’d danced past the partition where she hid during my scene. Erik laughed mirthlessly when I complained about this latter irritation.

‘Ahh, well, it may soon prove necessary that another plague rain down upon her, then ! That woman clearly doesn’t take hints !’

‘Plague ?’ I asked.

‘Oh, I’m just thinking in terms of metaphor, my love. Bad things happening to bad people — such as Carlotta — because of their… karmic indulgences, shall we say.’

I looked at my champagne glass ; it was empty. I’d either had far too much, or else I needed Erik to additionally tutor me in the art of whatever the hell he was talking about, as well as music.

‘Erik, darling… we should forget about Carlotta for the moment. She is awful, it’s true, but why should we talk about something awful when we could do something beautiful instead ?’

‘And what beautiful thing is it that you’d like to do, my sweet ?’

I smiled at him and set my champagne glass down upon the table, grabbed his hand and, standing, playfully began to pull at his arm, urging him to get up from the sofa.

‘Come with me, and I’ll show you.’

He locked eyes with me, grinned lopsidedly, and stood ; he pressed a hand to the chest of his richly-embroidered black satin smoking jacket and dragged it sensuously down the front of his torso and abdomen while I watched… god, how I loved it when he did things like that… !

‘Lead the way, Christine… and I shall follow.’

We were particularly lusty and hungry for each other that night, and so only a short time later we were on his bed, and had situated ourselves in an unusual position, at a strange angle; we were both on our knees, my arms up above my head, my fingers laced behind his neck, and he was driving into me from behind.

It had taken some days for me to realise it, since he usually left his smoking jacket draped over the top—but Erik had a full-length mirror in his room, at which he would dress himself most fastidiously. But he’d been wearing the jacket tonight, so it now lay upon the floor ; I’d happened to have my head turned just so, towards the corner where it stood, when I saw a marvellous vision reflected back : Erik, lithe and denuded, his dark, grey-streaked hair disheveled and tousled, his half-exposed face shining with sweat, romantically lit by ever-changing highlight and shadow, and marked by an expression of deepest concentration ; his eyes were fixed upon a point below and in front of him — a woman against whom he thrust his naked hips repeatedly from behind… me !

To see us in such a context — Erik actively making love to this wild woman whom I barely recognised as myself — was a revelation ; she was like one of the wind-blown goddesses painted upon the ceiling of the grand foyer of the opera house, long hair streaming down over bare breasts, clinging and entangled in such a passionate embrace amidst so many luxurious fabrics and hangings suspended from the bed’s canopy. And she clearly loved what Erik was doing to her — eyelids heavy with desire, mouth open in ecstasy, cheeks pink with the tinge of both champagne and passion… I had just been bluntly confronted with my own erotic nature, and it was a shock to see !

I would never look at those women upon the ceiling the same way again…

I watched as Erik’s hands moved from my hips, up over my stomach and chest, his elegant fingers spreading over my breasts ; I curled my fingers into his hair and then let go, allowing myself to fall forward upon my hands. The way his eyes were fixed upon my body was titillating ; I saw how they trailed down my back, then looked at where our bodies came together, and his face was transfixed ; with a twinge of jealousy I realised he must be looking as he penetrated me. But it seemed fair — we both had unique views of each other now. Still, I couldn’t help but wonder ; what was he seeing ?

But then Erik shocked me even more : thinking himself safely out of sight behind me, unaware that I could see him in the mirror’s reflection, he reached up and removed his mask.

He had already told me that he wore a mask to hide a physical disfigurement of which he was deeply ashamed, and for which he had been subjected to years of traumas, abuse, exploitation — and even slavery. I had told him I would never ask him to remove it within my view until he was ready — and I’d meant it. I knew in my own mind that it didn’t matter what Erik’s face looked like ; I was going to marry him anyway. But to see the degree of his deformity so unexpectedly for the first time — it was enough to break my heart.

I swallowed the gasp which had threatened to rise to my lips ; I quickly closed my eyes — but the temptation was too great, and I looked again. He appeared so fragile, so injured ! But the look upon his broken visage, one half so raw and the other so divine, was replete with devotion and genuine love as he looked upon me from behind. So unselfish was his desire as he caressed me with his slender but strong arms, the shadows catching both his pronounced veins and uncountable scars, his long sculptor’s fingers which trailed up and down my body, the voice which emanated from that broken face like a golden vestment which sumptuously clothed whatever sounds it made.

I was still watching him in the mirror with my palms spread upon the bed in front of me, my heart growing fuller by the second as I suddenly understood the true extent of his insecurities over his face — when with a flash, he changed his position slightly, and his luminous eyes found mine in the mirror. He froze, and untold emotions flashed across his face in mere seconds. I realised I had to assure him — immediately — that he had nothing to fear.

Taking his sudden immobility to my advantage, I used my leg muscles to leap up to my former position, catching my fingers behind his neck and tightly gripping him with my arms.

’Erik my love ! Don’t stop ! Please don’t stop ! Your Christine needs you… your Christine wants you… !’

He shook his head —no. I could see he was about to panic.

‘Yes, Erik, yes —’ I pushed my hips back against his and made him move inside of me once more, ‘I love you… I want you. Don’t stop.... please ! ’

He still looked disbelieving ; I stared hard into his eyes in the mirror, and at last he placed his hands upon my hips and ground into me forcefully.

‘Do you like the image of a monster fucking you, Christine ?’ he hissed in an angry whisper.

‘I like the image of Erik fucking me. Because that’s what I see. The man who I want to marry, and spend my life with, fucking me passionately, because that’s also what he wants. What you want, Erik.’

He said nothing.

I threw my head back against his shoulder and looked up at him. ‘Erik, kiss me please.’

He still said nothing, but slowly lowered his face towards mine and met my eyes directly. I pulled my right hand away from his neck and gently caressed his wounded-looking cheek. ‘I love you, Erik,’ I whispered as I touched him.

I could feel hot tears land upon my skin as I softly guided him to my lips. ‘I love you Erik, just as you are.’

We kissed softly for a while ; then suddenly with an angry sound he grabbed my arms and forcibly pulled them from around his neck ; he seized my waist and pulled himself away from me, pushing me to the side, where I landed upon the soft mattress in a sprawl — yet quick as lightning, he spun and knelt upon his hands and knees above me, pressing his ruined face in close to mine.

‘Look at me, Christine — look at me ! Are you certain you can stand the sight of this hellish face for the rest of your life ? — is this really a man you can stand to look at while he touches you intimately ? — is this really a man whose children you would risk bearing ? This face — my face — would be your doom ! ’

‘You are my destiny, Erik — not my doom !’ I yelled, clutching him as tightly as I could and planting kisses all over his abraded flesh.

He sank on top of me and dissolved into tears, sobbing openly.

‘Christine,’ he sputtered fitfully, ‘Christine, I love you.’

I clutched at his face and looked into his magnificently phosphorescent eyes. ‘And I love you, Erik… more than you shall ever know !’

He licked his lips uncertainly, lifting his hand to wipe tears away in shame.

‘There, my darling,’ I whispered, ‘it’s alright. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. You’re allowed to be happy. You deserve it. Life is not all about punishment for things we cannot help.’ And I kissed him until he was calm.

‘Christine... you are too kind to me. You are too good to me.’

‘No, sweet Erik... you are simply the man I love. Now — we weren't finished... I need to feel you back inside me...’

Shortly afterwards, the headboard of our bed slammed into the wall repeatedly as Erik, looking down at me, maskless and unafraid, held my thighs pinned against his body ; my knees and ankles were up in the air over his shoulders as he ploughed into me with phenomenal vigour.

‘Christine,’ he gasped, ‘marry me tomorrow.’

‘I will, Erik,’ I said in return. ‘I will !’

So the next time I went above ground, it was two days later (‘tomorrow’ had turned out to be a Sunday, we subsequently realised, and the mairie closed) with Erik on my arm in a very fine black wool suit, with a fetching royal blue cravat tied elegantly at his throat, and myself in a mauve lace wedding dress with a royal blue bustle and orange ribbon trims. Erik had surprised me with an entire trousseau, which had been hidden in plain sight in my bedroom at his house the entire time — but so little had been our need for clothing since I’d come, that I hadn’t taken the time to inspect the trunk next to the wardrobe at all. It had been a very pleasant surprise — not to mention unexpected ; he kept having to hasten me because while I dressed I kept getting distracted by all kinds of other lovely, thoughtful things he’d either had made or procured for me, which were also stowed inside.

Although we walked into the mairie at five-thirty that evening — quite late for a civil office, and past dusk besides — every sconce and lamp in the place burned so that it looked as though it were any other ordinary time. A short, older man wearing small oval spectacles over a large, symmetrical, impeccably-waxed moustache, set down a glass of wine as we entered, and greeted us warmly ; he wore an interesting ombre-shaded jacket, the likes of which I had never seen ; it was deep purple around the hem and sleeves, but as it rose to the shoulders and collar it faded to a pale lavender.

‘Bonsoir, my good sir and lady… I am Jean-Baptiste Henri Grégoire, your most humble servant. It looks as though you’re getting married ?’

‘That is correct, Monsieur Grégoire,’ answered Erik politely.

‘How lovely… how lovely ! I shall be your officiant, you’ll be glad to know,’ he announced happily. ‘Have the banns been posted ? And did you both register the marriage request at least thirty days ago ?’

‘Ahh — no,’ said Erik uncertainly. ‘Is that a — ?’

M Grégoire instantly held up a finger and stood up, smiling brightly. ‘Ahh, in fact, wait, no, I recall you both quite well from last month !’ he cried in a theatrical voice, as he walked behind us and closed and locked the office door.

‘It is, technically, a pre-requisite,’ he said in a jovially conspiratorial tone as he returned to the desk and lugged a heavy leather-bound tome from the shelf behind ; ‘Now, while the usual procedure is all fine and well for the most part — it is nevertheless a bit bureaucratic.’ He resumed his seat and the book fell open before him where a wide scarlet ribbon separated the pages and the current day’s date was written at the top of each; he began to flip pages backwards.

‘Sometimes,’ he continued as he flipped to the page he wanted, ‘thirty days is simply too long for many of our couples here to wait to marry — in a very real sense. But we of the 9^e arrondissement don’t like to stand on ceremony for these kinds of things… we’re here for the real needs of the community, you know. The community ! So I’ll just need the information from your birth registrations, or some other identification bearing your names, like a baptismal record…’ and then looking at Erik, ‘…or not.’

He held out a hand, and Erik reached into his inner jacket-pocket and produced two folded pieces of parchment — one that I had given him earlier, and the other one, his own — and the old gentleman unfolded them and, lifting a very large magnifying glass from the corner of his desk, inspected them for some time ; satisfied, he replaced it and laid the papers aside. Taking up his pen and flipping back the cap on an inkwell, he used a long wooden straight-edge to draw a blank line upon the page from just over a month ago, and then began to copy down our names. I watched as he filled in the column in a very lovely script :

Erik René-Antoine Chansardon et Christine Marie-Liliane Daaé

‘You have a very unusual name, my dear lady,’ he commented good-naturedly after he’d written mine.

‘Yes, sir,’ I answered politely, ‘I am Swedish, but my mother was French by birth.’

‘Ah ! And she's still living ?’

'‘No, sir — both my parents are dead.’

‘And I assume the same is true for you as well, Monsieur ?’ he asked, looking above his spectacles towards Erik.

‘That would be correct.’

M Grégoire busily scribbled in his record-book all the while, referring to our papers and using much official language.

‘Ah ! Well,’ he said at last, ‘I just need you both to sign —’ and he turned the book around to face us, ‘and Monsieur Chansardon, if you can just write your address there below your name.’ He indicated a pen for Erik to use.

‘Of course, Monsieur Grégoire,’ Erik commented, removing a monocle from his upper waistcoat pocket and fixing it over his good eye before taking the proffered pen and dipping it carefully into the inkwell. ‘And just incidentally, if may I ask, are you of any relation to the abbé ?’

The old man tilted his head proudly. ‘I am not sure if we are of the same lineage, monsieur, but I was indeed named after him. Not in the exact same order, mind you — maman preferred Jean-Baptiste to Henri — but I am named after him at my father’s insistence, and am proud that it is so.’

‘Ah ! How very admirable !’ nodded Erik, and the ostrich-feather plume of his hat bobbed in the air ; I glanced over his shoulder, and watched him write beneath his name : 8 Rue Scribe, 9^ème. Erik then held the pen out to me and I carefully wrote my signature next to his.

Turning the book back towards himself, M Grégoire and Erik chatted good-naturedly about some arcane piece of Revolutionary history which was apparently of common interest to them both while M Grégoire blotted the ink of our signatures and then flipped back to the present day’s page ; then he commented at length about some official topic or other.

‘— and, in any case, I would assert that we French have always had a healthy respect for the rules… in the sense that, we know when and where to follow them, and when and where to break them. Such as, when it is more honourable to do so — as now, n'est-ce pas ?’ As he spoke he drew yet another new line on the page, wrote our names once more, and then turned the book towards us yet again.

It was then I realised that, while I might not understand M Grégoire’s discussion, I certainly liked him very much !

Erik and I dutifully signed a second time, and returned the book once more ; Erik replaced the pen and conscientiously closed the inkwell while the old gentleman dried the signatures, abruptly slammed the book closed, and returned it to the shelf from whence it had come.

Following that, he took another deep draught of wine before slapping an official cloth cap upon his head with a curled wig attached ; a cloud of white hair-powder exploded over the shoulders of his purple coat.

Ahh... that explained the ombre shading ! I had to stifle a laugh as I finally made the connection.

‘Now — if you will excuse me, I will return in only a moment,’ he said solicitously ; walking to the front door, he unlocked it and stepped into the corridor, closing it somewhat behind him ; then we both gave a start as we heard him suddenly shouting loudly.

‘Marcel ! Marcel ! Go to the bar and get the old man !... What ?... Yes ! He'll be there, just go and get him ! Hurry up, garçon, people are waiting !’

M Grégoire then blithely re-entered the office and returned to his wine glass at the desk, hoisting it as he smiled toothily at us, before busying himself with writing our names upon a set of three small cards, which he waved in the air to dry, then filed in a long wooden box.

Erik and I looked at each other questioningly, neither of us understanding the quasi-shouted non-sequitur of a half-conversation which we'd just overheard — until a pageboy who looked about fourteen opened the door a few minutes later, holding the arm of an old man who walked slowly with the assistance of a cane.

‘Ah, Marcel, merci, merci, Monsieur La Forge, merci beaucoup. If the two of you will just sit there as usual — Marcel, what are you thinking, boy, close the door behind you ! Were you expecting Monsieur La Forge to do it for you ? Perhaps bang it with his cane so as to spare you the job ? Come on then ! —’ at which point he stood, had us place our hands in the air as if to swear a binding oath, and began to recite from memory :

‘Whereupon this Twentieth day of February, of the year One Thousand, Eight-Hundred, Three-Score and Seventeen, I hereby confirm that Monsieur Erik René-Antoine Chansardon, and Mademoiselle Christine Marie-Liliane Daaé, of the ninth arrondissement of Paris, Île-de-France, are now civilly recognised as united in legal matrimony by the government office of which I, Jean-Baptiste Henri Grégoire, am representative ; that their names, ages, present addresses, parentage, and dates and places of birth have been entered in the official record and that they are both entering into the union by their own desire and are both of sound mind ; that neither has ever been married before, and this is their first and only marriage. Monsieur Chansardon, do you find yourself in agreement with the binding terms of my recitation of the details above ?’

‘I do indeed,’ said Erik.

‘And Mademoiselle Daaé, do you find yourself in agreement with the binding terms of my recitation of the details previously, ehh, recited ?’

‘Yes, I do,’ I said.

‘Whereupon, I, certified public clerk Jean-Baptiste Henri Grégoire of the ninth arrondissement of Paris, hereby attest before the witnesses present, Messieurs Isidore Parfait La Forge, pensioner, and Marcel de Reusse, employee, that I have discussed this at length with both of you and have therefore certified you both as married upon this day, and thereby remind you both to observe, respect and comply with all the practical, real, and familial legalities thereunto pertaining said union. And I congratulate you both !’

He held out his hands towards us. ‘If you have rings or some other such tosh, you can put those on now, or you can wait for a church wedding or, whatever as you like and prefer. And you may kiss, hug, return to your respective homes, whatever it is as suits you ! Now, Madame et Monsieur, don’t mind me if I briefly raise a glass to your very long happiness and health, and then I shall complete a bit more paperwork and write out a copy of your certificate for you to take home. And Marcel and Monsieur La Forge here will sign as witnesses ; it may be appropriate to communicate your appreciation for them while I finish up.’

And with that he doffed his powdery cap, sending another cloud of cornstarch flying around him, laid it down upon the other end of his desk, and held his wine glass aloft in our direction as Erik dug into the watch-pocket of his waistcoat.

M Grégoire imbibed freely as Erik held out a silvery, sculpted band to me and indicated he would put it upon my finger.

‘It’s platinum,’ he murmured softly as he did so, ‘I hope you like it.’

I gasped aloud and stared at the lovely metal. I had heard of platinum — and knew it only as impossibly rare, expensive, and therefore fashionable for only the richest in the world — I had never hoped to even see a piece of it in my life ! I looked at it up close ; it looked very fine, to be sure — and it certainly wasn’t gold !

‘God in heaven, it’s lovely, Erik !’ I cried in astonishment.

He then placed a similar band upon his little finger, to the inside of his onyx signet, which once on he replaced in its usual spot ; he looked quite dashing with two bands there.

Grinning with readily-apparent pleasure, Erik quickly kissed me, then offered me his arm, which I clung to happily while we waited for M Grégoire to complete his paperwork. Erik gestured to the bored-looking pageboy, who was given a handful of coins to ease his pains, and old M La Forge was availing himself of M Grégoire’s carafe of wine, looking quite pleased with the arrangement indeed.

‘Shall we make our way back home now, Madame ?’ Erik asked me chivalrously several minutes later as he tucked away the vellum envelope containing our personal documents, one of them newly inked and dried.

M Grégoire bade us good-bye as he opened the office door for us, congratulating us once again on the way out.

‘Bonne soirée, Madame et Monsieur… bonne chance, et bonne soirée !’

As we walked home in the ever-deepening darkness, Erik and I chatted happily.

‘I must say, Monsieur Grégoire was a most accommodating gentleman — but he could certainly stand to switch over to a white jacket, couldn’t he, my dear Christine ?’

I laughed in response. ‘We should certainly be grateful to him, dear, for he does keep quite late hours at the mairie. Although, does that not seem strange ?’

‘Ah, well, perhaps. But, I noticed he wore two bands upon his opposite hand… so he must be a widower, and he must have loved his wife very much. And it would be my guess — were I to make one — that he prefers the possibility of bringing happiness and love into the lives of others, even if at odd hours and by notably lenient circumstances, than he does the alternative of returning early to an empty and quiet home, full of things which only remind him that life is full of sadness.’

I was sobered by Erik’s phlegmatic observation ; I hadn’t noticed the two bands upon M Grégoire’s finger. I had seen plenty of old widows who observed the custom — Mama Valérius among them — but men who did the same, in my experience, were rare.

‘Yes,’ Erik continued,’ that is a good man — a good man indeed. I believe I’ll send our good Monsieur Grégoire a selection of the best vintages from my cellar in gratitude.’

‘Oh, Erik… what a wonderfully kind man you are !’

‘Well, my dear Christine… the fact is, a man who wears a mask can never be too grateful for an official who bends the rules, back-dates the records, and asks no questions of him — and all without having been bribed. That is a man who deserves all the wine he can drink !’

I looked up at Erik’s stoic features as we passed by a gas-lamp which threw the rest of his face into strong shadow. I reached up and touched his jaw with my gloved hand.

‘You’re a good man, Erik,’ I said admiringly, ‘and I’m truly proud that you’re my husband.’

Chapter Text

Chapitre XI - ‘Le secrèt, le persan, le narcissique, le fléau, et l'annonce du bal-masqué’

It was the first full week of March; Erik and I had been married for almost exactly two weeks when, that Sunday night as I was preparing for bed, he told me without warning that he was leaving the city very early in the morning and would be gone until Wednesday evening.

‘You’ll be gone for three days ?’

‘Yes, my dear. I have some very important business out of town which I must attend to—and I’m afraid it cannot be avoided.’

‘But Erik—where are you going ?’

‘I must go downriver, my love.’

‘You’re travelling by boat ?’

‘Yes—by steamship. It is the fastest means of getting in and out of town.’

‘But… how far away must you go ?’

He reached out and caressed my cheek. ‘Don’t worry your lovely head over it, darling—your Erik is quite capable of taking care of himself. I do hate leaving you—and I intend to return as soon as I possibly can. Unfortunately, the nature of my work occasionally necessitates that I leave town in this manner—but, I shall always return to you, my love.’

‘What kind of work is it, Erik ?’

‘An architectural project, my sweet. Nothing but a million inconsequential details which shall not interest you—I promise it. But, someday, it will be to the benefit of is both for me to have completed this particular work.’

I bit my lip and clutched his hand. For some reason, I’d simply always assumed Erik almost never left the Opéra—but obviously that was incorrect. And architectural work ? I’d thought he was just a composer ! And yet here he was a job ? Who knew what kinds of things he did, and had done, before I came to know him. I wished to ask more about it, yet clearly he was reticent to share further details.

And true to his word, the next morning, he departed. I shed many a tear on his behalf, but it was for naught; he had to leave.

Thus began a very strange series of experiences.

The first day was uneventful—because I stayed home in a depressed state—but the second day of Erik’s absence, I left the house by the lake to attend rehearsal up above; he had shown me how to manage the gondola, and by now I knew which path to take so as to emerge from a staircase which led to a secret panel at the rear of the stage. But no sooner had I only reached the far shore of the lake, when I was surprised by a strange man !

‘Excuse me, mademoiselle—’ came an unexpected voice out of nowhere; I screamed, bodily leaping up off the ground in my fright. An attractive mahogany-skinned man in an astrakhan cap made of curly wool, wearing a heavy coat with a matching wool collar, held aloft a lantern in the darkness.

Dashing forward, he grabbed my forearm in an effort to allay my panic. ‘Fear not, fear not… I shall not harm you! And I am very sorry to have startled you.’

Clutching my breast to quell my beating heart, I caught my breath. ‘Who are you, and what are you doing here ?’ I demanded.

‘Mademoiselle—’

‘Madame,’ I corrected.

‘My apologies,’ the man said, bowing in a formal manner; glossy curls of ebony shone in the lanternlight. ‘Please, permit me to introduce myself, Madame. I am Nadir Khan. I have come to see if Erik is at home.’

I gasped involuntarily at hearing another person utter my husband’s name—and the man called Monsieur Khan raised his dark eyebrows in response.

‘You… you know Erik ?’ I asked tentatively. Erik had never told me that he was known to anyone else—but obviously that was a very naïve and stupid thing to think ! Yet who was this man ? He had nothing to do with the Opéra; I’d never seen him before.

‘Madame—I can assure you, there is no need to be alarmed. If you are who I suspect you are—then I am a friend.’

I made an indignant sound. ‘Monsieur Khan—if I am alarmed, it is only because this is not a place for people to wander, and however you know of Erik—’

‘Ahh, Madame—I believe we need to have a frank discussion. I am here not because I am wandering; I happen to know that Erik lives down here in this black abode. I came because he wrote to me three days ago and told me he had married. I didn’t believe it, but—judging by your obvious protectiveness—I was clearly mistaken to doubt his word. You are Christine.’

I lifted my chin. ‘Indeed I am.’

‘Well! I am Erik’s friend, and he is mine. There are not many in this world he could—or would—call such. I know him quite well; we have known each other for many years. Here—allow me to show you the letter he sent.’

He withdrew an envelope lined in mourning black from his pocket—that was Erik, all right—and handed it to me; it was addressed to ‘Nadir Khan’ on the envelope in Erik’s graceful, scrawling hand, and the black-edged page inside read as follows :

My dear daroga,

I am obliged to depart the city for a few days, which unfortunately requires me to leave my belovéd new bride, Christine, at home.
Please stop in when you can; her schedule varies but if you can ascertain that she is alright in my absence, I would be much pleased.
Or, perhaps, by the time you manage to find your way to the banks of the lake, I shall already be home and we can tell her of the old
days, and the ‘Rosy Hours of Mazandaran.’

In any case, you and I are long overdue for a game of chess—but as you can imagine, I have been greatly distracted by these recent
developments and by, to my great astonishment, the realisation that life can actually be quite pleasant. You were certainly right
about that !

Hope to see you soon.

Your humble servant,
Erik

I handed the letter back to M Khan. I wondered why Erik hadn’t told me of him, or that he might stop by ? I supposed it was because, if M Khan hadn’t been able to come after all, or if he had missed me, it wouldn’t worry me unduly. But I really wasn’t sure.

‘How do you know Erik, Monsieur Khan ?’ I asked as I handed back the letter.

‘I sought him out by royal command, and brought him to Persia to work in the service of the Shah-en-Shah and build the new palace in Tehran. And then after several years, we escaped Persia together and he helped me to establish myself here in France.’

Persia ?! Erik had lived in Persia ? Looking at the man before me—of course he was Persian; it explained his appearance—which was unusual for Paris—and unique manner of dress.

‘May I ask, monsieur, why an escape was necessary ?’

‘Has Erik not told you of it ?’

‘I’m afraid he hasn’t. But then again—well—we’ve only been married a short time, and our time together is usually spent working on music, or reading stories, or, ah…’

M Khan laughed. ‘Ahh, Madame, I must again apologise for my insensitivity. I, too, was married once… I will never forget the fevered days of early marriage. I can well appreciate there are surely many conversations which the two of you may not yet have had. Ha ! if he has not yet told you of me—he surely will now. Unless I have arrived too early. Has he returned home yet ?’

‘No, monsieur—he is still out of town. I expect him back tomorrow.’

He looked thoughtful. ‘Then in that case, I have checked upon your well-being as he desired. But I do not see the occasion for his worry; you are a remarkable lady and seem quite self-sufficient. I can see why Erik fell in love with you.’

‘What do you mean ?’

‘Because Erik would never have married anyone whom he did not love… he had the chance to take a Persian wife years ago solely for the sake of doing it; he rejected the idea out of hand. He is a very genuine individual.’

I was reeling from all the strange details he was revealing about my new husband—but then he changed topic yet again.

‘Madame, if you don’t mind my asking… I just want to be certain—you did choose to marry Erik ?’

‘Of course I did. What else—?’

‘Forgive me, forgive me… it’s just that, because of his appearance… Erik has always spoken very negatively of the possibility of his ever marrying. So I wondered if perhaps he’d—well, I hate to say it, but—lost his grip on sanity. I have often worried about him, living down here in such isolation and solitude.’

‘You have seen his face ?’ I asked.

‘Yes—only once—but I have seen it, and I know why he wears a mask.’

I was quiet for a moment as I thought over everything he’d said. If he knew all of this—then he really must be Erik’s friend. And despite his doubt—which, upon reflection, I decided was understandable—it was clear that his chief expression was one of concern for Erik.

‘Madame—if I may be so bold—do you truly love him ?’

His dark eyes shone with an intensity I could not describe; he may have come here to investigate Erik’s letter, but he was obviously investigating me, as well. He wanted to know the sincerity of my intent.

‘I do love him—very much. He has given me a sacred gift which no treasure could equal—to which no material thing in the world can compare. He has given me music.’

‘And you live down here with him—in these basements ?’

‘Yes.’

‘Does anyone else know that you are down here ?’

‘No-one. Well—until now that you’ve come.’ I peered at him curiously. ‘Why do you ask so many questions, monsieur ? You seem to know much, and yet are still so very curious.’

He laughed heartily. ‘It’s an old habit, I’m afraid. I was the daroga for the Shah.’

‘Daroga ?’ The word was utterly unfamiliar to me; in Erik's letter, I had assumed it was some kind of greeting.

‘Yes… it is like, what here you call “chief of police”.’

‘The chief of police… so you are an investigator ! But yet you had to escape from Persia ?’

‘It is a long story—it was a political escape. I swear to you, Madame, I am not a criminal.’

‘Ah.’

M Khan laughed again, but dryly this time. ‘Erik is a man of many secrets—and Erik’s secrets, should remain so. But I believe that perhaps you, Madame Christine, may be the greatest salvation for him yet—a salvation far greater than I have ever been, friends though we are.’

He stepped closer to me, and held out his hand. I lifted my own and met his grasp; his fingers enclosed mine in a gesture of sincerity. ‘Please… you must know that you can trust me—every word I speak is the truth.’

‘I believe you, monsieur.’

‘You know—I saw you sing and dance the second half of the act in Salomé some weeks back,’ he continued. ‘You were excellent.’

‘You were present at the première ?’

‘I was indeed. Thanks to Erik, I am a season-ticket holder… though I readily admit I am hardly a fan of that Spanish soprano, Carlotta what’s-her-name. Her vibrato usually reminds me of someone who’s been tied to a rail-car that’s bounced off-track and yet still sings in spite of it,’ he mused idly. ‘Not that I’m qualified to draw such parallels.’

His mention of Carlotta suddenly reminded me that I had been on my way to rehearsal, and was now surely very late; unexpectedly running into him had driven it from my mind completely. But I still had some of my own investigating to do, and wasn't quite ready to let him leave.

‘May I ask you something else, monsieur ?—how did you come to enter the basement ?’

‘Oh—why, Erik gave me a key to one of the entrances along the Rue Auber—and he has always expressly desired that I use that entrance alone. I do know better than to wander aimlessly in his domain… but this way, I don’t excite his temper by setting off any of his alarms.’

He smiled good-naturedly, and then added, ‘Now, I’m sure I must be keeping you from your errands—so I shall take my leave. But it was a pleasure to meet you, Madame Christine… please tell Erik I shall hold him to his promise of a chess match between us.’

‘But of course, Monsieur.’ I grinned sardonically at the idea of this man and Erik playing chess together—they must make quite the pair ! ‘Tell me…who usually wins your games ?’

He grinned modestly. ‘Why… Erik beats the hell out of me every time we play. I have, in fact, only ever beaten him once. But it was an honest victory… you see, what I admire most about Erik is the fact that he never lets me win out of sympathy. Any victory over that man’s genius, is rare and earned indeed. So, despite the appalling odds, and the near-constant guarantee of loss, I play with him anyway—whenever he wishes.’

Such a curious friendship ! I was rapidly becoming keen on seeing the two of them interact.

M Khan held out his lovely brown hand once more, and I placed my palm upon his; bowing slightly, he brought my knuckles close to his face, then released me. ‘Madame… I bid you good day.’

‘Monsieur… the same.’

He turned and promptly disappeared, without tipping his Astrakhan cap—of course, I supposed one didn’t tip such a cap, no matter where one was from—and clearly, he knew where he was going; once the bobbing light of his lamp had disappeared, I turned and continued on the path up towards the stage.

Clearly, there was much more to Erik than met the eye ! A sense of both excitement and dread rose up within me; what other surprises might lay in store about him ?

Alas, my surprises for the day weren’t over yet—for after rehearsal had concluded (it turned out, I hadn’t even been missed; Carlotta held up the beginning of rehearsal due to a self-serving fit she threw about not having received enough flowers and letters from admirers after the final performance of Salomé, and it was MM Moncharmin and Richard’s fault because they were supposed to ‘guarantee’ such a thing), I was cornered by Raoul de Chagny.

‘Christine Daaé… my dearest childhood friend !’

‘Raoul!—what are you doing here ? There’s no performance tonight…’

‘Yes, I know. And that’s specifically why I’m here. Because I knew you’d have no obligations on your time… I’m here to take you to supper !’

‘Ah !’

‘You owe me… remember ?’

‘Yes ! Yes, I remember, Raoul.’

Damn and blast ! Of course he ended up choosing exactly a time when I had literally nothing to do. It made me wish Monsieur Khan had insisted on staying, or that he would suddenly pass by again. How I hated being trapped like this ! But he was right... I did owe him. I had been a poor friend !

‘And you look stunning in your new dress—and those new boots ! How excellent, Christine—they look so stylish ! You must be getting paid better now that you’re taking on those singing rôles, eh ?’

Dare I tell him they were a gift from my husband ? For some reason, that was a conversation I didn’t wish to have with this man right now.

‘So where are we going for supper ?’ I asked him, opting to change the subject instead.

‘I was thinking of a little place in the 2^nd arrondissement of which I’m extremely fond… Chez Poirot. It’s been there for ages. They make the most delicious ragoût de lapin.’

I wasn’t fond of rabbit stew in any case… Meg had told me about a place in the 2^nd arrondissement that had been caught substituting stray cats in the absence of rabbits. For all I knew, it was this place ! Raoul could consume all the potential stray cats he wanted… I would not be following suit, to be sure.

I shrugged an indifferent assent, then asked him to wait for me so I could disappear and fetch my shawl and cloak. Fifteen minutes later, we were in his carriage on the way to Chez Poirot.

Supper was mercifully uneventful; Raoul attempted, without success, to convince me to order the rabbit stew as well—but I insisted I only wanted onion soup. I warily eyed his food as the waiter sat it before him; Raoul dipped a spoon into the thick brown stuff which oozed upon his plate—with obviously-identifiable champignons, onion, potato, bacon, herbs… and with much less-obviously-identifiable hunks of mystery meat—and began to eat lustily.

‘This is terrible,’ he said flatly, even as he continued to eat hungrily.

‘You don’t like it ?’ I asked, my mouth twisting into a disgusted grimace. It had to be cat !

‘Not at all,’ he said. ‘It tastes strange. And… definitely much too salty.’

I waited, expecting he would send it back—but he didn’t; he simply continued eating, with gusto even, as though it were the most delicious thing he’d ever had.

‘How’s your soup ?’ he asked, full-mouthed and with a mocking grin.

‘It’s fine,’ I answered. It was fine.

‘This establishment is a family favourite of les Chagny. I’ve been coming here since I was a boy.’

‘Oh, really ?’

‘Yes. And I suppose it just depends on who’s in the kitchen, as to the quality of the fare. Just like at home. C'est ainsi qu'elles sont les choses.’

I raised my eyebrows and lowered them again without comment; I couldn’t relate… all my years with Papa, in the home of Mama Valérius, and now with Erik, we cooked our own meals. I simply couldn't imagine a person I didn't know in the kitchen—but apparently to Raoul it was all part of the routine !

God, how I missed Erik ! Tomorrow seemed so far away ! Another night in a lonely bed… I had already become so accustomed to his body lying beside me at night. I wished his business was closer to Paris.

I busied myself with eating my soup and Raoul, for his part, said nothing—merely devoured his ‘terrible’ stew with alarming speed, and then signalled the waiter that he wanted a second helping.

What a strange man !

After our meal, he insisted on sending his carriage away and walking through the jardins des Tuileries although dusk was rapidly approaching. He walked side by side with me, and although he didn’t offer me his arm, we often bumped shoulders as we strolled.

‘Next time, Christine, you should wear your scarf which I rescued from the sea.’

I did not answer right away. ‘I’m afraid I no longer have that scarf, Raoul.’

He stopped in his tracks. ‘You didn’t keep it ?’

‘I’m not sure what became of it, honestly—but I haven’t had it for some time. These days I never wear a scarf… I use this shawl. It’s warmer—and more versatile.’

His tone was suddenly icy. ‘That amazes me, Christine… you didn’t keep your scarf. The very scarf that I risked my life and health for, to return to you.’

I laughed nervously. Was he actually upset that I hadn’t kept a mere scarf for twelve years ?

‘It’s nothing against you, Raoul… I’ve simply been through a lot these past many years. When father died…’

‘Oh, I don’t need you to tell me what it’s like, Christine… I know. I’m an orphan as well. Philippe is all I have. Besides you.’

‘I know,’ I said, placing my hand upon his shoulder sympathetically. ‘I know you know what it’s like, and I’m so sorry for that, Raoul. It’s… it’s just astonishing how unfair life can be, isn’t it ?’

‘How—unfair ?’ He laughed strangely. ‘So now you’re going to tell me about how unfair life can be ? As though I, of all people, wouldn’t know about that, either. You know, Christine, considering your lot in life you seem to think you know a great deal more than I do. And, I’m sorry, but I fail to see how that could possibly be true. You’re just a chorus girl at an opera house.’

That comment stopped me in my tracks. Excusez-moi ?

But I barely even had time to register my indignation, for he only continued his tirade, and was starting to raise his voice on top of it.

‘So that’s another reason why I find it—gosh, what word is most appropriate—Shocking ? Bewildering ? Outrageous ?—that you would so carelessly cast off that scarf… like it didn’t even matter ! And worse, you don’t even know what you did with it !’

By now he was bellowing at me. People were stopping to stare at us.

‘I just… I can’t believe it, Christine ! I can’t believe that you would DO something like this ! To me—ME !!’

‘Raoul. How could you say these things to me ? How can you talk to me like this ? You are entirely out of line.’

‘Alors—and now she’s in the navy, too !—out of line ! ’ Suddenly he smiled his brilliant smile. ‘Gosh—did I upset you, Little Lotte ?’ He whirled around, his attention settling upon a young boy near the fountain down the path who had a frolicking puppy on a lead. ‘Just a minute. Don’t fret, I’ll save the day once more.’

He strode over to the boy, spoke to him briefly, then took the puppy’s lead in his hand and walked back to me with the little animal while the boy looked on.

‘Look,’ Raoul said as he stooped down and picked up the creature in his hand, ‘isn’t this puppy adorable ? You can’t be mad at someone who brings you a puppy.’ Reaching out to me, he placed the darling puppy in my arms. I cradled the animal to me; it was precious and still very much a baby.

I was so thrown off by the puppy that, instantly, my feelings of upset vanished; I cooed over its sweetness, then finally tore myself away when I glanced up and saw the young boy still looking on anxiously.

‘Come on, precious, let’s go back to the one who owns you.’

I approached the boy, who met me halfway with his arms out. He took the puppy back, scampering off before the blond sailor with the pencil-thin moustache could gather up the wherewithal to take his dog away again.

Approaching me once more, Raoul smiled charmingly and thrust out his elbow towards me, so as to continue our stroll—but I ignored the gesture; after his bizarre outburst, and then this blatant attempt to emotionally blackmail me after the fact, I was finished with him. I was going back to the Opéra, and he was not coming with me.

‘So you think you can govern my feelings by using an innocent creature like that ?’ I demanded. ‘How wrong you are, Raoul. If you’re only going to manipulate me, I’m going home.’

As I stood watching, the charming smile dripped off his face like wet paint in the rain.

‘Manipulate you ?’ he asked quietly. ‘You dare to talk about manipulation ?’ Then he screamed: ‘This… after I rescued your scarf from the sea, and you didn’t even bother to retain it ? Precious Lotte… the little princess ! The girl who believes herself superior to all ! The girl who has the audacity to believe that I am manipulating her, when she’s the one who’s clearly been jockeying for a place in my life—and not just now, but ever since we first met twelve years ago ? What a fool you are, Christine Daaé ! What an utterly pompous fool you are ! Well, you are NO-ONE ! NO-ONE, I SAY !! ’

After screaming these last utterances at the top of his lungs, he turned and stalked westward, leaving me standing there in the gravel walkway; once again, a few other pedestrians had paused to look and see what the commotion was about, but as I looked at them in shock, they simply shrugged and continued upon their way. He hadn’t raised a hand to hurt me—he’d only yelled at me, and left—just another crazy person out for a walk in the park.

Furious, I turned and headed north as fast as I could—I didn’t want Raoul changing his mind yet again and coming to find me—and when I reached the Rue de Rivoli, I hailed a hansom cab on the opposite side of the street and asked for the Place de l’Opéra.

Inside the cab, I fumed. What in hell was wrong with that man ? I had never seen anyone who—but how did one even describe his behaviour ? Despite finding him a drain on my free time, I had genuinely liked him before; he seemed so charming, but yet today he was just… bizarre. Out of hand. Who eats food they claim to hate as they gobble it down ? Who bears a grudge—who gets mad at another person—for something that happened twelve years ago ? And he had called me a name, too… Little Lotte. What in hell was that ? Lotte ? Was he completely daft ?

And then, on top of all that—who flips between moods faster than a butterfly changes direction, and then uses an innocent puppy in an attempt to manipulate a person to no longer feel upset with them ?

I was beyond understanding; I just wanted to be as far away from Raoul as I could possibly be. In fact, in that instant I would have given anything to never see him again.

As soon as the cab arrived at the Opéra, I ran inside and dashed into my dressing room; before his departure, Erik had finally showed me how the centre of the mirror seamlessly pivoted on a spindle when a switch in the knothole of a floorboard was pressed—recessed in just the perfect way that it would never accidentally be depressed. Erik had a hobnail on the sole of his boot for this express purpose, which actuated it; I, however, had to use the bob-end of a hatpin to make it work. Employing this means, I disappeared down the Communard’s tunnel and into the cellars. Erik had given me a key to the house on the lake—silly, perhaps, to lock a house which no-one knew existed, but it was his habit, and he had asked me to make it mine as well.

I went into the Louis-Philippe room which he had so lovingly prepared for me—I didn’t like sleeping in Erik’s bed when he was gone; the pillows on his side of the bed were so strongly scented with his amber aroma that it made me miss him even more keenly—and I fell upon the bed without even unbuttoning my boots, and simply cried.

Damn that Raoul ! Damn him ! He had ruined everything by behaving so inexplicably.

Later on I helped myself to wine from Erik’s liquor cabinet in the drawing room; I decanted a bottle of Bordeaux just as I had seen him do on multiple occasions.

I sat before the fireplace and sipped it slowly. Perhaps it was good he wasn’t here; there would probably be all sorts of unpleasant questions if he were. What if he’d seen Raoul’s treatment of me ? What would he have done ? Perhaps some terrible ill fate would befall the ‘boy’, as he called him, by consequence. And while I didn’t wish ill upon Raoul—oh, I just didn’t want to think about it ! Such abhorrent behaviour !

As I stared into the flames, I wondered whether there had been any signs that Raoul would behave erratically which I simply didn’t interpret correctly, or had unwittingly ignored. After all, if it hadn’t been for my desire to quickly get back to the basements and to Erik—perhaps I would have spent considerably more time with Raoul; he had, after all, managed to ingratiate himself in some regard.

I thought again over the conversation I’d heard between him and Joseph Buquet as I’d gone past them disguised in the ginger wig. Raoul’s tone certainly made more sense now—although I still didn’t comprehend it fully. He’d said he had some kind of ‘agreement’ with Buquet… perhaps tomorrow I should seek out the stagehand personally, and ask him some questions.

The idea, of course, was repellent—I didn’t particularly like Buquet; something about him was exceedingly slimy—but perhaps there would be an opportunity to approach him before tomorrow evening’s performance of a relatively new opera, Héloïse et Abélard, written by a certain Englishman—a Monsieur Litolff—who would be in attendance to personally regard the first production of his work upon our stage.

Having satisfied myself by deciding upon a course of action, I soon spread the embers upon the hearth and retired to the large sleigh-bed in the Louis Philippe room. The sheets were cold, but to my surprise, Aaisha leapt upon the foot of the bed once I’d extinguished the lamp; atop the blankets, she curled into a ball behind my knees.

The following day, much to my disappointment, Erik had still not arrived back at home before I had to leave for my dressing room; furthermore, my attempt to speak with Buquet came to nothing. The performance went well until the first intermission—and once again, there was a massive disruption backstage when Carlotta (who’d been singing the lead rôle of Héloïse) discovered large quantities of cockroaches in every crevice of her dressing-room and flew into another irate panic. I was instantly shifted from my tertiary rôle as Martha to sing Carlotta’s part, an understudy was given mine, and I finished the remaining two acts to great applause from the audience afterwards—as well as from the wild-haired, stern-faced composer himself.

‘Bravissima,’ came a whisper in my ear as I stood accepting bouquets beneath the footlights.

Erik had returned !

Involuntarily I looked up at loge cinq—and saw nothing. But, no matter… I knew he was there !

Hurrying to my dressing room after the curtain had finally been drawn, I squeezed against the wall to bypass the small knot of dancers who were watching Buquet and the stagehands who’d been drafted to dispatch of the pests in Carlotta’s room; Meg saw me and broke away from them and, threading her arm through mine, accompanied me down the corridor to my dressing room.

Meg didn’t like Carlotta one bit, and was giggling merrily over the incident as we closed the door behind us.

‘Oh, Christine… you should have seen what happened ! It was even funnier than the last time. Oh, she was screaming like you’ve never heard ! In particular was a hatbox in which had lain her street hat—by some very exclusive milliner of course—and it was simply filled with les cafards !’

‘How horrible !’ I exclaimed, removing my nun’s veil as Meg began to unsnap my habit down the back.

‘And of course, there wasn’t a bug to be seen in the neighbouring room… it’s always Carlotta who gets hit with these plagues, it’s never any of the rest of us, but it must be divine intervention of course because she deserves them something rotten—’

‘Plagues ? Did you say plagues, Meg ?’

She erupted in jolly laughter. ‘Well, isn’t that what you would call it, Christine ? Rats, frogs, roaches, who knows what it will be next… I hope it’s something that stings… Carlotta is just awful to all the rest of us, and I know it’s awful of me to be so blunt, but it’s so very satisfying to see her running around screaming in such a right state… granted, cockroaches are fairly disgusting, it was horrifying to see them launching across the room as she threw her hat, and darting everywhere from the slightest thing she touched—but it was nothing less than the bitch deserves !’

I sat there fiddling with the catch on my sleeve while she prattled on. Plagues ! That was exactly what Erik had said would befall Carlotta! It couldn’t be a coincidence.

I couldn’t disagree with Meg; the haughty soprano certainly deserved it. But nevertheless, I felt a discussion with Erik on the matter had to be had.

‘So you don't think it was the so-called Phantom of the Opera who did it this time ?’ I asked, probing further; Meg always had an opinion on this topic.

‘Oh, it was absolutely The Phantom ! He better than anyone else should know how awful Carlotta is... and who but a Phantom can haunt someone with plagues ?’

The thought did make me chuckle; perhaps it was convenient that people thought there was a Phantom... it would take the focus off the fact that Erik was most likely responsible !

Finally, I had changed out of the nun’s habit of Héloïse and into a violet-coloured morning dress which Erik had given me the previous week, so as to simplify my après-théâtre toilette; it appeared to be a proper dress in every way, but it was, for all practical purposes, a dressing gown in and of itself. Meg was admiring it when it somehow reminded her of something she’d heard from La Sorelli.

‘Oh, Christine—what are you going to wear to the end-of-season bal-masqué in June ? Did you receive an invitation ?’

I gazed at her reflection in the mirror blankly, when I remembered there had been an envelope upon my dressing-room table after the first intermission; I’d tossed it aside in my haste to change my costume so unexpectedly, and I dug around at the side of my mirror beneath various accoutrements until I uncovered it.

‘Apparently… yes, I did,’ I said, opening the envelope. ‘This is it.’

‘How wonderful ! Oh, let me help you plan your costume ! It will be so fun ! And you’ll have to help me plan mine… I’m hoping to dance with Raoul de Chagny ! Gosh, he’s so dreamy… of course, I don’t know how we’ll manage a new dress on what mother and I bring in, but sometimes the Phantom tips her extra for taking such good care of him in Box Five… and Madame Andreyor usually lets me go through her baskets of cast-off notions and spare bits, I’m sure we can find enough in there for both of us—oh, Christine, it’s going to be so wonderful !’

Despite her eagerness, I could feel all the blood drain out of my face in reaction to what she'd just said; Box Five ?! The Phantom sat in Box Five ?! But that was Erik's box !

‘Meg... wait a moment. Did you just say that Madame Giry takes care of... Box Five ?’

‘Oh, yes—haven't I ever told you ? Mother let it slip one day, that the Phantom had left her extra money for always leaving things he likes to read in there, and she told me that's why the managers can't sell Box Five to anyone—because it's his ! They sold it one time only, during the first year we were open, and he haunted their office so badly that they never did it again... he caused blood to drip down the wall in there, and they were never able to discover the source... that's what mother said !’ And then she emitted a loud laugh. ‘I think he's wonderful. I hope, if I ever live in my own house, that if it's haunted, it will have a ghost like him ! That would just be the most fun I could ever imagine !’

She leapt excitedly into the air, gracefully performing a grand jeté and landing by the mirror upon the wall when there was a sharp rapping upon the door, and Madame Giry’s tremulous voice called out.

‘Meg Giry ? Are you in there bothering Christine ? Have you changed yet ? We must be getting home !’

Meg hurried to the door and opened it, instantly fussing with her mother who was dressed in shabby mourning black, despite having been a widow for a number of years now.

‘Oh, mother—I was helping Christine change. And we were just discussing dresses for the bal-masqué—’

‘Which isn’t for three months, you silly girl,’ her mother put in testily, ‘but we must be home tonight. Have you forgotten your dear departed father’s sister, Josephine-Marguerite, is due at Saint-Lazare within the hour ?!’

Meg straightened up in shock, her annoyance gone. ‘Ah, mon dieu, Tante Fifi ! Ah, je l’oublié completement ! Maman, allons-y ! Allons-yyyy ! ’

She clutched her mother’s arm and they disappeared, Madame Giry’s black feather bobbing behind her upon her bonnet; ’Goodnight Christine !’ rang down the corridor as Meg, still dressed in her own nun's habit costume, hurriedly dragged the woman away.

Heaven only knows what Tante Fifi would think when her train pulled up to a woman in ten-year-old widow's weeds, and her daughter, a nun !

I got up to close and lock the door behind them. It took all of two seconds, and when I turned around again, there stood Erik as though he’d never left at all—tall, slender, elegant, dressed impeccably in his evening clothes, the exposed half of his face so devastatingly handsome that a tremor racked my entire body just to look at him. He held out his arms to me.

‘My Christine ! You were ravishing tonight as Héloïse… I watched in rapture from my place in Box Five... it was truly a heart-wrending tale, of such romantic lovers…’ his hands enveloped my body. ‘Shall we hurry home so your Erik can…’ he dropped his voice to a sensuous whisper and pressed his lips to my ear, ‘… fuck you senseless ? ’

Chapter Text

Chapitre XII - ‘La Mort Rouge’

I was so overjoyed to see my wife upon my return that I’d have fucked her in the gondola if only it wouldn’t have capsized under the strain; we’d only just shut the front door before I made short work of her morning gown—I’d had these made so she could avoid the wasteful effort of dressing completely in order to leave, only to take it all off again within minutes, but… if I am to be utterly candid and make a fully clean breast of it, it was for my benefit as well, when a sensual mood was upon us. Tonight especially, after the excruciating deprivation of her sacred treasure for three days, I wanted her badly.

Almost immediately following my arrival back in Paris I had unleashed yet another grim surprise I’d had in store for Carlotta for quite some time; to my delight, the cockroaches had multiplied prodigiously—which was fine as most of them would likely be exterminated anyway. With a pang of regret for this fact upon my conscience, I prepared Carlotta’s dressing room accordingly, filling her hat-box, her dress, her second-act habit, her powder-jar, the drawer of her dressing-table, her shoes, with the secretive creatures. Carlotta had treated Christine too badly—nay, indeed the entire company—to be spared any unpleasantry, and I knew from prior observation that she was most averse to the presence of even a single cafard.

I had not expected any real consequence in return for this action, I will admit—and I surely wouldn’t have cared, even if I had—except for the fact that it was Christine herself who interrupted me as she sat naked in my lap upon the sofa; I held her bare breasts in my hands, my mouth lavishing each with fervent kisses, as I moved my hips beneath her so as to establish the stimulating rhythm my body yearned for.

‘Erik,’ she put in quietly, in a tone that was less leaden with pleasure than it was with query.

I paused my attentions and looked up at her. ‘Yes, my darling ?’

‘Who is Le Fantôme de l'Opéra ? Is it you ?’

‘Why... yes,’ I replied summarily, returning to her breasts, whereupon my lusty tongue sought out her nipples in turn.

She placed her hands upon either side of my face and forcibly refocused my attention to her eyes.

‘So les cafards in Carlotta’s room earlier this evening. It was... Le Fantôme ? In other words—you ?’

‘I... well... yes. It was.’

‘And before that… the frogs ?’

I smiled pleasantly. ‘Yes. I do so adore frogs ! I was so pleased that no harm came to any of them, Madame Giry was so admirably capable of getting them back into a hamper for me after the fact...’

‘And before that… the rats ?’

‘Mais oui... c'était moi.’

She bit her lower lip before saying anything further. ‘Why ?’

I was astonished by the question. ‘Why ? Isn’t it obvious ?’

‘Well—to the extent that nearly every person under this roof despises her—yes, of course. But why antagonise her in such a… hm, in such a…’ She trailed off, looking up at the ceiling as though the words she sought were hidden in the rafters.

‘In such a thoroughly repulsive way, you mean ?’ I supplied the missing words for her. ‘Because Carlotta deserves it, my dear… she antagonises you, she antagonises everyone ! Now—if she was talented—which she most decidedly is not—it might be forgiven. But she’s a hack. An offensive hack, who cannot sing, who is rude and demeaning and who refuses to acknowledge the humanity of a single other person in the company. That, to me, justifies my actions. And I am only fulfilling the secret wishes of the others as well… they simply lack my resources and ability to carry out a plan. But had they my means—they would do as I do; I know they would.’

She appeared to consider my explanation as I uncomfortably shifted my hips beneath her legs; I had been straining inside my drawers—but the sudden topic of Carlotta had dampened my ardour considerably.

‘And Nadir Khan ?’ she then asked; this was a much more welcome discussion, but it still wasn’t one which was going to impact my arousal in a positive way.

‘Ah ! Did you meet Nadir while I was away ?’

‘I did. He startled me on the far bank of the lake one afternoon—I hadn’t known of him before.’

‘Oh—I do apologise for that oversight, my dear. It had occurred to me that he might not be able to visit, and therefore it might fill you with expectation to receive someone who would never arrive.’

‘Yes—I considered that possibility. It seems I was correct.’

‘Ahh ! Because you’re clever and sensible, my Christine—merely two of the qualities I so admire in you. Among others, two more of which—’ I lowered my worshipful gaze to her breasts once more; the flaccid traitor beneath my wife twitched in hope, but she grasped my chin gently and raised it so I would continue to look into her deep blue eyes.

‘Erik… I simply wish you had told me of these things. I would like to have known it was you who was wreaking havoc upon Carlotta. I can appreciate that you have the company’s support—Meg was certainly tickled pink by the roaches tonight—or, well, perhaps not by the roaches themselves but in how well you did what you did with them. And to think she's been talking about ‘The Phantom’ ever since I've known her, yet I simply just didn't believe any of it. I thought it was just people being silly and foolish. Only now to find out that not only are the rumours about him true—but I'm even married to him ! And, I would very much have liked to know about Monsieur Khan ! He seems like such a nice gentleman. He said he took you to Persia… that you worked for the Shah… I didn’t know anything about any of this ! I hope you will tell me the story, Erik, because I would love to know anything and everything which you have accomplished in the past. It’s just that… I should have preferred to learn all of this from you.’

I sighed heavily. ‘Oh, Christine… those days with Nadir were—both heady and horrific. And there is much which occurred during those years that I would rather forget.’

‘But he said you—that you built a palace !’

‘Yes… that is true. I am an architect, as well as a composer and an organist and your voice tutor. Is there anything else you would like to know ?’

‘Everything, Erik… I would like to know everything. The sum total of your experience. The full gamut of your expertise.’

‘Very well, my dear…’ I drew a deep breath, let my head fall back upon the sofa, closed my eyes, and I began to enumerate. ‘Beyond those things, I am an artist, a draughtsman, a stonemason and an engineer. I built this opera house for Charles Garnier—did you know that, Christine ?’ I asked, raising my head and looking at her again. ‘I was his chief contractor and directed many teams of ironworkers, masons, and artisans to bring this place to fruition. We collaborated on many of the designs. The only mistake made during the entire construction was the reversal of les salons… the artists somehow mixed up our thematic draught sketches, and by the time I realised it, it was too late; the gold and silver leafing had already been done, the overlay painting begun, and the mirrors installed. I took responsibility for the error—I was busy supervising the assembly and mounting of the grand chandelier in the amphitheatre at the time the salon work was being done…but Charles was too good of a man, too generous of spirit and sound in character to blame me. He just shrugged, and told me, “Well, Erik… these things do sometimes happen.”’

Her eyes were wide with—what… amazement ? Disbelief ? In any case… it didn’t matter; this was only the tip of the iceberg. So I sighed once more, and continued.

‘For many years—before Garnier won the competition which resulted in this marvellous edifice under which we now sit—I was a magician and ventriloquist of considerable skill. As I once told you, I was forced to perform in gypsy camps and I honed these skills during those years.’

She placed her palm upon my heart.

‘And so... that's why everyone believes you're le Fantôme... because you must be a phantom, with abilities like that... and that's how you have all these secret entrances, and trap-doors, and...’

‘Exactly, my dear. It is, perhaps, the one job which so perfectly brings together all of my extraordinary and singular talents. And I am able to thus protect myself, in the guise of this Fantôme.’

She said nothing in response, and voiced no judgement; I loved her for that.

‘During and after that time, I learned to speak seven different languages, and I dabbled in seven more beyond those. I travelled over three continents. I learned the medicinal properties of many plants over those areas, and I became a shaman, a healer, a philosopher, an aesthete… and, eventually, a lover—yours, Christine—yet I have been a sideshow attraction, a freak, and a slave.’

Her eyes, as they looked at mine, clouded with tears—or were they mine ? For now I had to admit to her the absolute worst of it.

‘In addition to all these things, my dear, I have been a murderer—I was once an executioner—through circumstances which were beyond my control. The first times I killed, it was in self-defence—this face has never won me any favour with the human race—but once I arrived in Persia, it eventually was made clear that my life would be forfeit unless I would kill so as to humour and entertain the cruel Princess. So, yet again, I was simply a performing monkey… albeit a perversely gifted one, and I was no longer imprisoned in a cage with bars—but I was nonetheless clanging my little brass cymbals to please an audience at the expense of my own integrity.

‘Now, in exchange for this ultimate sacrifice, I had great wealth bestown upon me—yes, my dear, your husband is richer than any noble in all Île de France. But it came at a terrible cost, Christine—I don’t deny it ruptured my soul, perhaps even beyond repair. And I vouchsafe to you : this is why I live in such solitude. I have no desire to take life, my darling—I never did. I would prefer that it had not been my lot in life to perform such cruelties, again and again. But it is no use longing to change the past—this I have learned in fifty years of life in a terrible and cruel world.’

‘So… how did you manage to leave Persia, trapped in such an existence ?’

‘Well… at last, I could stand no more of it. The palace was completed, whereupon my rôle as advisor to the Shah-en-Shah was clearly at its end as well; there was intrigue afoot to bring about his death so that another member of the family would take his position who had other political interests and ambitions. Nadir was sent to arrest me, to ensure I was garrotted as I had garrotted so many others—but in the end, we elected to escape together.’

‘So Nadir… saved your life ?’ she asked meekly.

I rolled my shoulders in uncertainty. ’In a manner of speaking. The Persian Empire has many enemies—and we had to pass over Arab lands, into Egypt, to reach Alexandria and cross the Mediterranean in order to return to France. Along the way we were waylaid by Sardinian brigands. And when we at last set foot on French soil, Nadir was subject to persecution simply for the colour of his skin—a condition about which he could do nothing… a feeling I know well. So, yes… he saved my life in Persia. But I saved his many times over en route to Paris. He believes I saved him twice; but it was, more truthfully, about five times. I will never reveal to him the extent of how many times he was actually endangered. He is already familiar enough with the fact that either of us even still draws breath is a marvel, and it is something we occasionally muse over during our games of chess.’

Christine placed her elbow upon her hipbone, and her chin in her palm. ‘And after that you met Garnier ? And built the Opéra ?’

‘Yes.’ I paused—then placed the fingers of my left hand upon her bare shoulder. ‘It is important to me that you know that did not mention any of this to you, my darling wife, because I long to spare you the pain of my experience. If my seeming reticence offended you—if it caused you to feel I was hiding things from you—then I apologise with all that is left of my heart and soul. I would rather perish than ever upset you, or cause you any grief or harm.’

‘Oh, Erik !’ she said, her eyes brimming over with tears, ‘you poor… and dear… brilliant… strange… dark… fascinating man. I simply can’t imagine the pain you have known over all these years.’ She sobbed quietly—and tears spilled down my own cheeks as well.

Then she again spoke. ‘I love you more than I could ever say.’

Her face moved close to mine, her hands laid upon my jaw, and she kissed me passionately.

‘Christine…’ I gasped; our kiss deepened and I tasted the salt from our combined tears. Had I really just admitted my most potent failings to her, my gravest sins and most bitter liabilities—and her response was that she loved me ?

I pulled her away, just enough to look her in the eyes again. She must be a saint—in the truest sense of the word.

‘My Erik,’ she murmured, wiping tears from my face with gentle fingers and kissing both the damned and divine sides of my face. ‘My darling… my Angel. My Angel of Music.’

The lust had gone out of me. I stood up with her in my arms, and carried her to bed, where we simply lay close to one another for a very long time. I knew by the striking of the clock that it was the early hours of morning; beneath our feathered quilts, she slowly ran her hand down my chest and abdomen, stroking me tenderly. Grasping her shoulders, I pulled her close against my body and held onto her as though my life depended upon it.

The love we made that night was pure reverence on my part—an expression of my sincerest gratitude for the perfect and goodly woman who had married me. I would worship the very ground she walked upon for as long as I had breath in my body.

The next day, she showed me the invitation to the bal-masqué which she had received; there was traditionally one every year, and while I had observed most of them from my secret places in the building, I had never attended personally. Christine, however, wanted to know if I would escort her, and of course I could deny her nothing.

The masquerade would take place in three months; my business outside town would not require my presence again until just around that time, and this otherwise blank span of weeks seemed to me an excellent opportunity to accomplish three goals : to hatch my next plan for Carlotta, to create the most sensational bal-masqué costume ever seen, and to complete my opera, Don Juan Triumphant, at last.

The plan for Carlotta was undemanding and required little of me—thus I spent much of my time in the ensuing days, during Christine’s forays to either rehearsals or performances, sewing like hell’s own demon tailor. And, I composed with a mad fury which was intense and overwhelming; I poured all the passion and desire which I felt for Christine into the musical expression of such. It was profoundly shocking and provocative, sensuous and seductive. It would be unlike anything the opera-goers of Paris had ever seen !

It never failed that, when she came home on the nights I’d been possessed by the spirit of Don Juan, my need to possess Christine’s body was so great as to be insatiable. A truly unbelievable number of desperate trysts passed between us as a result… I bent her over the sofa, taking her from behind; I pulled her atop my lap in my fireside chair of black watered silk, either facing me or facing away—it mattered not, so long as I was deep inside her; upon our knees, I sprawled over her on the plush Persian carpet, fucking her on the floor like an animal—sometimes twice a day—sometimes, thrice ! I fucked her upon my bureau after I had uncaringly shoved its stamped leather surface clear of anything, even bottles of ink; we fucked upon the kitchen table, the force of our rhythm making a permanent mark against the wallboards; we fucked in the perfect darkness of the labyrinthine underground halls which ran hither and yon, her back pressed against the stone and my hands supporting her while I cleaved her body again and again with the totality of my immense hardness.

God, how much I wanted her ! And I simply could not get enough !

Normally, I maintained a perfect mental record of where, how, and when, as well as the frequency of our sexual liaisons in a given day—but this three-month period was so rife with wanton ardour, that I was aghast to discover I’d lost count; our sex was so plentiful that it was all running together in my mind !

Thus, I shouldn’t have been surprised when Christine told me, in early June, that she was with child.

Alas ! We were going to be parents… my wife would bear the fruit of our love !

Would only that our child be spared the curse which I had borne my life long !

A week before the bal-masqué, I finally completed the manuscript of Don Juan Triumphant, and put the finishing touches on my costume—it was a rich and elaborate affair; I wasn’t a man accustomed to taking half-measures in anything I did, after all. I’d also made a shockingly realistic new mask… I already wore a mask every day so as to render an intolerable face to be more refined, more beautiful, more statuesque—hence I had now done precisely the opposite : crafted a mask to be even more fearsome and hideous than I already was ! It was still stately and magisterial, of course—I wasn’t about to sacrifice my standards; but if anyone could pull off something gruesome with flair, it was I—the Phantom of the Opera !

I securely hid away both my costume, its accoutrements, and the large leather folio containing the manuscript of my opera—and, considering her now considerably delicate condition, took Christine to stay under Nadir’s watchful eye as I needed once again leave town and tend to more important business downriver.

Reclining upon the narrow berth in my steamship cabin as we noisily made our way down the Seine, I reflected upon the timing of everything; I would be absent four days this time, and the bal-masqué would take place upon my return—whereupon the season would end and there would be a brief summer break for the entire company before six weeks of rehearsals and preparations for the new season would begin. I still had much work before me—but so far, everything was going perfectly, according to plan : as of now, Don Juan Triumphant would be the première opera of the season—despite the fact that I had not even yet made MM Richard and Moncharmin aware of this intention, I would ensure it came to pass; Christine would play the pivotal rôle of Aminta, and then after the première… well, I had further plans.

The night of the bal-masqué arrived; I had sent a letter to Paris ahead of my arrival telling Christine to ready herself in advance of my return home and to attend with Meg until I could arrive at the ball—disguised, of course—and find her; despite not having seen each other’s costumes, I assured her that I would know her and that she would certainly know me.

Purposely arriving home late so that she would have already left for the evening, I made my toilette, then donned my magnificent and violently red costume. I didn’t know if anyone in the crowd would appreciate the literary reference veiled therein—knowing the average intelligence of the typical opera-goer and, beyond that, the typical party-goer, chances were slim—but I was long accustomed to throwing pearls before swine in that regard, so I simply topped my tailored vêtements with my new mask, a fantastical cape, a resplendent plumed hat, and a forbidding staff. I picked up the leather folio which contained my manuscript of Don Juan, and made my way upstairs, hoping Christine would tire quickly and agree to come home with me before long. I used my secret passage to Box N° 5 in order to enter unexpectedly from the top of the grand escalier—it had been my full intention to show up fashionably late, once the ball was already well underway.

Indeed, countless denizens of the opera house were mingling, dancing, and conversing over the music of a chamber ensemble which sat to one side of the base of the sweeping grand escalier, playing a suite—which I recognised instantly—of George Frideric Handel. Moncharmin and Richard were animatedly receiving guests at the other side of the stairs—and there, standing beneath a bronze sculpture of nymphs holding four candelabra aloft, I instantly recognised Christine, her hair up in a bouffant, wearing a black domino mask and swathed in a most charming and voluminous tulle dress; there appeared to be many long, shining ropes of silver hanging from her waist. She looked all round the floor expectantly, clearly waiting for someone. The darling child was searching for me ! Well, she—and everyone else—would notice me soon enough !

Before I began to descend the steps, I banged my skull-crowned staff three times upon the marble beneath my feet; the sound rang out loudly throughout the hall—and both music and conversation died away to the silence of the grave. At some point Moncharmin and Richard realised everyone’s eyes were fixed upon a point behind them; they slowly turned round and choked on their champagne in shock.

La Mort Rouge was coming for them !

In the meantime, an awareness of the situation had also dawned upon Christine, who had also been facing away; as I reached the landing in front of the statue-flanked passage to les baignoires, I saw her staring up at me along with everyone else. Despite her domino, the look upon her face was a visible and gratifying blend of shock and pride—her husband had made quite an entrance, indeed !

‘Why so silent ?’ I called out to the room in a mocking tone. ‘This is a fête, is it not ? I haven’t come to spoil anyone’s amusement,’ I said with the air of Mephistopheles as I looked around theatrically. ‘You may all return to your merriment ! All, except—’ I raised a finger and pointed down the stairs, ‘Messieurs Richard et Moncharmin !’

A murmur instantly sounded through the watching crowd, which quickly died back down to silence; no-one yet desired to return to their revelry—they were more interested in overhearing the coming conversation; simultaneously, the managers panicked like the bumbling fools they were. Richard made to flee as I continued my descent towards them, but Moncharmin grabbed Richard’s costume hastily by its satin capelet and hoisted him backwards so as not to be left alone.

‘My good messieurs,’ I announced, ‘I have come bearing a gift… I have written you an opera ! ’

I tossed the folio in my arms down to Moncharmin; he just barely caught it before it could fall to the floor. In his curiosity Richard lost a bit of his timidity, and the two of them pawed at the cover excitedly.

‘Don Juan Triumphant ! ’ exclaimed Moncharmin. Clearly, he was the intellectual giant of the pair.

‘How well you read,’ I answered dryly, placing my gloved hand upon my hip as I struck a confident pose, my splendid guise as Red Death filling me with an actor’s power of belief in one’s own bullshit. ‘I expect you to stage it as the first opera of the season. It will be unlike anything else you have ever presented; I assure you that it shall create the lurid spectacle you desire to sell out the entire house. Just think of it, gentlemen—standing room only ! ’

Moncharmin paged rapidly through the work, his mouth agape. ‘This libretto is… shockingly licentious !’

Murmurs of astonishment and certain interest rose up from the attentive crowd.

‘It is, indeed, Moncharmin—why would you expect anything less ? This is an opera about the world’s most prolifically amorous man !’ I laughed, thoroughly amused. ‘If after tonight you have any questions for the composer—I will be available for consultation by mail as usual. Now… enough business; this is meant to be an evening of celebration—frivolity—debauchery ! Let us drink—let us dance—let us enjoy the evening ! And messieurs, a thousand pardons if I’m wrong, but I would wager these men are being paid to provide music, not silence !’ I gestured to the mute chamber ensemble with my staff, striking it once more upon the steps to punctuate my sentiment.

Laughter and cheers erupted throughout the room as Moncharmin elbowed Richard, who still looked upon my score in rapt amazement; together they scowled at the instrumentalists across the floor. As if by magic, the harpsichordist snapped to, and with a lovely baroque arpeggiation, the ensemble began with the section at which point the music had evaporated; the Handel suite was resumed, the gentle roar of conversation returned, and I descended the last few steps—heading straight for Christine.

Now that I stood before her, I saw that it was not dozens of ropes, but in fact small decorative chains which glittered upon her skirt, hanging over the tulle—what curious ornamentation !

‘Madame,’ I said smoothly, holding my hand out for her to take, ‘… your chains are mine !’

She took my hand with an incandescent smile—and with that, I whisked her up a smaller set of marble steps, out of the room, and down the avant-foyer.

‘My god, Erik… you’re absolutely stunning,’ she enthused as we passed into the silvery and shimmering salon de la lune. ‘Is this why you wouldn’t let me see your costume—so you could thrill everyone who saw you enter, myself included ?’

As we passed by the doors of the smoking gallery—which some idiot had unthinkingly left open—I pushed them closed using the end of my staff, then whipped my cape behind one shoulder and encircled my arm around Christine’s waist.

‘I can’t deny the showmanship which I’ve learned to cultivate over many years, my darling,’ I purred, my lips upon the soft curves of her right ear.

‘It looks like you even darkened your eyes with kohl, behind your death’s head mask.’

‘I did indeed.’

‘It’s so attractive. And those red velvet breeches are… extremely fetching. Good lord, they’re tight !’ Her eyes raked all the way down my body; it had the intense effect of swelling my head more than I care to admit. ‘And you know how much I love you in a plumed hat… but you’ve really outdone yourself with this one. Erik… you’re utterly magnificent !’

I chuckled with glee. ’Does Red Death need to snatch you away into a closet and thrust his head up beneath that fascinating skirt of yours, Christine ? And, upon that point—what precisely are you supposed to be, anyway ?’

‘I am yours, Erik, to do with whatever you will tonight.’

‘Don’t tease your lover unduly, my dear… you know as well as I do that the nearest closet is in the rotonde du glacier… and these breeches are far too close-fitting to keep the extent of my excitement for you a secret from anyone.’

She emitted a luxurious laugh. ’Oh, dance with me, first, Erik… we’ve never danced together ! And this is our first masquerade ball ! How I have longed for this night, my darling !’

And so I proceeded into the grand foyer with my lovely wife upon my arm. How could I refuse her ?

This room seemed undisturbed by the events upon the stair; there was another ensemble in the corner by the enormous marbled mantel at the far end of the room, playing a lively courante; I took Christine into my embrace as we joined the cluster of dancing couples. She was such a capable dancer, and we moved easily together. Why had we never done this before ?

As we passed one of the tall, wide mirrors which graced the wall of this impossibly luxe and golden hall, I saw that, together, we made a striking sight.

‘Really, my love,’ I asked again, ‘what is your costume ?’

Blushing, she smiled shyly, the pink colour coming to her cheeks in a way that let me know she was slightly embarrassed.

’Well, the fact is, I found all the decorations in a box stowed on a corner shelf of the sewing room—and the wardrobe mistress said I could have them. So… I polished them, and used them as trim. It seemed suitably theatrical for a masquerade.’

‘Ahh, my sweet Christine… how wonderfully resourceful you are ! But why did you not tell me you needed supplies ? You know I would have gotten you anything you wanted. I now almost feel ashamed, considering how much I lavished upon my own creation.’

‘No, dear, don’t feel badly—I know you would have bought me anything—but it was Meg’s plan for us to make our dresses this way—you know les Giry don’t have much by way of money. And anyway, it was all meant to be a surprise. After all, you were keeping your costume secret, too.’

‘Well, it’s lovely, my sweet. You’re lovely.’

The music slowed to a sarabande, and we altered the speed of our dance accordingly; during the transition a passing couple stopped near us and the woman, dressed in deep black and feathers, touched me upon the shoulder.

‘Je suis la Mort rouge qui passe !’ she said, quoting the back of my cape. ‘I know I shouldn’t touch, but I can’t resist ! Brilliant costume, monsieur ! We love Poe’s work !’

Literate party-goers ? I was impressed. ‘Ah, but of course. And you are The Raven !’

‘I am indeed ! And my husband is dressed as Montresor from the Cask of Amontillado !’

The man laughed and pointed at Christine. ‘Good god, and you must be Fortunato in the cellar, wearing those chains ! All you lack is your bottle of wine !’

Christine looked surprised and glanced at me; I resolved at that moment to give her my volume of Poe’s stories to read.

The couple laughed good-naturedly and bid us good evening. I clutched Christine even more tightly… I had just been treated as a normal man by normal people ! With my wife ! At a party ! Despite my usual antipathy for such things, a sense of pride filled my chest.

‘Who is Fortunato ?’ she asked as we danced slowly to the sarabande.

‘He’s a Venetian character in a story by an American writer—Edgar Allan Poe. I will show you where I keep the book in the library, darling. That gentleman was correct—you could be dressed as Fortunato !’

‘Oh, how wonderful ! And I didn’t even know !’

‘He ends up chained in a cellar by a murderer—well, by that fellow.’

‘Oh, how ghastly !’

‘It’s excellent writing, my darling—you’ll love it. I should have given it to you to read at Nadir’s while I was gone—how shortsighted of me ! And speaking of Nadir—how was your time staying with him ?’

‘It was fine—he ensured that I was quite comfortable. Nadir is such a kind man. And his home is so beautiful !… he tried to teach me how to play chess.’

‘Did he really ? And how did you fare ?’

‘I lost every game.’

I laughed. ‘Well now ! He must enjoy that dynamic… it’s rather opposite his usual custom !’

Christine smiled at my jest. ‘Yes… he told me that you always win your matches.’

The music then vaulted into another dance, and I gavotted us through the throng of dancers until we reached the end of the room, then diverted our path through the entrance; now we stood beneath the brilliantly shimmering golden ceiling of the salon du soleil.

‘And did you feel well during the entirety of my absence,’ I asked as we paused to catch our breath, ‘with your—condition ?’

‘Yes, but to be honest I’m still not feeling much difference yet,’ she said. ‘Some nausea in the mornings—but it’s very slight.’

‘Have you spoken to Madame Giry yet ? Or La Sorelli ?’

‘Well—no; since I didn’t have a dancing rôle in our last production, I didn’t say anything to her yet. And I’ll wait to tell Madame Giry and Meg.’

‘Remember, my dear, you need women in your life whom who can trust at this time,’ I told her as we headed down the long galerie de glacier. ‘This is not something I can provide any guidance in—and your health is a great concern to me.’

‘Yes, darling—I know. And I will, for I believe les Giry are quite trustworthy. Speaking of them… I wonder where Meg is ? I haven’t seen her since we separated after arriving together…’

Subsequently we entered the rotonde du glacier, an airy, Asian-themed space with a lovely painted ceiling and impressive chandelier; there was yet another small chamber ensemble in this room—but an unusual one : harpsichord, violin, cello, bassoon and clarinet. This group was possibly the best of them all, and it showed, for the room was crowded with people chatting loudly in the way they do when they drink heavily—with much arm-waving, boisterous laughter, and oblivious pirouetting around while telling nonlinear stories as those listening shrieked with drunken mirth.

‘I’m thirsty, Erik,’ Christine said, clutching at my elbow.

‘Alright, my dear—I’ll get us something to drink.’

The bar which had been set up by the windows proffered beer, wine, and champagne; a bucket of water from the nearest fountain down the road was available—but who knew the state it was in ? A chill passed over me as I recalled the horrific events of a fateful bal-masqué nearly half a century ago, during which a dozen dancers dropped dead of cholera—that dreaded and virulent epidemic of my youth. Thus I chose champagne, and obtained for us two glasses.

Turning back around to rejoin her, I was met with a vision of two figures now standing beside her—one was Meg Giry, wearing a simple dress ostentatiously decorated with what I recognised as bits of trim, braid, and tassels from curtains; the other was that soft-looking boy, wearing no costume at all but instead dressed as usual in his naval uniform. Had the man no imagination as well as no personality ? And what was Meg doing in the company of such a twerp ? Alas, just one glance told me the entire story : despite her feathered domino, it was clear that Meg was besotted with the asinine creature. In seven strides I came up alongside them, staring inhospitably at his stupidly-moustachioed face all the while I approached. Why, he looked like...... ! Oh, I was going to have fun with this.

Handing one goblet to Christine, the boy and Meg both turned towards me. Meg’s face blanched, her brown eyes wide, while the boy drew himself up to his full height—a laughably pointless exercise, for I was much taller than he ! The graceful bloodred plumes upon my tremendous and rakish hat, only amplified the degree of my menace; it was then I saw he was—to some extent, at least—reasonable, for there was now fear in his eyes. I continued to stare him down, refusing to break eye contact. At last, his gaze faltered and he looked everywhere but at my terrifying skull-like mask.

‘Good evening,’ I said in my most hypnotic tone. ‘I see you’re fraternising with the lovely Daaé.’

Christine made introductions with charm and aplomb. ‘Yes, darling; this is Meg Giry—you know all about Meg.’

‘I do indeed,’ I said, taking the girl’s hand and bowing lightly. ‘Such a charming young lady, and a talented danseuse. I am pleased to make your acquaintance, Mademoiselle Giry. Your costume is exceedingly clever.’

Her large eyes continued to drink me in. ‘Merci, monsieur,’ she uttered shyly. ‘I'm a stage-curtain !’

‘Yes—I can tell ! And your companion here,’ I responded, indicating the boy by turning towards him, ‘I've never before seen a ballerina attempt to dress as a man. The costume is very good... and the attitude is almost convincing. But I would never believe for a moment that you were actually a man, mademoiselle.’

‘And this,’ Christine quickly put in awkwardly, gesturing towards him, ‘is Monsieur Raoul de Chagny. We knew each other as children in Perros-Guirec. Raoul—my husband.’

Of course I had known he was a boy; my comment had been intentionally insulting, and simply disguised as ignorance; I had instantly disliked him !

But the boy—stunned by Christine’s revelation, following so quickly on the heels of my disparaging comment—began to gabble.

‘You’re—you’re married ? Why, I—I didn’t realise—’

‘Yes,’ I boomed possessively, ‘that much is quite clear.’

‘Ah…’ he said in the manner of one who is soon to suffocate. ‘Christine… dear old friend… I suppose… congratulations…’

The young Mlle Giry cut him off in the midst of his awkward and insincere sentiment. ‘Why, Christine—I had no idea you had married ! Why didn’t you tell me ? Oh, and Raoul said he would dance with me tonight !’

Christine smiled at her friend. ‘It’s nothing personal, my dear Meg—we simply haven’t advertised it, for I prefer to maintain that appearance in my public persona. And yes—Raoul should dance with you !’ She then looked at the insignificant and pathetic simpleton of a man before her. ‘You know, Raoul—Meg is the best dancer in the entire company. And I suppose that explains why you’re here… it hadn’t occurred to me that you might attend the ball.’

The boy’s face was seized by another spasm of strange emotional turmoil beneath the mask he wore—that of his own thin-lipped human face—and he laughed… a disturbing laugh, which didn’t at all match the expression in his eyes. What was wrong with this idiot? My insides began to squirm; I really did not wish to strangle him in the midst of all these people—but I was beginning to wonder if there was any other possible outcome to the situation.

‘Well, of course I’m here… I’m a patron !’ he said curtly, before abruptly turning to Meg. ‘Shall we, Mademoiselle Giry ?’

The smile upon Meg’s face betrayed her joy as she nodded her assent and instantly turned towards the crowd of dancers; he moved to follow but I brusquely seized his left epaulet—making sure, as I did so, that he was quite uncomfortable.

‘I trust you have the sense never to offend a man who could twist your head off its neck so fast that you’d be watching your own body fall to the ground. I have killed many a man for less. Although... this would be the first time that I'd ever killed a boy.’

Then I abruptly released him with a tiny but forceful push towards the dancers, which sent him staggering away; just a moment afterwards, Meg turned beneath the impressive chandelier which hung in the centre of the rotonde as he haltingly stepped towards her, looking somewhat sick. He grabbed her for support and she sagged just a bit in response; I could tell his knees were shaking, and she wasn’t accustomed to a dance partner who couldn’t hold his own !

God, what a distinctly morose and unimpressive thing he was ! I shook my head in distaste. I would have to have a talk with Meg’s mother about this ! And I would clearly have to start leaving the woman more money as well… the thought of the girls scraping through a remainders basket in the sewing room was unconscionable to me; I had failed them ! But I would not fail Meg in this capacity now… she needed to meet a real man—then her silly schoolgirl sentiments for this fop would evaporate.

As the mismatched pair began to dance—or should I say, Meg danced, while he lumbered—to the gigue which the quintet played, I looked at Christine, who had also apparently been watching them; her appraising look readily informed me that she, too, found much to be desired about the situation. But I completely forgot about them as my gaze took her in anew; I let my eyes trail down the low front of her bodice, mentally undressing her with my eyes and wishing we were many levels below in our domain of the cellars.

Apart from this, I did want to leave. For despite my absorption in my wife, the environment of the masquerade was already grating upon me; everything I despised about people had found a way to rise up and remind me why I live in such comparative isolation—most notably, the lack of restraint which the free-flowing liquor and revelry induced in les fêtards. Additionally, the stench in the room had reached a level which was simply unbearable; one wouldn’t think that in such a day and age, in which newly-installed sewer systems were finally making our city a less putrid place than ever before, that such upper-crust patrons would stink to high heaven as they did. It seemed as though bathing was still somehow overrated amongst these bourgeois and nouveau-riche…their pathetic attempts to cover such rankness with vast clouds of cologne, made for an appalling olfactory experience.

Suddenly Christine’s lips were upon my ear. ‘Let’s get the hell out of here, Erik… I want to go home.’

‘My sentiments exactly, darling,’ I agreed happily.

She downed what was left of her champagne, and setting our goblets upon a side-table, we quickly turned and exited the room; passing through a small colonnade, we entered a wooden set of doors into a storeroom to which I possessed the key. No-one seemed to notice us ducking out of sight as I closed the door behind us; I directed Christine to a wall-panel in the corner which concealed a hidden staircase within. We could descend to a dark corner of the third cellar, and take our usual route home.

‘You seem to have no end of secret trap-doors in this place, Erik !’

‘Yes… it was my plan when Garnier and I were building it.’

‘So does that mean Garnier knows about the trap-doors as well ?’

‘No—he does not.’

‘They’re your secrets alone, then ?’

‘Well… the Communards found a few of them. But they’re all dead now.’

‘Something else I wonder,’ Christine continued, ignoring my morbid comment. ‘How is it that you caused such a sensation upon entering the ball—yet we left without attracting anyone’s notice at all ?’

I laughed jovially. ‘Ahh, my darling… I am a master magician, am I not ?’

Chapter Text

Chapitre XIII - ‘Souhaite-toi remettre le recouvert, ma chérie ?’ (Don Juan Triomphant)

Having made our escape at last from the increasingly drunken and malodorous fête above, it was with a sense of considerable self-satisfaction that I punted my wife and myself across the lake in the darkness deep beneath the opera house.

‘I’m a bit disappointed to find that Moncharmin and Richard are even stupider than I had initially surmised,’ I commented airily.

‘How so ?’ Christine asked.

‘Well, I had always written them off as fools. But then it seemed as though, just perhaps, they were actually a bit cannier than Poligny and Debienne. Hélas!… non… just as with all others, their sense of determination only makes them spiteful in the end. Outright criminals like Poligny are frankly easier to deal with, because they have a sense of conscience and they know they’re guilty of wrongdoing. But men like Moncharmin and Richard are far worse than any criminal element, for they are sanctimonious—utterly convinced of their own perfection !’

She rested her hand on the spot just above my knee as I poled us along. ‘Do you think they’ll really perform your opera, darling ?’

‘If they know what’s good for them, they will. And they’ll be giving you the lead rôle to sing as well.’

‘The lead ?!’ she sputtered.

‘Yes, darling—that was by design, I wrote this entire work expressly as a vehicle for you.’

‘But—Erik—I haven’t even heard it ! You haven’t shown me anything from it !’

‘Yes—and this was also by design. It’s important that you not know any of the material in advance when the director makes his dry run through the score with the company.’

‘But… why ?’

‘Because it could sour their willingness to work with either of us, if they thought you were coming down here every night to be ravished by the Phantom of the Opera.’

‘But we’re married ! And surely they don’t really believe you’re Le Fantôme…’

‘Really ? After what you saw tonight ? Christine—I’m not just a master magician—I am an artist... the greatest practitioner of prestidigitation in the world, and they’re all my audience ! They may never realise that they’re merely participating in my stage show ! For my presentation is too all-encompassing for them to even see it for what it is !’

The prow of the boat lightly touched the farther shore, and she offered no argument as I reached out to take her hand and help her up; we stepped onto the bank and began to make our way up the dark path, my eyes fixed fast upon her lovely back and waist and the thin tendrils of hair which had fallen loose and were now trailing down her neck; I raised my hand and lowered the portcullis which guarded our domain, and it rumbled into place.

Scarcely had its iron spikes touched the ground, that I became pointedly aware of my need for both the taste and sensation of Christine’s flesh. I had not seen her in four days—my traveling and business out of town, as well as the mental and physical strain of the social interactions of the bal-masqué, had worn upon me to an intense degree. The only reprieve, the only satisfaction, was that which only mon propre femme could grant.

‘Come here, Christine,’ I said, calling after her as she continued to advance up the path ahead of me.

She turned upon her heel, the many chains draped over her skirts tinkling softly upon the voluminous tulle; her silver boots glimmered in the dim light, and the skin of her bare arms and shoulders emitted an unearthly glow which made her appear positively radiant.

I threw my plumed hat upon the ground and leaned back heavily against the portcullis. Maintaining eye contact with her while I did so, I removed my papier-mâché skull’s mask from my face and threw it carelessly towards my hat. I extended my arms to either side and propped my elbows upon the grid-work behind me.

‘My Christine… I may be the world’s greatest magician, but you exert a power over me which is truly magical.’

Her expression took on a quality I find difficult to describe in any coherent manner. She bit one side of her lip—god, it drove me out of my mind when she did that—and she took first one slow, coquettish step, and then another, back down the path towards me, her gaze never leaving my eyes.

‘Is it a magic trick that makes your eyes glow even more brightly than usual ?’ she asked playfully, ‘or is it all that kohl you used ?’

‘That’s not the effect of kohl, my dear… that’s the desire you spark within me, burning hotter than ever before. That’s your magic.’

She stepped even closer to me, sensuously moving my hat aside with the pointed toe of her boot and looking at me from beneath her eyelashes.

‘You really took my breath away tonight, Erik—coming down the stairs as La Mort Rouge. You certainly know how to command an audience.’

I pulled one arm away from the portcullis and unbuckled the clasp of my marvellously ornamented cape; I dropped it behind me uncaringly while my eyes bore into hers, willing her to feel the extent of my need for her, as well as the significant strain it was creating inside my ridiculously tight red velvet breeches. I gripped the nearest iron bar I could find and inhaled fully.

‘That may be so… but you command me, Christine.’

She took one final step forward, coming to rest just short of our bodies touching; as she looked up at me, her nose grazed my chin, and the sound of her breathing filled my ears.

‘Then what should I command you to do ?’ she asked softly.

‘Whatever you want me to do. Just say it… and I shall do it, my dear.’

Her eyes lowered to my lips and then I felt her hand between my legs—dragging up, up, over the velvet all the way to the waistband, up my ruffled shirtfront beneath my open doublet; the riveted grating behind me groaned in response to my body’s involuntary twitch at the sensation of her touch. As she reached my sternum I suddenly felt her other hand repeat the same motion; her first hand left my adam’s apple and it returned to my crotch, slowly and heavily moving up the front seam. God, I was so hard for her… and god, how unbearable my breeches had become ! I hadn’t designed them roomily enough for such exploits—that much was abundantly clear !

‘Erik…’ she whispered.

‘Christine,’ I gasped, opening my eyes and straining to focus. ‘I need you badly. I need you now.’

‘Hold on tight to those bars,’ she whispered, her mouth open and her teeth exposed, her hands now dragging heavily down my clothes until she reached the row of brass buttons on either side which held my breeches closed. The strain under them was such that each released with an audible ‘pop’ as her thumbs coaxed them free, one by one.

‘I missed you so much while you were gone, my darling,’ she sighed. ‘I kept thinking of all the things I wanted you to do to me… and all the things I wanted to do to you.’

At last the final button came loose, and my breeches began to slip down my silk knee-stockings towards my ankles. Christine’s hand then went to the thin linen tie which held my drawers closed and pulled it decisively; I could feel myself spring free, and despite the chill of the air around us I throbbed with heat and anticipation for whatever her next move might be.

So imagine my surprise when I felt her grip the waistband of my drawers… and her entire body slid down the front of me as she pulled them all the way down. My breeches, stockings and drawers all gathered in a heap around my ankles, effectively rooting me to the spot; I clung to the bars behind me—one hand grasping behind my ear, one extended at almost arm’s length—and her face suddenly pressed into me just below my waist, her breath hot upon my groin; I involuntarily backed into the portcullis again, which shuddered under my weight and wrought a terrific metallic noise, as I felt my wife’s mouth suddenly envelop me in a halo of moist warmth. My eyes closed… a voice crying out in abandon resonated throughout the air !

I was helpless, utterly helpless ! I wanted nothing more than to be at this woman’s mercy for the rest of my life.

I glanced down at her and saw she was looking up at me; the sight of my rigid cock disappearing into her mouth as she met my gaze was nearly too much, and I had to close my eyes—but it was a vision I would never forget.

She carefully guided her lips and tongue along the length of me insofar as she could manage—she wrapped one hand around me, the side of her palm pressing into my pelvic bone, as she purred a sound of delicious pleasure which sent my mind and body spinning into a vortex of unparalleled sensation. I called out her name while my head fell back into the space between two bars… how strange it was; I had installed this iron grating for protection, and this was the last thing I’d ever imagined to which it might bear witness. Here I was, resplendent with rich embroidery and yet unmasked and hideous as the night was long, hobbled and hanging on for dear life, while the woman with the world’s most beautiful voice took me deep into her throat… the wildness of the scenario was something even my fertile mind could never have invented.

Before long, however, I knew I was going to come—and I did not want to. No, not yet !… I needed to taste her, I needed to feel her—and I had done neither ! At last I reached down and placed my hand upon her hair.

‘Darling—can you stand ?’ I asked.

She withdrew from me with a loud popping sound and looked up; a silver string of saliva still connected her lips to the head of my cock, reminiscent of the chains which hung around her skirt. My god, I needed her every way I could have her…

I took both her hands in one of my own—I still couldn’t let go my hold upon the portcullis for I was still trapped in the bundle of clothing around my ankles—and drew her to her feet; her hands went around my waist, underneath my doublet, and reached up my back. I began furiously trying to catch the heel of my right shoe upon anything that would hold it; at last I was able to pull my foot free of my trappings and I spread my legs apart as I pulled my wife close to me.

‘It’s my turn now,’ I breathed into her ear, before burying my face between her neck and shoulder, tasting her voraciously and turning us both so that it was her back against the iron latticework. She moaned incessantly as my jaw worked over her clavicle to her throat, hungrily devouring her. In my zest I seized her by the waist in both my hands, and hoisted her several inches off the floor, my mouth never leaving her skin the entire time; her hands grasped my shoulders and I moved to release her—but she descended only an inch or so, and stayed where she was. I realised she must have hooked the heel of her boot into the grating and was standing upon it… well ! How bloody convenient !

I raked up her voluminous tulle skirts in the front and plunged my hands beneath them, pulling at her petticoat and desperately searching out the split in her drawers; I thrust my hips in towards her beneath all that fabric and god, my aim was true ! The crevice of her divine cunt was hot and soaking wet; I pulled one of her legs up by the knee and pressed it against my side as my cock glided into her easily. I plunged in to the hilt and pinned her against the portcullis, which once again shuddered with a tremendous racket. It briefly crossed my mind, which was beyond half-mad with ecstasy, that if I fucked my wife against this massive, creaking iron grate that we would be sure to interrupt even the fête above with its noisome music and intoxicated crowds; perhaps even the entire quartier would be roused by the sound of our lovemaking !

I knew it, but… I simply couldn’t bring myself to give a good goddamn. Not one !

I couldn’t count the number of times in my travelling days in which I’d lodged in cramped, miserable inns with walls as thin as paper and had to endure not just the sound but the physical thud of the headboard in the next room banging against the wall at my back—one particularly athletic couple in Sardinia even brought down a shower of plaster upon my head !

This was my realm of darkness—and so if the portcullis was to be the headboard of the Phantom of the Opera’s boudoir, so be it ! No-one was going to come looking—but if they heard us, well and good ! Listen to the sound of Erik thrusting into his own wife—and learn from it ! Learn to fuck your own wife half so well ! Learn the myriad ways in which pleasure can be given, when your only guiding principle is the degree of your overwhelming love for her ! Oh yes, I was going to fuck my Christine as noisily as I wanted to… and I didn’t give a fuck who knew it !

Holding her waist tightly so she was more or less fixed in place, I rammed back into her and another mighty metallic groan rent the air around us as the grating shuddered under our combined weight; it only just had time to stop before it happened again, as I quickly attained the rhythm I desired.

I closed my mouth over hers briefly in a burning kiss; the sterling sounds issuing from her throat, which were growing ever louder even as the jangling racket multiplied, were so haunting that it made my hair stand on end.

‘Christine…’ I gasped, ‘sing for me !’ as I thrusted into her again, and the gate behind her sagged and screeched.

She emitted a tone of such sonorous perfection, it did nothing but intensify my outrageous passion for her, even amidst the hideous din of metal upon metal.

‘Yes, Christine, Christine !’ I endlessly pummelled my hips into her while she continued to wail in the throes of desire. Her scrabbling hands had pushed the doublet off my shoulders, and I let it fall; her fingers dug into my back, my neck, my hair.

In a burst of rabid desperation I gripped the two iron bars nearest her waist and, anchoring us against them, frantically ground my hips into hers while her leg gripped across my back. All the while, the portcullis rattled fiercely, as though a wild mob was trying to burst through the barricade. That noise was surely fit to rouse the dead !

‘Erik !’ she cried, the utter perfection of her voice embroidering my name as no material ornament could ever manage.

‘Chantes pour moi !’ I bellowed as she erupted in another trill of rapture; I could feel her essence running down my inner thighs; the grating behind us was positively screaming; the whole arrondissement was surely alerted to the location of my domain; god I loved my wife so much, my Christine, my Christine; this cacophonous, delirious clangour, it was music, it was absolute music—et me jouiais, elle a me faire joui !

J’étais completement fou dans les mains de cette femme !

The terrific clatter of god only knows what volume died away; I stood there gasping, Christine hanging heavily against me, exhaling into the crook of my neck, her hands fitfully soothing the back of my hair. My only remaining clothing was my shirt, which hung mostly open, all my pant-legs wound around one ankle, and one shoe; I was covered in perspiration… and it was wonderful.

I leaned in towards her, lifting her by the waist just enough to clear her boot-heel from the iron framework, and set her gently upon her feet. I held her until it was clear she could support herself, and then I began to collect my clothes from the ground around me. I pulled off my one ruined silk knee-stocking and stuffed my right foot into my scarlet shoe without its benefit.

‘Do you think we raised enough racket to bring a mob down after us ?’ I asked her dryly as I heaped my formerly glorious costume into a pile over my arm.

She looked at me with large eyes while she re-ordered her skirts. Damnation, she was fetching !

‘I should certainly hope not. I can’t imagine anything more ghastly than that. A mob !’ She untangled a few of the silver chains which had somehow ended up knotting themselves together. ‘Those people upstairs are all far too befuddled by drink to find their way down here, Erik. And there’s no way they could really hear us…’

‘Well, I’m not so sure, my dear…’

I held out my free hand, which she took in hers, and we began picking our way up along the path towards the house.

‘Perhaps if some very, very fortunate man was standing alone in the bassin de la pythie… he might just have heard the strains of an even more fortunate man—that would be me—making love to the most perfect woman in Europe…’

She erupted into sparkling laughter which suffused the air around us with a shimmering quality. ‘You absolutely don’t mean that.’

I laughed too. ‘Ahh, you’re right… I don’t. But the boulevardiers walking along the Rue Halévy, on the other hand. They’re certain to have been scandalised…’

Her effervescent laughter persisted until we reached our door, just inside which we were met by a very indignant Aaisha, who reminded us in no uncertain terms that she still hadn’t been given supper.

Some time later, after I had changed into my embroidered smoking jacket and we’d had a very light meal, I was relaxing upon a pile of pillows in the reading nook of my bed-chamber smoking a delicately rose-flavoured tobacco in my hookah when Christine quietly entered the room and sat down upon a pillow beside me. Settling at my elbow, she eyed the book I was reading for some minutes before clearing her throat.

‘What language is that ?’

‘Sanskrit.’

‘Where do they speak it ?’

‘Well, formerly, they spoke it in India—but anymore, it’s only a written language. Like Latin.’

‘But we sing in Latin.’

‘Well, yes—but only for poetic or liturgical use. Latin has transformed into a number of other tongues—and we use those instead, hence the parent language has perished. So it is with Sanskrit.’

She was silent for a moment. ‘Erik, dear… can you tell me more about Don Juan Triumphant ?’

Instantly I closed the book and put it down, turning to her and giving her my full attention.

‘What is it that you would like to know, my love ?’

‘Well—tell me about the opera itself. Why were Richard and Moncharmin so shocked when they looked at the libretto ?’

‘Ahh… that is for you to discover when rehearsals begin. Along with the rest of the company.’

‘Is it really that shocking ?’

‘Why, yes—and no.’

‘But it can’t be both !’

‘Ah, but it can, ma chérie—but it can !’

‘Then explain it to me.’

‘Well…’ I placed the hookah’s mouthpiece between my teeth and took in a thoughtful breath; I could see that failing to supply her with an answer she deemed sufficiently informative, was not going to be an option. The bubbling and gurgling of the hookah abated, and I let out a long breath; the scent of rose surrounded us and Christine let out a soft sigh and snuggled a bit more deeply into the pillows—she seemed to find it a pleasing atmosphere.

‘If anyone of experience is honest with oneself,’ I ventured, ‘then one is extraordinarily prescient when it comes to the question of human nature. Therefore—is human nature shocking ? By no means. It is only shocking when viewed through the dark lens of wilful self-deception.’

‘Give me an example.’ She nuzzled her nose against my ear.

I shut my eyes and leaned into the touch; god, how I never tired of the overwhelming sensation of the strangeness of her proximity !

‘An example…’ I was already straining not to lose the course of our conversation; she was much more interesting than anything I could possibly explain to her. ‘Well… all those people who behave as though the expression of love is done only by the exchange of glances and cards. Those things are a part of it, yes—but to rob love of its more deeply gratifying sensual aspect is to lie to oneself.’

‘Ahh,’ Christine sighed into my ear. Was the girl teasing me ?

I flung the mouthpiece upon the ground and quickly inverted my position by rolling over on top of her and propping myself upon my elbows as I looked down into her Prussian blue eyes.

‘Have I not shown you enough of the sensual aspect for one evening, Christine ?’ I playfully pressed my hips down into hers. ‘Souhaite-toi remettre le recouvert, ma chérie ? ’

She grinned at me, and I could feel her fingernails raking up my back through the silk of my dressing-gown.

‘Well… you’re a man of experience. Don’t tell me you’re shocked. Or otherwise I might think you’d been living under the guise of wilful self-deception.’

The child was astutely throwing my own words back in my face ! It was so… unbelievably attractive ! I could feel myself quickly growing between her legs as I looked at her charming smile. I was so taken by her cleverness that I didn’t even respond before she got another one in.

‘My goodness, Erik… I have to admit, that stiff prick of yours doesn’t feel like self-deception to me…’

‘What can I say, my darling… you make me a greedy, greedy man !’

I lowered my head and kissed her deeply. The reciprocity of her tongue set me aflame once more with the heat of the most supreme longing… a longing to express the extent of my feeling for her… for the arousal which she provoked in me was so incredibly strong, so incredibly focussed; had I written Don Juan in terms of brutal honesty, rather than in terms of poetry, this is how it would end… all of Paris would see Don Juan fell prey to Aminta before their very eyes—without even so much as a word !

But, of course, that was the calm before the torrent of our renewed desire; before long we were again fucking unrestrainedly, to the point that I even had to catch the entire hookah when it nearly toppled over. It was my own fault… I had rolled over once more and pulled Christine astride me. Her lounging-robe had fallen open and she’d shrugged it off over my knees so she was completely naked, her every contour and muscle visible to me. She had taken down all but the very front of her hairstyle, and much of it streamed wildly over her shoulders; she was so unashamed in her passion as she bounced on top of me that I pulled my elbows back to sit up and simply watch her for a moment—when I somehow knocked my shoulder into the damned thing and it nearly fell, heavy as it was. And she saw the whole thing happen, even smiled at me when I caught it, all the while continuing to impale herself upon my erection; she didn’t modify her rhythm one bit. What a musician !

At last I could neither endure the strain nor contain myself any longer; my entire body slacked just before release came, and my seed began pulsing up into her with an intensity which was, even for me, rare.

Idly, I wondered if the strength of my expulsion had anything to do with the fact that she was now carrying my child. I frankly knew nothing about such things, so I let the thought drift across my consciousness while powerful waves of strange frisson swept up and down my body, and Christine crumpled, exhausted, upon my chest.

We fell asleep there upon the floor for some period of time, assailed by the acute fatigue of ‘setting the table again’. Ahhh, but what a delicious experience it had been !

It was early August when the company began rehearsing Don Juan Triumphant. The initial rehearsals were an absolute shambles. One might have been forgiven for concluding that no-one in the entire chorus had a sense of pitch—except for Christine, of course, who sang the role of Aminta with her characteristic aplomb, despite the fact that the score was as unknown to her as it was to the rest of them. I had cast Carlotta in a part for which her voice would work to the piece’s advantage—controlling the disaster as best I might—but still her vibrato was like a runaway dogcart that had come off the reigns and left the road entirely. And Piangi had been assigned the lead rôle, laughable though the idea was, of Don Juan. While I had known the part would prove difficult for him—both in terms of physique and the tenor part itself—I had gravely underestimated his diatonic limitations; the man couldn’t have sung a whole-tone scale on pitch under either the threat of death or the promise of dinner—even if it had meant an endless parade of roasted turkeys, honeyed chickens, platters of pasta and bottomless carafes of wine. And the rest of the ensemble, was every bit as bad if not worse.

The conductor, however—good M Lévèsque—was infinitely more patient than I would have been in his place; hidden away in Box N° 5 I sat and observed in a brooding manner as he ran through each song, each part, as well as each orchestral section, again and again, day after gruelling day. It required far greater time in rehearsal than most operas—which was only as I had anticipated—and I was impressed by the number of letters I received from him asking for further instruction in terms of interpretation; I, of course, already knew perfectly well where all the weak points were, so I made continual suggestions as the date of the première loomed nigh.

One night, Christine and I sat in our parlour, my head upon her lap as she blithely combed her fingers through my hair.

‘Your opera is like nothing else I’ve ever heard, Erik dear. The company is finally getting their arms around it—and it’s shaping up so well ! I don’t understand why you only composed it when I was out of the house ! Oh, I would have thrilled to that music, my darling… it reminds me of the first time we were intimate… I heard snatches of it playing in the air between us then, which I recognise now…’

My eyes were closed at the pleasurable sensation of her fingers, which reached all the way to my stockinged feet. Yes… knowing that I could transmit to her whatever music I wanted to call forth, subsequently I had intentionally held back Don Juan, for it would have been too much.

‘It was important that the work be as new to you as it was to everyone else, my love. Otherwise—I surely would have shared it with you.’

‘You’ve scandalised the entire company with the content and the libretto… but yet they seem to lap it up. The other day I overheard Piangi singing snatches of it to Carlotta inside her dressing room.’

‘That’s a seduction I have absolutely no desire to entertain the thought of,’ was my instant reply.

Christine laughed—her silvery, bell-like laugh. ‘Everyone needs love, Erik,’ she gently chastised, ‘even Carlotta and Piangi.’

I had to sit up somewhat so as to prevent myself from vomiting at the very idea of those two using my music as the basis for their nude cavorting—or whatever it was they did. I knew Christine was right, technically speaking, but… no ! They could do as they liked, but I didn’t want to know about it… especially not if my music was involved !

‘Would you mind terribly, my dear, if we changed conversational topic rather promptly ?’

‘Oh ! I was going to say that I love your hair like this, Erik. Are you going to keep it this length ?’

I shrugged, and settled back down against her leg. ‘Oh, I don’t know. Quite possibly. It’s really much easier to maintain this way, and simpler to cut.’

‘You remind me of Franz Liszt with it like this. Only you’re handsomer than he. And I know people say he’s the most outstanding genius at the piano—and I’d love to hear him and decide for myself—but I simply can’t imagine that he has ever been remotely as talented as you.’

Oh, now that made me laugh ! The very idea of me being handsome ! Liszt was not a bad-looking man, either, even in his dotage… and there was no denying his felicity at the keyboard; unlike my young wife, I had seen him play. And while I could absolutely assert that I was far more capable than he—better-looking ? Even if one ignored exactly half my face ? That was the sheerest absurdity, through and through.

But, since my darling Christine had said it, I couldn’t merely reject it as preposterous. So I seized her hand from atop my head, brought her palm down to my lips, and kissed it as thanks for her compliment… after all, hers were the only compliments I ever received.

In the fortnight which remained before my last trip out of the city in advance of opening night, I continued to inhabit Box N° 5 during each truly execrable rehearsal—the dancers all still lumbered forgettably through their movements with dim-witted execution; I felt sympathy indeed for La Sorelli—for as maîtresse de ballet corps, she had her work cut out for her. I also continued to privately tutor Christine in our music room by the lake below-ground; I made an illuminated copy of my own translation of an ancient sacred text from the original Sanskrit; I composed some love poems—doggerel verse which I would never have the courage to read aloud even to my wife; and I read five books covering widely varying philosophical concepts, which I considered how to interpret thematically through the medium of architectural design.

Then I left the city on what I hoped would be my last major sojourn; this time six days passed with her again in the care of Nadir. And then at last, one more trip out of the city accomplished and behind me, September came—and with it, the gala performance of Don Juan Triumphant.

The theatre was packed; everyone who was anyone had heard about the spectacle that was my opera and they all wanted to see it ! Le Petit Journal—but of course—had run a page-two article full of unsubstantiated rumours about the lurid and scandalous nature of my work; there was even a side-column with a silhouette of a man whose dark face was illuminated by a question mark, beneath which they speculated about who the salacious composer could possibly be. Stylistically, every guess was so off the mark that all I could do was shake my head—these people clearly knew nothing about music ! Yet the fact that they were desperate for even further sensationalist aspect, ran a cold shudder down my spine… a cold shudder which, in the past, I had experienced whenever I came face-to-face with the vast depths of selfishness and lack of compassion harboured by certain individuals who, for whatever reason, walk free in our society, and wield an influence.

The first two acts had gone flawlessly—better than I’d anticipated, considering the difficulties I’d witnessed in rehearsal. But, as was often the case, somehow the excitement of opening night managed to unite both company and orchestra in a magnificent pièce de résistance. Even the dancers were giving their all, and so far the reception from the audience had been, if not warmly receptive, at least not heatedly antagonistic; for we composers who veer into the realm of the avant-garde… this is truly the best one can hope for !

I had lurked high above the stage navigating the flies throughout the performance thus far… dodging out of sight whenever a stagehand came my way, but otherwise fully observant of the proceedings below, and pleased with what I saw.

Second intermission came, and ended… and then, at last, the curtain rose upon the Third Act.

Of course, by this point, I had made my way down from the flies and was observing from the deepest shadows of the stage right wings… and no-one, not even Christine, knew that I was there.

At last, Piangi lumbered up and stage right towards Don Juan’s bedchamber, his song and dialogue now residually more effective after constant hours of rehearsal and practise; his thick Italian accent still marked his enunciation—but I didn’t begrudge him that, for even Nadir’s French was coloured by the tongue of his forebears.

I had planned this scene most carefully, so that both the previous exit and subsequent entrance of the ensemble cast would occur stage left—and by my explicit stage directions they were already in place there in the wings, far away from Piangi, awaiting their cues upon the conclusion of the coming duet… Passarino joined their ranks after laughing soullessly with his master, his last action before disappearing from the scene—thus I emerged from my place in the shadows of the wings, moving even closer to the set, though I was of course not so foolish as to betray my presence…

Piangi yanked the boudoir-hangings closed behind him—a simple theatrical conceit for the convenient purpose of donning the long black cloak which disguised his face; at this point he was within arm’s reach of me, but had no idea… just as he heaved the costume over his head, I stepped up behind him, silent as death, and swiftly placed my right hand over his mouth, and my left arm around his neck in a choke-hold.

He struggled haplessly for a moment before I felt his muscles go slack, and I let him fall gently to the mattress, unconscious. I hoped he would stay down for the remainder of the scene—but any greater pressure upon his trachea and he could meet his death, which I had no desire to bring about.

Our only musical cover over this brief struggle, was Christine’s most spellbinding entrance as Aminta.

When she was naked, Christine’s belly was just beginning to visibly round; but we laced her stays just so and subtly raised the waistline of her skirts in such a way that no-one suspected a thing. She had finally taken Meg’s mother into her confidence, who now—in addition to her box-keeping duties—fussed over her like a mother hen whenever she could. It was with these considerations that Christine was discreetly fitted for Aminta’s fetching Spanish costume; so when—after the soaring exposition of the orchestra and chorus, after Don Juan and Passarino had made clear their exploits and intentions—she stepped onto the proscenium, she looked just as lithe and virginal as her character was. I knew—because the bedchamber hangings were translucent; if backlit, the entire house would have seen what I’d done to the tenor. But we were shrouded in darkness, so my view out towards the footlights was unspoiled.

I was about to join my wife upon the stage, in the full sight of all !

I tugged the cloak from Piangi’s prone body and hauled it over myself, quickly situating the hood to conceal my face as I stepped through the seam in the hangings and, duplicating his Italian trills, responded to Passarino’s off-stage cue, and began to sing Don Juan’s part—the commencement of his seduction of Aminta.

Of course, I had never planned on Piangi being the one to serenade Christine in such a manner… it had always been my plan to usurp the rôle—especially this scene, which I had written expressly for myself to sing, as a means to show her the extent of my ardour, the extent to which I was willing to go to declare to her—to the world—that we were past the point of no return ! And I was taunting Fate as well; for despite all the curses it had hurled upon me, despite my hideous visage, despite all the tortures I had sustained, despite every obstacle it had thrown into my path… I prevailed—I won—I married Christine Daaé ! I had touched divinity, I had found passion; I had obtained more than ordinary men, more than beautiful men. The answer lay not in treasures, in possessions, in vanity… the answer lay in love !

I am not quite sure exactly when she realised Piangi was no longer with her—but it didn’t take her long to realise it was me beneath the disguise. And the moment she did, everything changed, utterly and totally : we ceased to be two people playing rôles and instead became two lovers whose palpably intense desire for one another was real. I could see it in Christine’s face; the erotic tone of the song, the suggestive actions between us, were suddenly meaningful. And to my deepest pleasure of all—it seemed to excite her.

The energy between us onstage as we sang to one another was electric. She approached me and then skittered off again; I sat upon the bench at the feasting-table, grinding against the ghost of her body, my hands clutching the air where she might have sat upon my lap, when she suddenly appeared behind me and caressed my body heavily with open palms. It was far more than she had ever done during rehearsals with Piangi !

I sprang up and whirled her around by the wrist, holding her in front of me while I dragged my hands up the lace which covered her thighs, her hips, her stomach, her breasts. The look on Christine’s face was pure ecstasy as I touched her and sang this song of illicit promise and worship which I had written for her.

Holding Christine by the hand, I looked out towards the audience, one glance only—every face was rapt, every eye was glued to the sensuous display between myself and my wife—precisely as I’d intended. The fools !

I looked back at Christine; we moved even closer to each other as the song reached its climax. With me as her partner, the interaction had become rather improvisatory and it was working so well—precisely as I’d intended. She was so incredible!

And then… she grasped the hem of the hood which concealed my face, and flung it back.

Not at all what I’d intended.

I stared at her, bewildered by her action—but she smiled at me, took my hands and laced her fingers into mine. Then she leaned forward and kissed me… Christine Daaé kissed me, in front of hundreds upon hundreds of spectators, my incognito destroyed, my true form seen… and as our lips met several things happened at once.

Someone flung the boudoir-hangings open to reveal the unconscious Piangi laying prone.
Carlotta’s shrill cry rang out, screaming that he was dead.
The orchestra stopped playing.
I heard the voice of that effete boy bellow ‘Shoot him !’ from somewhere in the boxes.

Yet the stunned audience—already so befuddled by what they had already borne witness to and heard all night long—were slow to react; was this all part of the performance ?

Clasping Christine tightly against me, I threw a smoke-bomb upon the boards which exploded instantly; I rushed us to centre stage, triggered a trap-door which sprang open beneath our feet and dumped us onto a pile of sawdust-filled mattresses below. I could hear the shouts of pandemonium beginning to erupt above our heads even as the trap-door mechanism automatically returned to its closed position.

I locked it behind us. I had to get Christine away immediately !

My hand around her wrist, we hurried out from beneath the trap door pit, and sprinted into my secret tunnel network down into the cellars, making our way as fast as our feet would carry us towards the gondola and the house on the lake.

I had always planned on leaving the opera house, of course—I had been tending to my plans for just such an exit since Christine and I had married—and I had even planned on it being sooner rather than later… just not in quite this way. No, things had backfired badly, and now my mind was racing to construct a recovery plan.

Damn it to hell !

A voice in the back of my mind wondered if Piangi was really dead; had I grossly miscalculated ? Perhaps I’d lost my touch… after all, it had been at least a decade since I’d killed anyone, and it was possible that what once felt like instinct had finally deserted me and I’d overdone it. If so, Nadir was going to be furious; I’d promised him after we’d escaped Persia that I would never again take a life… and I’d meant that promise, because Nadir’s friendship honestly mattered to me. We had been through too much, we had saved one another’s asses too many times, for me to fail him like this now !

And anyway, how the devil had anyone found him ? It had been Carlotta who screamed… that shrew had violated my stage directions !

These things, and more, flitted across my mind as we finally reached the gondola and raced home over the water.

My heart had been hammering too fiercely against my chest to speak, but I finally bade myself try.

‘Christine—pack up your most precious belongings. We leave Paris tonight.’

‘Erik—what happened back there ? Someone screamed Piangi’s name—did you—did you—’

‘No, I did not,’ I snapped. ‘He is simply unconscious and they do not realise it. Of course they would assume the worst—what better way to end the most sensational and scintillating opera anyone has ever seen ? But since we are asking questions at inopportune times, my dear—why did you reveal my identity to everyone ?’

‘Because I wanted to see your eyes, Erik… I wanted to see you proclaiming those passionate words to me. Because until you took Don Juan’s part, I didn’t understand it for what it was… you proclaiming your feelings for me. I thought it was only about lust and seduction—but when I realised it was you beneath that cloak… it all fell into place. I needed you to know that I knew who I was singing to.’

I drew in a sharp breath at her words. Of course I knew that she knew it was me… but the idea that she was so determined to show everyone ?

‘I wanted them all to see that we loved each other,’ she continued in an impassioned tone. ‘I wanted to reveal my husband to the world. Without fear. I’m not ashamed of you… I’m proud of you. I love you.’

I dropped upon my knees in the middle of the gondola and took her face in my palms.

‘And I, Christine… I wanted to proclaim my love for you to the world. I swear to you: if I accidentally caused Piangi’s death I will repent of it for the rest of my days, and I will atone for it however you wish me to. Even if it means I must turn myself in—’

‘Erik, no—’

‘—but I swear to you Christine, upon everything I hold sacred—which is you and our child, and my promise in friendship to Nadir—that I did not mean to harm him, I only meant to make him sleep for the remainder of the act.’

‘Oh, Erik…’ she wrapped her arms around me in angst, ‘I believe you—I believe you.’

‘But if they believe I took his life—they will come after me. And they will believe I have taken you against your will as well, for they do not know the choice you made to marry me. We must flee, Christine—we must flee, tonight.’

The bow of the gondola touched upon the far bank of the lake and I hurriedly got to my feet, pulling her up with me.

Inside the house I began flinging things into a single trunk—my music manuscripts, architectural drawings, journals, letters—as well as literal treasure from Persia, a bit of clothing for both myself and Christine—and, bless her, the collection of Edgar Allan Poe which I’d given her. And then, a few bottles of my very best vintages; hopefully the wine cellar would not be discovered, but just in case it was… lastly I opened the cat-basket, into which I placed a very unhappy Aaisha. It was beneath both her station and her dignity, but there was not much I could do about that, present circumstances being what they were.

I had no way of knowing whether anyone was coming to find us, nor whether they would succeed; and if they did, whether they would destroy what they found. I simply had to leave it all behind.

My last action was to go into the bedroom and fetch the mask I’d only worn when I went out of town—a painted copper one which fit so well against my face that it was almost indistinguishable as a mask, giving me a whole appearance; when I exited the bedroom wearing it, Christine caught sight of me and stared.

‘Erik—your face ! ’

‘Would you care to elaborate ?’ I asked irascibly. ‘That’s a rather ambiguous statement.’

‘Well—it’s… it must be a mask ! Yet it’s not a mask ! How have you done it ?’

‘I’ll show you once I’m assured our lives are out of immediate danger.’

‘What about your white mask… the one you always wear ?’

‘I am leaving it behind, Christine… now that all of Paris has seen it, I can never wear it in public again.’

And with those words, I tossed it upon the seat of my chair by the fireplace, and held out my hand to her. We needed to go now; I could hear distant sounds carrying over the water from the tunnels.

Shit.

My alarm bell went off, and then I heard shouting. They were coming.

Chapter Text

Chapitre XIV - ‘Le Deuxième Bureau’

I shall recount the events from the beginning for you. Bismillah.

I had been sitting in the fourth row of the niveau d’orchestre, on the right-most end of la salle de spectacle, within full view of all the events upon the stage; the Manager’s box was far behind me to the back—and though I was largely indifferent to the fact at that particular moment, the de Chagny box was directly off my right shoulder, on the 2^es loges de côté.

As soon as the hooded figure had appeared from behind its curtain and began to sing, I knew that voice… it was Erik ! No-one who has ever heard that voice, forgets the sense of instant and pervasive hypnosis which springs from it ! He was doing his best impression of the Italian tenor he had just replaced—it was exquisitely faithful. What an artist ! But at that moment, I instinctively felt something was wrong.

As he approached the spritely yet comely character of Aminta—played by Madame Christine, who was in reality Erik’s wife, but few were aware of their marriage—my mind raced to understand what was happening. Why would Erik suddenly appear upon the stage, when another man had been playing this rôle thus far ? I looked down at the programme in my lap, quickly paging through it for any hint of what this clever man might be doing. But no, it seemed to be an unscripted change… how very curious ! Had the original tenor, the Italian man, fallen ill ? Erik had just come from where he had disappeared behind some curtains, and…

Allah have mercy !

A cold chill fell over me, as I recalled from our ‘Rosy Days of Mazandaran’ what trickery Erik was capable of; indeed I was the only man in the city of Paris who really knew the extent of the truth. Despite the sublime spell of his golden voice, and the heady duet between he and Christine upon the stage—my goodness, these French !—I discreetly slipped out of my seat in the darkness and ducked out the side exit-door, dashing down the stairs to the parterre and back to a plain wooden door marked official use only which I knew lead again upstairs and to the rear of the stage. Years of working in an ‘official’ capacity had given me a second sense of such things, which I knew from experience was folly to ignore.

When I came upon the scene… so enchanting was the drama upon the stage, so tense was the atmosphere between the two singers, so magical was the entwining of their voices that no-one in the wings seemed to pay any mind to the wool-capped Persian man who moved quietly amongst them. Once more, Erik was working his curious magic !

I quickly and silently made my way along the rear of the backdrop to the curtained chamber where I knew the Italian must be. I timidly pulled aside the rear hanging of the four-poster bed, praying I wouldn’t find Erik had violated his promise to me; if that gilt-tongued French bastard had broken his vow of friendship, I would curse him to jahanam !

The Italian lay in a sickening, immobile lump upon the mattress; I put my hand to his throat and breathed a sigh of relief, for there was a pulse. Erik must have done something to put him out cold; by procedural habit, I gingerly felt the back of the man’s head, but there was nothing. Of course there wasn’t; Erik was a professional and would never have left any suggestion as to how he had done it.

Rolling my eyes in shame at my quickness to mistrust him—after all, he may be kafir but he had proven himself my ally and friend many times over throughout our association; he had even saved my life twice as we both fled the Qajar regime years ago !—I released the Italian to sleep it off and pulled away, carefully surveying around me to ensure I hadn’t been observed by anyone in the wings. People might think the man was dead if they found him like this…

Pulling out my pocket-watch, I saw there were still forty-five minutes before the finale was due and the curtain to drop—so what in hell did Erik have in mind ? Through a gap in between the fly lines I peered at the action upon the stage and was deeply impressed by the sheer blistering energy which emanated between the tenor and soprano. This man, cursed by the most repulsive face I had ever seen, had nevertheless attained the bliss of requited love—and with a woman who, for some unexplainable reason, truly cared for him; I myself had come to know this good lady and had become significantly fond of her. I saw the reasons for which Erik loved her—her personality was of sterling nature, her disposition exceedingly charming and she had a streak of cleverness and understanding of which I had not seen the likes since my mother had died back home. And, her voice was akin to something straight from another realm… in a different manner than Erik’s, but it was almost as though their two voices had been wrought from two precious liquid alloys with the sheer intention of one complementing the other. That music, strange as it was, augmented by these voices—was exquisite !

And while I had never seen them together like this, it was apparent that I was but the second person in the entire building who realised the true identity of the hooded figure upon the stage—Christine clearly knew her husband—and she responded to him as such ! The look upon her face was nothing but rapture; the passion between them was explosive. Without being able to help myself, the impertinent question intruded into my mind—if this was just a spectacle between two characters upon a public stage—what on earth must life be like in their bed-chamber ? It staggered me to consider what Erik must be experiencing now, after all these decades of… nothing. I raised my eyebrows, nodding slowly to myself that I hoped it was such to make up for all the time and experience he had been denied. Mashallah !

Shaking off the spell of the spectacle between them, I looked back at the curtained bed where the Italian lay senseless and wondered what I should do. My sense of duty as a police officer required me to ensure he regained consciousness, but I felt unsettled; though I admired their duet, the atmosphere still simply felt too charged. I stood there wrestling with myself, arms crossed, as they reached the climax of their song; I could not help but watch in awe as Christine suddenly lunged at Erik and flung the hood back off his head, his masked visage now revealed to all. I could not see her face but his initial reaction almost seemed startled; then she took his hands in hers and kissed him, throwing her arms around him.

At the sight of the strange masked man on stage, the conductor had faltered and the orchestra quickly ceased to play by degrees.

And then, all at once, Madame Carlotta flung aside the bed-hangings in view of all—damn it, where had she come from ?!—then screamed that the man was dead.

I had only taken one step back towards her when I was stopped in my tracks; some lunatic out in la salle de spectacle—the Vicomte de Chagny, I was soon to confirm—screamed out, ‘Shoot him !’

I spun around once more, fearful that sudden and widespread violence might erupt—when instantly there was a vast and fantastic plume of smoke which completely obscured the entire stage—that was Erik for you, a showman of unparalleled ability ! Robert Houdin never had anything on this man—and he himself admitted as much to me before he died !

There was amazed and startled tittering from the audience in reaction to the smoke, followed by staggered coughing in the wings; Carlotta continued to shriek—but had reverted to her native language, which I did not understand—and the madman continued to yell from the box that someone needed to be shot. Without even thinking twice, I dashed out upon the stage.

‘Halt !’ I bellowed, holding aloft my own revolver and brandishing my badge from le Deuxième Bureau—which not even Erik knew I had. ‘That man is alive ! And no-one is to shoot anybody, in the name of the Republic !’

Behind me, Carlotta continued to scream and wail; still holding up my gun, I turned back and issued a command to the few confused members of the company who had drifted into the scene from the other wing : ‘Somebody shut her up ! Nothing’s wrong with the man, he’s merely unconscious !’

In the back of my mind, I was fervently praying to Allah that what I was saying was true; that the great overfed lout wouldn’t somehow choke on his own tongue and prove me wrong. Under other circumstances I would most certainly have arrested a man for rendering another unconscious, but… such offenses were technically out of my current purview.

And then it occurred to me that the house lights were still down and the audience had returned to silence; did they believe this was all part of the presentation ?! If so… this was a marvellous development ! I restored my badge-wallet to an inner pocket, then realised not everything was back as it should be.

I looked down at the conductor below the stage and asked him pointedly :

‘Quel est le problème, monsieur... où est la musique ?’

An exaggerated wave of his baton, and the orchestra picked back up almost immediately at the next scene while I issued a warning look up towards the de Chagny box, before lowering my gun and returning it to my coat pocket; all of a sudden, I was surrounded by a circle of mostly female dancers who rushed to take their places—and they commenced to dance along with the music while I still stood in their centre. Well, this was absurd !

It took some doing to finally find an opening and dart between them as they moved sinuously around me—but at last I made my exit from the stage; an enthusiastic applause followed my disappearance and I realised the audience genuinely didn’t seem to understand what they had just seen. Praise Allah—so much the better !

Predictably, I was met right away in the wings by a very agitated pair of managers. These men knew I had inserted myself into their production but they were no less confused than the audience, and they demanded, in no uncertain terms, to know what was going on.

‘This is unscripted !’ said the bald one. ‘Is this some kind of prank ?!’

I pulled out and displayed my badge once more, and the men eyed it uneasily, their instant discomfort in front of a member of the French secret police abundantly clear.

‘Your original tenor has passed out—and the man who replaced him, and your lead soprano, will likely not be back tonight. So make some excuse—any excuse—to the attendees, and make it up to them somehow.’

‘Who was that man in the mask ?’ demanded the tall one, who was beset by such nerves that I noted a tremor in his hands; he quickly crossed his arms in front of him and tucked both hands away when he noticed me observe them. I would have to keep my eye on this man !

‘You’re sure Piangi has—passed out ? What is he, drunk ?’ huffed the bald one.

‘As a man who is forbidden to touch alcohol by the precepts of the Qur’an, I must say that it is difficult for me to distinguish between the various levels of drunkenness which I observe amongst you Europeans at any given time. But regardless,’ I continued, the derision of my comment appearing to have gone completely over their heads undetected, ‘he will be fine. The tenor wearing a mask, did so because he is one of my agents. Le Deuxième Bureau is conducting a very secret investigation into the foreign activities of one of your patrons.’

‘One of our patrons ?!’ echoed the tall one, his anxiety now even more heightened.

‘That is what I just said,’ I said testily, ‘and there will be serious legal repercussions for both of you if we learn you fail to keep that fact to yourselves. Now, tell me the names of those who sit in les deuxièmes loges de côté droit, in the balcony immediately above the fourth-row orchestre ? A person there called out for my operative to be shot—dangerous, reckless behaviour ! Have we learned nothing from the Americans—especially in regards to how very unpleasant it is to experience an assassination in a théâtre ?’

The bald one quickly supplied a name. ‘Raoul de Chagny ! That’s who called out—I could see him from where we sat in the Manager’s box. He’s the younger one—he leant over the edge and called out. Both he and his brother le Comte are here this evening; I greeted them both on the grand escalier.’

‘D’accord,’ I said, nodding my head and abruptly dashing away, back out towards the door which led to la galerie de l’orchestre. Would Raoul de Chagny still be here after calling out so loudly for Erik to be shot ? Surely, with the story I had just told the managers, his call to kill an unarmed man in full view of everyone would be seen for the intolerable and suspicious comment that it was; after all, even the worst hecklers in an audience never called for the death of the performers !

So it had been Raoul de Chagny… such had been my suspicion, and it lined up with everything else I’d learned and observed about him over the past several months; in fact, half of what I’d said to the managers had indeed been true.

But sure enough, after I’d raced up four sets of stairs and reached the end of the row of boxes I found les frères de Chagny still in attendance, if engaged in a furious altercation in the back of their box.

The elder brother was holding the younger one—a slender and very fair boy—by the front of his naval uniform, and shaking him violently.

‘What the hell has gotten into you, Raoul ? You’ve been a child… you haven’t changed at all since your enlistment, do you know that ? I’ll be having a talk with your recruitment officer first thing tomorrow morning and see to it that you’re hauled out again immediately.’

‘Goddamn it Philippe—no you won’t !’

‘I’ve said that I will, so it’s good as done. You’re going to understand how to behave like a man if it’s the last thing you do,’ the older brother spat, slapping the younger one in the face with the back of his hand. ‘I’m sick of this continued nonsense from you.’

The younger man flailed his arms wildly at his brother, his face livid. It was not a particularly impressive display of indignation—instead it carried all the weight of an impudent child throwing a tantrum. His invective, however, was not child-like.

‘Philippe, you piece of shit !’

The elder de Chagny, as I stood watching passively, held his ground, easily twisting his brother’s arm behind his back.

An older patron from the neighbouring box then appeared, clearly irritated.

‘You fools behave yourselves, cease this disturbance ! There’s a performance going on, in case you hadn’t noticed !’ he complained stridently, not giving a damn about anything but the quality of his evening; he then returned to his side of the scarlet partition.

At last the younger brother gave up his struggle, and they registered my presence at last. The music and dance below drew to a close, just as I held up my badge for the two men to see.

‘You’d best heed the advice of your brother,’ I said softly to the young one in my most dangerous voice. ‘Arbitrarily calling in a dark, crowded space for a man to be shot is cause for imprisonment, you know. This is how unrest is fomented… this is how riots begin. Are you an anarchist, young Monsieur de Chagny ?’

The boy’s eyes went wide. ‘No, sir—I was calling for that man to be arrested. He was wearing a mask ! I thought someone had been killed—’ Behind him I noticed the stage curtain beginning to lower; the managers must have had no alternative but to forsake the remainder of the production.

‘Ah, but the man was not dead ! No, no, he was not. Pronouncing a man dead in a large public space before he has actually expired is a sure way to cause mass panic. It is a tool of those plotting heinous schemes. Was it your intention to incite panic here tonight, Monsieur de Chagny ?’

‘No it wasn’t,’ he spat defensively, ‘and just how do you know who I am, anyway ? I’ve never seen you… and in any case it’s not ‘monsieur’, it’s Vicomte—’

His elder brother held out his hand, pointing a finger in his brother’s face. ‘I’ll bid you not to besmirch the noble name of de Chagny when you persistently behave in a manner so utterly beneath it.’

The house lights came up and both of the managers strode out upon the proscenium with their hands up and great mask-like smiles upon their faces, greeted by a confused and weak applause.

‘Oh, but I’ve seen you, young man—I’ve seen you.’ I coldly looked him up and down. On top of what I already knew about him, his behaviour tonight had been bizarre and antisocial and I had no intention of letting him off easily.

At last we were interrupted by the announcement of the bald man upon the stage.

‘Excuse us, ladies and gentlemen—we beg your pardon for the curious denouement to this evening’s programme. We admit to you that this odd staging tonight was all… planned. Yes, it was entirely planned ! Tonight’s performance is not the actual gala performance !’

The tall one spoke up as murmurs of reaction rose up from the crowd. ‘That’s right, ladies and gentlemen, we beg your pardon but this evening’s presentation is actually a pre-gala with a mystery ending and the real gala performance isn’t until tomorrow night ! All your tickets from this evening will be honoured for re-admission—so long as you haven’t torn them up, because torn tickets shall not be honoured for the real gala !’

A loud chorus of groans issued from throughout the house at this news; clearly the majority of them had already torn them in half as there were fifty-percent-off coupons for refreshments on the left half of the reverse side of the ticket.

Ha, I reflected, what a sham ! They had probably arrived at such a contrivance for just such a half-hearted purpose… it was simply a means to make more money ! These men easily could have run a medicine show at any souk, or managed to convince people to pay for rugs they already had at home… they would have given market artists back home a run for their money !

The bald one laughed heartily—stage laughter if I have ever heard it—‘That’s right, Monsieur Richard, and you’ll want to get here early tomorrow for it’s going to be standing room only without question, my dear ladies and gentlemen ! You’re going to finally see the full performance of this amazing and sensational new opera Don Juan Triumphant, which has never been seen upon any other stage, by a composer whose identity remains a mystery even to this day—and you won’t be able to guess the ending because no-one actually gets to see it until tomorrow night ! Ah, yes ! And remember, there is a refreshment coupon on the back of your ticket, don’t forget to use it before you leave… now Monsieur Lévèsque, will you please play the scène music from the first-act ballet as tonight’s exit piece ? Thank you, thank you, thank you for coming tonight, ladies and gentlemen !’

They quickly disappeared into the curtains behind them as the audience ruptured into full-blown discussion which instantly filled the beautiful space with its din.

The de Chagny brothers turned back toward me—one haughty and supercilious, the other disdainful and angry—and the elder brother spoke with a coolness befitting his demeanour.

‘Are we free to leave, Monsieur… I’m afraid I don’t know your name ?’

‘I am Nadir Khan. Yes, Comte de Chagny, you are both free to leave—as long as you swear to carry through with your promise, which I overheard, to see him return to service tomorrow morning.’

He threw a glare at his younger brother. ‘I certainly do, Monsieur Kahn. Rest assured it will be done, and hopefully it will keep his scheming, irresponsible ass in check for a while. Perhaps he’ll even learn something from the experience. And he will remain under my personal supervisory guardianship until they raise the gangplank after him and his Arctic-bound ship heaves well below the horizon.’

‘Then I am satisfied.’ I would be checking to ensure he kept his word—but he didn’t need to know that. ‘You are both free to leave.’

‘I hate you, Philippe,’ the young brother hissed.

Le Comte brusquely seized his brother by the shoulder and shook him hard. ‘I don’t give a fuck what you think,’ he whispered hoarsely. ‘You are letting down your entire family. Now let’s go.’

The enmity between these two was considerable. No point in bidding them a nice evening !

They filed out of the box, and I stepped out after them thoughtfully; I looked in towards the neighbouring box only to be scowled at by a jewel-bedecked matron in a very fussy evening gown who was fanning herself animatedly; it was clear she didn’t approve of what had gone on—though whether her ire had been earned by the opera, the performance, les de Chagny, the managers’ announcement, or all of them combined, I had no idea.

Well, they didn’t have much to honestly complain about; they had certainly gotten their subscription’s-worth tonight !

Now that I had single-handedly averted a riot, a scandal, and any possible assassination of my friend of many years, I needed to get down to the cellars as swiftly as possible and find Erik and Christine; they would need to know what had transpired since their disappearance. He would certainly make a run for it if he thought a mob was after him, and he would never leave Christine behind—that I knew without question.

When you’ve run for your life with a man—especially over an extended period of time, like I had with Erik in the past—you gain familiarity with the manner in which he responds to pressure. Under typical circumstances, Erik was not a man who would ever allow himself to be caught unawares—but he had a wife with child now, so his progress was sure to be slower now, out of necessity.

Insha’Allah, there would be no need for them to make any escape at all—if I could get to them in time ! But I had to make haste, or they would most certainly be gone… for, even hindered, Erik was a damn sight quicker than anyone who might attempt to pursue him—even me.

I had never been able to word my concern for Erik in terms that anyone back home in Persia would have ever understood; in fact, I did not even understand it myself. But I saw him as emblematic of the manner in which people were treated as disposable by Naser al-Din Shah Qajar—may Allah forgive me for saying it. I could not reconcile my complicated feelings for the Shah-en-Shah, who had done much good for our people, yet just as much bad—and it was made even worse when, in the end, as a reaction to political intrigue existing within his own family—whom you should know failed to carry out their objective, and of which Erik was expressly not a part—the Shah ended up decreeing not only they, but also Erik, were to die by consequence… and I would be the one to carry out his execution. It was at this point I found I could no longer blindly carry out orders for the regime… but of course, refusal to obey the Shah’s orders, meant only one of two things : death—or run, in an almost futile attempt to escape it.

Thus we had fled together; thus we were twice ambushed and I was nearly killed both times; twice Erik—unbeliever, mad genius, and, yes, murderer—saved my life, when he just as easily could have left me for dead. It would have made things easier for him, would have simplified his toil to no small degree !—but he saved me anyway, even carried me on his back through a sandstorm in the Egyptian desert ! And then he protected me, defended me, even knocked unconscious a man who uttered a racist slur towards me when at last we arrived in France. And I had never once asked him to do any of it.

So perhaps now you understand why I would be damned before I let anything happen to this man ! And why I would even lie to protect him !

Let him have a wife and a family… even if he was half-mad, Erik deserved to experience happiness, for once in his life !

Chapter Text

Chapitre XV - ‘Le Troisième Acte’

Despite the rude shock of the news that Erik may have inadvertently murdered my former stage partner and that a vengeful mob could be on its way down into the cellars in search of us—therefore requiring us to hastily make an escape from the house by the lake; despite the unhappy miaowing of Aaisha in her basket—not to mention her irritation at having been grabbed roughly by the scruff of the neck and stuffed into the cat-basket rather unceremoniously by myself; despite the terrifyingly persistent ringing of the bell that served as Erik’s proximity alarm, and the uncomfortable thudding of my own heart in fear, I was able to make sense of what I heard echoing from the far shore : Erik’s given name.

‘Erik… Erik ! Damn you to jahanam… Errrriiiiik !!!’ it called out. The unmistakable curse of Nadir Khan !

My husband was in the process of dragging our frantically-packed trunk towards the gondola when I stopped him with a hand upon his back.

‘Darling, it’s Nadir ! You must go see him ! You must explain !’

‘Damn it, Christine, we haven’t time !’ he hissed, straightening up to look at me with what I afterwards realised was fear in his eyes.

‘No, Erik—it’s Nadir ! He might be able to sort this all out… he must have set off the alarm !’

‘He only uses the Rue Auber entrance ! That doesn’t set off the alarm !’

‘But if he was attending the performance, Erik, he’s not familiar with that path to get down. And you know he wouldn’t lead anyone else here! Go and get him, love—don’t be a fool. Go get him !’

His golden gaze searched my face for a moment, his brow wrinkled in thought—then he nodded slowly.

‘Yes… that could be true. Yes, Christine… perhaps you’re right.’

‘Damn it, Erik—there’s no perhaps about it,’ I nearly shouted. ‘Go now ! Hurry !’

Erik scrambled to do as he was told—leaving the trunk where it sat upon the bank, he bounded into the gondola and was off in the direction of Nadir’s voice in an instant.

That man in the boat was my life now. He had told me to pack my most precious possessions—but I had lost everything once already when my father had died… at this point in my life, I no longer cared about things; I cared about Erik, and as long as I had him, I could make do with whatever I had to contend with. But nevertheless, it was a situation so surreal that I struggled to process it; I couldn’t stop thinking about Meg and Mme Giry; Sorelli, Jammes, François and all the other dancers; Mme Carlotta, Marie Celeste, Georges Léon and all the other singers. Was I really going to have to leave them all so suddenly ? And what about Signore Piangi—was he dead ? What if my husband had in fact killed him ?

So I simply stood there, listening, the perimeter alarm still ringing—Erik had never shown me how to silence the damned thing—and then at last, after what seemed like an interminable wait, I could hear voices carrying through the air, drawing nearer. I squinted into the darkness, full of uncertainty and worry, my hand upon the slight swell of my belly. The feeling of the lace tiers under my palm reminded me that I was still dressed in my costume as Aminta—and, for that matter, so was Erik still dressed as Don Juan. Were we going to catch a steamship tonight ? Or did he have something else in mind ? Would people we encountered think we were Spanish ?

What silly thoughts a person sometimes has in the midst of an emergency !

After what felt like an eternity, the figures of two men materialised out of the murky darkness, and I heard the bow of the gondola bump up against the bank with a hollow thud.

And there indeed stood our friend Nadir !

His smile was wide and beautiful; he cried out something in Persian which I didn’t understand. He stepped ashore and held his arms open, and I hurried over to embrace him.

‘Dear girl. Are you alright ? You weren’t damaged falling through that trap door ?’

‘Oh, no—I’m fine ! I barely even noticed we had left the stage ! There’s a massive cushion beneath the floorboards, and Erik held me as we landed. But Nadir, tell me what happened after—’

‘Don’t worry, my dear—Piangi is not dead; he has regained consciousness and is recovering—I observed him getting to his feet, surrounded by concerned attendants, on my way down to the cellars.’

‘So he is alive ?’ I demanded.

‘Oh yes… yes. That soprano gave a show of theatrics when she found him, and the audience believes it was all part of the play although they’re confused as hell—those two managers told everyone it was... wait a moment. What is that infernal racket?’

‘That’s my perimeter alarm,’ answered Erik, picking up Aaisha’s cat-basket and opening the door, at which point she sprang out and dashed into the darkness with an indignant yowl. ‘I’ll go to deactivate it—Nadir, please come inside.’

Startled by the unexpected invitation, Nadir was slow to move to the door that had been left open in Erik’s wake; as far as I knew, he had never before even set foot on this farther side of the lake.

‘Come, Nadir… I’ll show you to the parlour,’ I offered, automatically entering my new rôle of hostess despite my rattled nerves.

As we entered the room, the ringing thankfully stopped; I motioned Nadir to sit in my usual chair by the fireplace. I crossed to the side table to pour him a glass of water, and he spoke as Erik reappeared through the doorway to the kitchen and sat heavily in his own chair, placing his discarded white demi-mask upon the small octagonal table at its side.

‘You’re sure you are well, Christine ?’ Nadir asked as he took the glass from my hand. ’I knew Erik would be making haste to leave—I knew I had to get here quickly if I was to catch you both.’

‘You arrived in the nick of time. Oh, I can’t even tell you how relieved I am !’

‘Yes, yes—praise Allah, the two of you can rest assured you are in no danger.’

‘Daroga,’ Erik broke in, ‘you’re quite certain we are not being pursued ? And that no-one saw the route you took to reach the cellar ?’

‘I am quite certain, Erik—far more than I am that I could get back the way I came. I only had the vaguest idea of where I was going; I didn’t even really know, until I came out of that long tunnel by the lake, whether I would ever find my way... or instead die down here in the dark, hopelessly lost.’

Erik stared stonily at his friend, without speaking for a moment.

‘Nadir… if that had happened… I would never have forgiven myself.’ He then slammed his fist angrily upon the armrest of his chair. ‘Nor would I have ever forgiven you ! As if I saved your life in Persia when we were ambushed near the border, and lugged your ass through the Egyptian desert upon my back just so you could stumble into this place and die for the most pointless of reasons on my own fucking doorstep. Why should I value your life more than you yourself do ?’

‘Well, I can save you that particular heartache, Erik. Because this night, I have saved you instead !’ Nadir laughed gleefully. ‘Now, what the hell happened to your face ? You look… normal. Even… good.’

Much as I loved Nadir, I gasped and held my breath; I could not fathom anyone commenting so flippantly about Erik’s face, much less his new mask which made him appear like any other ordinary man ! But I needn’t have worried. These two men could get away with speaking to each other in ways no other would have dared.

Erik chuckled dryly. ‘I am honoured by your display of good manners and polite discourse, daroga. Clearly you were raised in the middle of nowhere by a herd of camels.’

Nadir burst out laughing. ‘You snail-eating, bourgeois charlatan.’

‘You forgot to add that I am kafir.’

‘How could I ever forget ? You are my friend, it is true, but I daily pray to Allah for the conversion of your wayward soul to the wisdom of the teachings of the Prophet, peace be upon him.’

The two of them continued to trade insults, laughing all the while. I rolled my eyes and sighed audibly. Men could be such idiots !

‘I’m in earnest, Erik. How have you now come to look so ordinary ?’

Erik picked up his white demi-mask from where he’d laid it down and held it up in front of his face. ‘You mean the fact that I am no longer wearing this ? Are you really so attached to it? Perhaps you’d like to wear it yourself for thirty years…’

‘You see, Christine ? Erik is only just beginning to learn the truth of the fact that looking ordinary is a curse all its own.’

‘To answer your impudent question, Nadir—I am just as ugly as ever. I have merely traded one mask for another.’

‘Ah! I should have guessed it was only further deception… that, of course, being your specialty,’ Nadir said with a wink.

‘Will you two please stop this ridiculous banter ?’ I said at last with some irritation, crossing my arms. ‘You are like young boys ! I don’t know how either of you can poke such fun at each other at a time like this. What in god’s name happened up there, Nadir ? You said you saved Erik… please tell us how.’

‘Ah, my darling,’ said Erik, sobering abruptly, ‘we are fools; it is simply our technique of relieving mental strain. Please pay it no mind. Yes, daroga—my wife is right—let us have the story of what happened after we departed the stage.’

He placed his white demi-mask back down upon the table as Nadir began to relay his curious story at last.

‘Well, Erik, I beg your pardon when I say that as soon as I realised you were singing I sensed something was wrong.’

‘That insufferable policeman’s intuition of yours, I’m sure.’

‘More or less. So I hurried out of la salle de spectacle and I made my way backstage. You held everyone else in thrall, so I was able to reach the Italian unobserved and found him unconscious, but alive. Despite this, I could not guess your intention, and so as I considered the matter I moved away to better observe the scene. The two of you are amazing together, by the way—such complementary passion and chemistry I have never before observed between two performers !’

Erik looked at me with pride. ‘Did you hear that, Christine ? We are a formidable team !’

‘Thank you very much, Nadir,’ I acknowledged. ‘Pray continue.’

‘Hélas,’ he sighed, ‘I made the mistake of allowing myself to become overly drawn in—for it seemed the very next moment the Spanish woman was screaming, and then young Monsieur de Chagny was calling out for Erik to be shot !’

‘De Chagny ? ’ I exclaimed. ‘Do you mean… Raoul ? ’

‘Yes,’ Nadir confirmed. ‘Everything was happening too fast; the more he called out, the more I suspected it was him, but I was not absolutely certain until one of the managers corroborated it. The bald one was an eye-witness.’

‘But why would Raoul call out for Erik to be shot ?’

‘That young man possesses certain suspicious characteristics I have noted in these past few weeks,’ Nadir said obliquely. ‘But regardless, Erik took command of the situation rather instantaneously where the two of you were concerned.’

‘It seemed as though chaos was erupting upon the stage in our wake,’ Erik said.

‘A sort of chaos, yes. In your stead I leapt from my place in the wings onto the stage, and I brandished my gun and silenced de Chagny. And I displayed my badge from le Deuxième Bureau as well… I was acting in an official capacity, you see.’

‘Le Deuxième Bureau ? ’ Erik and I both asked in surprised unison.

‘Yes. I must once more beg your pardon from keeping my appointment there concealed from you, Erik—but it was a matter of security.’

‘You’ve been working with the secret police ? ’ my husband gasped; I had never seen him so caught off-guard.

‘I have.’ Nadir reached into his inner coat pocket and pulled out a leather wallet, which fell open to reveal a medallion bearing a marque which I associated only with the French government—the proud and dignified form of Marianne, and the motto of the Republic !

‘Is that badge—véritable ? ’ demanded Erik incredulously.

‘Do you really think I would come all the way to France and just sit in forced and premature retirement with my thumb up my ass ?’ Nadir retorted icily. ‘I offered my services to the Third Republic under the conditionality of my allegiance to them, making evident my risk of duplicity where the Shah was concerned. The offer was accepted.’

‘My god, Nadir… you’ve got balls !’

‘I do indeed. No-one would ever suspect a Persian spying for the French. And in any case, I was granted a variety of false papers, to pose as any number of foreign nationalities as suits the purpose of any given assignment. Everyone assumes I’m an Arab in any case; the majority of these Europeans don’t even know the difference between an Arab and a Persian.’

‘Unless, of course, you encountered an actual Arab. Your accent would give you away in an instant.’

‘You two keep getting off the subject,’ I cut in once more. I wanted to know what happened !

‘Ah, yes—my apologies, Christine. So after identifying myself as an authority, I bade someone silence the Spanish woman. I think the reaction to her was no more than it was because in her hysterics she had reverted to speaking in Spanish, so they did not entirely understand. And then myself—I realised they all believed I was part of the events upon the stage !’

‘You don’t say !’ I exclaimed in wonder.

‘Art imitates life, daroga,’ said Erik dreamily, ‘for that is something I had not thought to include… you ! What a brilliant idea… Don Juan being pursued by a Persian policeman !’ He looked off in space, seemingly lost in thought.

‘At this point—’ Nadir continued, ‘I hissed to the conductor to get on with it, and the next dance began. The dancers all came out immediately. And, to my dismay, I found I was entrapped within their midst for some time—stuck right in the middle like a fool. They kept circling round me… I could barely escape ! I believe the audience may have found it amusing.’

Erik snorted with laughter, and even I giggled at the idea of Nadir with a gun in his hand at centre stage, standing in the middle of a troupe of ballet dancers who were all sensuously insinuating the events occurring between Don Juan and Aminta at that point in the production.

‘But I managed to dash out from between them and get off the stage at last—and I even received some slight applause !’ he grinned demurely, and Erik howled with glee.

‘Daroga, I must now introduce some changes into the third act. I shall write a policeman into the opera ! It will be a most splendid twist !’

Nadir did not address Erik’s comment; instead his grin disappeared. ‘I then immediately encountered the managers in the wings, who demanded to know who you were, Erik, and why you had been upon the stage. I told them you were masked because you were one of our agents, on a highly delicate assignment concerning an investigation of one of the patrons here.’

Erik’s joy instantly evaporated. ‘You—you inferred to them that I’m a spy ?! For le Deuxième Bureau ?! ’

‘You, of all people, have a problem with such a connotation ?’ our Persian friend asked, raising a critical eyebrow.

Erik smiled happily. ‘Nadir… that’s ingenious. I simply haven’t ever given you enough credit. It’s perfect… brilliant !’ He crossed his legs and sat back in his chair, clearly pleased.

Nadir raised his eyebrows, his hands neatly folded upon his lap, looking quite pleased. ‘You flatter me, Erik.’

‘Damnation, Nadir. If you were a man who imbibed, I would raise a toast to you immediately; you have elevated me in stature within these walls. For now I am not just one man… but two !’

‘So did it work ?’ I cut in again, not exactly following my husband’s logic. ‘Did they believe you, that Erik is a spy ?’

‘They did. That’s when it was confirmed to me that it was the young de Chagny who called out for Erik to be shot.’

‘And so then what happened ?’ I demanded; I wanted to know where this was leading with Raoul.

‘I left the managers, telling them to make whatever excuse they might for the turn of events, and the fact you would most likely not return this night… and I made my way up to the de Chagny box. I arrived to find les frères de Chagny embroiled in a furious tussle. Apparently le Comte de Chagny was showing his brother what he thought of his behaviour… and he said his younger brother would be hauled back into the Navy tomorrow morning and his remaining shore-leave canceled. I made it clear to le Comte that le Deuxième Bureau expects that promise to be kept. The managers may, or may not, believe that young de Chagny is being investigated for espionage. Or they may believe it is one of themselves being investigated. Or they may believe it is any of the patrons… the point is, the impression, however mistaken, is entirely up to their own interpretation. And I am not particularly interested in elucidating further to either of them.’

I gaped in amazement. ‘But is it really true—is Raoul truly guilty of espionage ?’

‘He has proven himself worthy of my scrutiny; I have in fact had a concern that the boy might have anarchistic leanings. But it’s possible that his brother’s method of discipline may cure him of that.’

Erik assumed a posture of casual elegance as he laughed derisively. ‘That boy is an idiot. Naval service isn’t going to turn him into a man ! And dare I say, daroga, lest it sound like I brag, that I myself am far more of an anarchist than that feeble-minded pantywaist. Hélas, there was a day not so very long ago, that I wouldn’t even have thought twice about blowing this entire edifice, with everybody in it, to kingdom come. In fact… I still have several kegs of dynamite stored away for just such an eventuality.’ He waved his hand airily as he spoke, as though this blithe admission were of no consequence whatsoever; he skilfully avoided my sharp glance of consternation.

Nadir shrugged, curiously unfazed by Erik’s proclamation. ‘l cannot say—there are many things which predicate maturity, and the boy seems to lack many of them. Only Allah can say. But shortly after I questioned him, we were interrupted by the managers curtailing the performance… the lights came up, they trotted out onstage—’

‘Trotted out like the asses they are,’ Erik snorted.

‘—and they announced in a manner befitting the best market artists in any Tehran souk that this evening had been a special, planned, mystery performance which was not the actual gala première… and that tomorrow night is the actual gala.’

‘WHAT ?!’ roared Erik, rising to his feet in surprise.

‘Everyone who was admitted tonight is being promised a repeat performance… so long as they didn’t rip their ticket in half to redeem the ticket for a discount on refreshments. Which probably eliminates eighty percent of them, if not more. And then in the very next breath, those snake-charmers were encouraging everyone to remember to use the discount on their tickets before they left the premises, if they hadn’t yet done so.’

‘I’ll be damned !’ my husband exclaimed. ‘Those two fools may in fact be cleverer than I had previously thought possible !’

‘Those two men who manage the théâtre are greedy and duplicitous,’ Nadir rejoined.

Erik looked at him, grinning silently, then turned upon his heel and exited the room.

I stared at Nadir, astonished by the turn of events. ‘So—they’re expecting us to present Don Juan tomorrow night—as though none of the craziness of this evening even happened ?’

Our friend shrugged. ‘It would seem to be the case. But I daresay you shall find out from the managers yourself in the morning.’

At these words my husband re-entered the room bearing a silver tray leaden with cold chicken, two baguettes, a small plate of butter, a large hunk of reblochon cheese, and a bowl of ripened grapes. ‘I apologise for the rough fare,’ he said, setting it upon the low table between us and, in an elaborate show of hospitality, began to fill a plate with a bit of each, which he handed to Nadir. ‘Obviously we’ll all need to be in top shape for the true début of my opera tomorrow night.’

‘So you’re actually going to play along with this strange conceit of the managers ? ’ I asked in shock.

‘Mais, oui, ma chérie,’ he beamed.

‘Bismillah,’ said Nadir in indifferent blessing as he buttered his bread; he took a bite while Erik began dishing food onto a plate for me.

Chewing thoughtfully, Nadir mused at length. ‘Well, Erik… tomorrow night, there shall be no need for you to, ah, subdue the Italian man. You’re far better suited to the rôle in any case, I must say. And I shall take great pleasure in seeing the entire performance, this time from the comfort of my usual seat.’

‘That’s what you think, daroga,’ Erik rejoined as he handed me my plate, and taking nothing for himself, crossed the room to the small secretary and sat before it. ‘You cast yourself in my production—and there you shall remain ! Oh yes, you shall not be enjoying the show passively ensconced in plush red velvet, but instead from the very boards of the stage itself !’

Now our Persian friend was no longer indifferent; he nearly choked on his bread at these last words as Erik withdrew a blank piece of manuscript paper from a pile and hurriedly dipped his pen into its well of bloodred ink.

‘And there will have to be a last-minute rehearsal of Act Three, to ensure everyone knows what to do !’ he continued merrily as Nadir cleared his throat and reached for water. ‘I will be up late tonight submitting the revised libretto and stage directions to Moncharmin and Richard, my dear Christine… you shall have to retire to bed without me this night.’ He began to furiously scribble upon the page. ‘Oh, this is going to simply infuriate them !’ he smirked with glee.

Nadir cleared his throat once more and found his voice. ‘Erik… what ! Don’t be ridiculous—I am not an actor ! And I cannot be compromised as a member of le Deuxième Bureau !’

‘Ah-ha, my friend, that’s too bad!… you should have considered this before you enmeshed yourself so thoroughly in a hopelessly complicated plot. But it was in fact brilliant… for I am writing in a Persian policeman, who is in pursuit of Don Juan ! Although I’m not so confident that even our brilliant costumiers would be able to so rapidly whip up an astrakhan cap and matching coat. Do you mind wearing your own vêtements for the cause, daroga ?’

Nadir thought seriously for a moment; then his countenance broke into a lovely smile. ‘Yes, Erik… yes, of course ! And you should wear your white mask as part of the costume of Don Juan !’

My husband held up his hand. ‘Wait. You’re saying… mask the character just for the hell of it ?’ As part of the story itself ?’

‘Why not?’ exclaimed Nadir. ‘If nothing else, it prolongs the protection of your true identity, and obscures the reasons why.’

‘Yes !!’ I cried in agreement, suddenly becoming excited as I envisioned it in my mind. ‘No matter whether you or Piangi play the rôle, Don Juan now wears a mask throughout the entire production. It’s a wonderful idea !’

Nadir and I stayed up late and continued to sound out ideas and possibilities with Erik, and he finalised a new ending, with a modified libretto, additional stage directions, a slightly modified dance sequence and a few artful musical alterations in two scenes; after two-and-a-half hours of truly remarkable work and furious scribbling on Erik’s part—without even once consulting his pipe organ to play anything through—Act Three had indeed become of act of we three.

At last, my husband folded up the manuscript pages under his arm.

‘I shall drop off these markups in the manager’s office as I see you to the exit, Nadir,’ he announced, clapping our friend upon the shoulder. ‘And I must thank you both quite profusely. This is really going to be quite the production after all.’

Nadir and I bade each other good night, and they soon exited the house to cross back over the lake. As I went to close the door behind them, a small dark shape appeared from the obscurity and Aaisha came to the door.

‘Aaisha, you’ve returned home ! Are you still upset at me for putting you in the cat-basket earlier when we thought we would have to—’

As if in answer to my question, she dropped a very large, dead rat from her mouth at my feet.

I covered my mouth to stifle my scream. Cats !

It must have been the very small hours of morning when Erik at last joined me in the bed. I had restored everything we’d thrown into the trunk and put the cat-basket away; we wouldn’t be going anywhere after all, and it felt very good to know we didn’t have to give up our home unexpectedly.

I said as much to Erik as he snuggled in close to me.

‘Ahh—well, actually, my dear… I had been thinking…’

Oh dear… I didn’t like the sound of that tone—because it meant that Erik had been making more plans on his own, without conveying them to me.

‘Erik ! After tonight’s events—I must impress upon you that if you have ANY further ideas—if you do ANY further thinking—I want to know about it first. And I really must insist ! If this is to be a partnership—you must include me in your plans, you cannot leave me in the dark. We have more than ourselves to consider now, so we really must make these decisions together !’

He didn’t answer right away; I heard him draw in a deep breath as he pondered my words.

‘You’re right, my love… you’re right. I am remiss. Well, in that case, I have something I must tell you.’

The pit of my stomach dropped. Oh god… what now !

‘It had crossed my mind some time ago, for precisely that reason you state, that perhaps we really ought to start thinking of vacating the Opéra on a permanent basis.’

‘Vacating ? But I thought we were happy that we’re able to stay ! What do you mean ?’

‘Well, Christine…’ he fell silent again. Oh dear, oh dear… whatever he was going to reveal, it must really be something upsetting. I turned in place to face him. Clearly I had to steel myself !

‘Tell me, Erik. Just say it.’

‘Alright, alright. It was my desire to surprise you with this in person, but… well, once we were wed, as I considered our future life together—it became apparent to me that I must provide for you a more normal life, and a place for us to have children… at that time, there was no way to know if they would come, but certainly it was obvious to me that, if they did, remaining forever in an underground dwelling was the least practical plan one could devise… there would be the need to give any child a place to play, a place to let them have and care for animals, a place to ensure their education. So I began, per my usual methods, to calculate a means of change.’

‘Your usual methods… by which you mean, sitting and mulling things over without mentioning them to me.’

‘Yes, my dear—as has been my custom these long years of solitude. And I do sincerely apologise to you, darling wife, if it has been a difficult habit to break… for as you know, the entirety of my life until now, I’ve had no other alternative.’

He paused at this point, and when he spoke again his voice was tremulous, heavy with emotion.

‘No other alternative, until you came into my life, Christine. At which point… everything changed. I have changed. I continue to do so, in fact.’

My hand found his shoulder in the darkness and I stroked his arm as he said these words… his sincere display of feeling touched my heart deeply.

Gathering himself at length, he continued on.

‘At all events, I arrived at a solution which, considering the press of time, I put into rapid deployment. Working through a solicitor of reliable discretion—whom I have kept on retainer over the years—I arranged to buy a parcel of land out in the country, downriver from Paris and slightly removed from Les Andelys—the more to afford us the privacy I require. I obtained the survey of the land before I made the purchase, and I quickly designed a house for us to suit the location. Once I had the first set of plans—the foundation and cellar—I hired my old Opéra foreman as a contractor to carry them out and supervise the project; he is most capable and works well under my direction. The wages and lodging arrangements I offered him were such that he could not pass up the project—and he recruited primarily local workers from the region; this was ideal, as those men have far-ranging reputations for being the best and fastest builders in the country, and it was my goal to have the house ready to move into as soon as possible.

‘And so, my dear, these past many months I have been supervising the construction of our new home. It is very nearly complete… alas, I was afraid earlier tonight that I would have to take you there before it was finally ready. But our very dear friend Nadir has absolutely saved everything. I owe him a very sincere debt of gratitude—which I feel very keenly indeed. But my precious Christine… I owe you, very dearly, a supreme apology for having hidden this from you for all these months.’

‘Erik… this is why you’ve been leaving town every few weeks, for days at a time ?’

‘Yes—to check on the progress of construction. And it’s been unbelievably fast; the workers are astoundingly talented. Eight hundred years ago, the ancestors of these men built Château Gaillard in a single year—did you know that, Christine ? That’s how ingenious, how able, the masons and builders of Normandy are, my darling. These men are my own stock… and they have done a remarkable job with our home.’

‘I’ve never been to that region… Papa and I never passed that way. When we went to Perros-Guirec, we travelled through Le Mans, rather than by the coast. And when we arrived there, the sea was a vast surprise to me.’

‘Ahh, my sweet… just wait until I take you to our new home. We shall come up the Seine, and we shall come around a final bend in the river and then—you will see Château Gaillard perched upon high, like a magnificent aerie built in an impossible location by a great, majestic bird ! And the closer we get, the more you will be amazed. My darling Christine—’ he placed his hand gently upon my cheek as his eyes burned like golden lamplight, ‘just wait until you experience this for yourself. I simply cannot wait to see your face when you do. I am certain that you shall love it.’

‘Oh, Erik… I’m certain that I shall !’

‘I designed the house just for you—expressly for you. It is a testament to my desire to see you provided for, as protected and happy as you deserve to be, for the rest of our natural lives.’

‘Oh, Erik ! I simply can’t believe you did this !’ I squeaked, still shocked at all he’d told me.

‘Oh, Christine—I am so terribly sorry ! I know now that it was wrong… your Erik should have been honest with you about it from the start—’

‘No, dear, no ! I’m not angry—although, yes, you should have told me, yes you should have—but the fact that you did this, that you planned this, that you thought all this through—on top of writing and staging the most passionate opera I’ve ever seen—on top of giving Carlotta constant hell—on top of translating that Sanskrit book, sewing that brilliant costume you made for the bal-masqué, tutoring my voice, watching every single rehearsal… Erik, what I’m saying is that I’m amazed… amazed by everything you’re capable of doing, by the fact that you can do so much, and the fact that it doesn’t take you long at all—this opera house ! You’ve told me the story of this opera house, how you built it for Garnier and… oh my god, not to mention all the evenings we’ve spent by the fire and you just seemed to be reading poetry or sacred texts or whatever it was you were reading. You’re just… incredible, Erik. You’re incredible. I cannot imagine caring for anyone but you, my darling, ever—ever !’

I placed my hand upon his cheek, and found it was wet with tears. I leaned in closer to him and gazed very, very deeply into the luminous depths of his eyes.

‘Ahh, my unseen genius… and to think I once thought you were just an angel.’

And I kissed him, very lightly, savouring this moment of tenderness with my husband; then I pulled away—something had just surged to the forefront of my memory and I had to say one last thing.

‘That said, Erik… don’t you dare ever again consider blowing up this beautiful opera house with kegs of dynamite ! I should be absolutely furious with you if you did !’

Chapter Text

Chapitre XVI : Le Vrai Don Juan

The next day was chaotic. Erik was gone when I awoke late the next morning, only to return shortly afterwards with a letter from the managers and a copy of a newspaper; he was strangely agitated.

‘My dear,’ he announced, ‘Listen to this. You won't believe what those two fools have said !’ He went on to read their response to the letter he had left for them with his manuscript changes last night; Moncharmin and Richard were, for once, not furious about receiving another of Erik’s infamous ‘missives of dreaded red’—instead they were glad of the changes, for they felt it only ramped up the excitement all the more.

« In addition, we have enclosed a copy of this morning's Le Petit Journal, in which we hope you will appreciate mention of your opera on page one ! Thanks to you, we are at last obtaining the most fabulous publicity we have ever received since our engagement at l'Opéra and we realise our attitude towards you up to this point has been most inhospitable. We therefore wish, in appreciation of your marvellous and brilliant revisions—for rehearsals of which we shall rouse the orchestra and full company by noon to ensure they are effectively carried out—to restore to you the exclusive use of Box N° 5, which we promise to never book again and to respect your former custom, with sincerest regards. And we very much appreciate the fact that the tenor from yesterday evening shall be returning to us to play the lead rôle in the opera; it is clear he is of unparalleled talent and ability and we receive your recommendation of him most welcomely. »

Indeed, they seemed to completely accept the insinuation that the singer, and the oft-malevolent Phantom as composer of the work, were two different people; so this is what Erik had meant… that he was now two men, instead of one !

Erik’s response to this complete about-face was ambivalent; he was unaccustomed to such pliant attitudes from the two men for whom he had heretofore felt such loathing and only ever held in antagonistic regard. He oscillated between a desire to appreciate the flattery, and a need to berate them for giving it—for he so relished inciting their ire, that now suddenly without it he was at a loss !

Tossing the letter carelessly over his shoulder, he then snapped open Le Petit Journal and began to read to me from the bottom of the front page; they deplored the ‘opera stunt’ and criticised both of the managers by name for ‘engaging subscribers in a web of smoke and mirrors’ about the première of Don Juan Triumphant, and opined that ‘such tactics are more worthy of a circus than of a storied temple to high art’.

’Good god, what abject abuse of our lovely French language ! I have never seen such absurd mixing of metaphors in all my life ! A “web” of smoke and mirrors indeed… a preposterous notion ! Mark my words, Christine—when the language starts to deteriorate, it will signify the beginning of the end of French supremacy ! And to think those two consider this "fabulous publicity" ? They thought this would please me ?’ He balled up the paper in disgust and hurled it into the fire-grate.

But the instincts of the two men in this regard was unerring; by one o’clock that afternoon, la matron de bureau d’abonnements had announced we were utterly and completely sold out, even beyond standing room to absolute maximum capacity—and not just for that very night, but for the entire series of performances ! They had never seen the likes of it with any previous production. And by two o'clock Moncharmin and Richard were overheard boasting that they had personally collaborated with the P. of the O. in heightening the suspense by planning last-minute changes !

Erik had directed that Piangi should rehearse with the cast, but that he would not perform again immediately, so as to recover from his ‘most infelicitous misfortune’ of the initial performance; and ‘the tenor from yesterday evening, whose identity I have protected for reasons I am not at liberty to disclose’—would return just before the curtain rose and play the entire rôle in full. He had added that the singer, due to his capabilities, ‘had secretly been chosen as an understudy by myself and thereby supplied with, and versed in, the entire work’.

I had been curious how this news would be received—but the managers had seemed perfectly content with this explanation and did not question it; nor did they say anything to anyone about the ‘fact’ that the man was a spy from le Deuxième Bureau, instead exchanging knowing glances with one other anytime the exclusive schedule of ‘the tenor’ was mentioned amongst the company.

Piangi didn’t appear to be disappointed by his demotion to understudy; in fact, he seemed curiously content with it. Carlotta was there, too—in a rather more subdued form than usual—constantly gazing at her lover with the most palpable concern, as though she was afraid someone might leap out from behind a prop and strangle him at any moment.

But most significantly, a new rôle had been added : ‘The Persian.’ Nadir had arrived in the wings with his coat over his arm and hat in hand, wearing a bemused expression in response to something Mme Sablon, the harried stage mistress, was communicating to him. I edged closer to overhear the conversation—Erik had expressly stated Nadir and I were initially to have no more than superficial interactions in front of the rest of the company.

‘Please monsieur, this is a full dress rehearsal and you must be in costume. The new stage directions make it clear that these items are your costume and I must ask you to kindly put them on before the scene rehearsal begins. Well, but then again, I was also told we have no copy of them yet so, perhaps you’d best leave them off after all, wouldn’t want a cigarette inadvertently setting fire to them… I can’t believe they sneaked that scene in somehow last night without even rehearsing it once; I’ve never even seen you until last night, same as that man in the mask with that incredible voice… god, what rock has he been hiding under… ah, but I must go find Monsieur Blanchard, and ensure his hair is styled in the same manner as yours—’ She grasped Nadir by the shoulder and bent back slightly, removing her pince-nez as she squinted at the top of his head. ‘Parted down the middle and combed away from the face—very well…’ She set off distractedly in search of François, to tell him he was needed on stage.

I heard him irritably mutter a phrase I did not understand except for the word ‘Allah’. Poor Nadir !

François—my former ballet partner, who had been cast as Nadir’s understudy—arrived shortly, wearing a false moustache and his wavy hair parted just like Nadir’s; he trailed our friend step for step as they both worked hard to quickly commit the new and unexpected rôle to memory.

‘Monsieur Kahn,’ I heard him ask earnestly, ‘can you please show me how to hold a gun ?’

Nadir seemed pleased by the request and so he demonstrated this aspect of his expertise with some aplomb; until, that is, they were interrupted once more by the blowsy Mme Sablon.

‘My good Monsieur Kahn, I beg your pardon… Monsieur Blanchard, just a moment, please, I found a better moustache for you to wear, it looks more like that of Monsieur Kahn…’

She reached up to François’s face and abruptly ripped off the false moustache.

‘Ouch !’ the young man cried out in surprise, but Mme Sablon paid him no mind and roughly patted his upper lip before reaching up again to attach the new one; by this point the ballet troupe had entered the stage to review the changes in their dance sequences and Meg, Sorelli, and Marie-Celeste, who happened to be nearest the two men, shrieked loudly with laughter at the silliness of Mme Sablon ripping off, and then pasting on, a moustache onto their newly-promoted colleague. François sharply looked back to see who was laughing and turned bright red; the colour of his face became brighter still as the stage mistress rebuked him for moving while she’d been working.

‘Well, for heaven’s sake ! Why did you move ? Now it’s on crooked !’

Her arm darted up again and ripped it off a second time; François yowled once more as Meg and the others continued to laugh, only to be silenced by the stern Mme Giry, who had been assigned to assist in maintaining the day’s tight rehearsal schedule of the newly modified material.

Mmes Sablon and Giry conferred and the scene in which Nadir is entrapped by the dancers was set up for rehearsal; Erik had written in not only that The Persian get hemmed in by the dancers, but that his part in the scene was to be different for every performance—a stroke of genius, for this further concealed the fact that Nadir was not actually an actor !

For the remainder of the rehearsal, while innumerable rented chairs were placed by hired workers in the centre aisles and wherever they could be fit, there was the comical aspect of two Nadirs onstage during the scenes with The Persian; Erik had kept the rôle simple, knowing that each action needed to come naturally to his inexperienced friend, so fortunately their scenes were not particularly belaboured.

‘What is your technique to approaching this rôle, Monsieur Kahn ?’ I heard François ask him in the wings while Piangi and I waited for M Lévèsque to finish lecturing the woodwind section—who were struggling with a changed part—so we could run through another modified scene.

Nadir raised his eyebrows and shrugged; ‘I am simply doing what I have seen many policemen do.’

‘Hm !’ remarked François, ‘well, it’s quite convincing !’ He went stone-faced in imitation of Nadir and crossed his arms over his chest, gazing over the scene with disapproval.

‘Yes,’ said Nadir, ‘yes… exactly like that. Although, try not to look too sanctimonious… you care about the law of course, but the truth is your character would rather be back in Persia with his wife, than chasing Don Juan all over the place…’

‘What is it like in Persia ?’ François asked.

‘Hell if I know,’ Nadir shrugged again, lying easily. ‘I’ve never been there. I’m an Arab. It is a border we do not cross. But Persians are reputed to care for their appearance, so I keep my nails extremely clean in order to play this rôle.’

François nodded in gullible amazement, now even more impressed; he immediately held out his hands and checked his nails, then fished a pen-knife from his trouser pocket in order to clean them.

‘Goodness, monsieur,’ he said admiringly, ‘I have never met an actor so considerate of such details !’

Despite the bewilderment of his musicians, M Lévèsque managed to work through the musical revisions with the orchestral sections alongside the company, and we all rehearsed the new Third Act twice all the way through, until at last it was time to close the curtains and arrange the first scene; shortly afterwards, the crowd began to fill la salle de spectacle. Despite a jittery, almost reckless sense of having no idea whether everyone was secure in their rôle—which always seems to be the case in a debut production no matter how many rehearsals one has had—Moncharmin and Richard had been so satisfied with the afternoon’s results, that they had decided to make a special announcement about the ‘real’ gala before the curtain went up, and had rushed away to their office to prepare their remarks while the rest of us filed down the corridors into the dressing-rooms to either refresh or change into First Act costumes.

At my dressing table, I could feel the frisson of excitement charging through my body; Erik was going to perform the entire rôle tonight ! He had been so commanding in his short stint as Don Juan last night… what was it going to be like with him onstage for the entire performance ? My eyes kept darting to the mirror which covered my dressing-room wall, constantly expecting him to enter through it at any moment.

‘Places, places, everyone… Act One, scene one, to your places on the stage !’ called Mme Sablon loudly down the hall.

Damn it… he hadn’t come !

In any case, the moment had arrived… the house lights had been dimmed, the footlights were up, the lovely circlet of gems which crowns la salle de spectacle were glowing softly above an overly-packed house, and Moncharmin and Richard stood on the outside of the proscenium, making their glib and utterly duplicitous announcement.

‘Mesdames et messieurs,’ called out M Moncharmin with a most theatrical formality, ‘we are honoured by your presence here tonight at le Théâtre National de l’Opéra de Paris. We sincerely welcome you to the real gala night of our very exciting new original staging of the opera written by our sensational and anonymous composer… Don Juan Triumphant !’

The noise which went up into the rafters was truly tumultuous—it was the biggest audience any of us had ever seen !

‘Yes,’ picked up M Richard, ‘some of you may recall when the composer delivered this opera into our hands at our end-of-season bal masqué some months ago. He was dressed fearsomely as a character out of Edgar Allan Poe—’

‘That would be the American story, Masque of the Red Death,’ cut in Moncharmin obnoxiously.

‘—and we were frankly amazed by it right away and knew it was just the thing all of Paris had to see,’ Richard lied through his teeth. ‘Not only that, but we even worked out a way to thrill the audience all the more—by staging a pretend gala in such a way as to stimulate curiosity and interest. Because this production is so radically new—’

‘The tonality is utterly different from anything you’ve ever heard,’ cut in Moncharmin again.

‘—yes, it is,’ Richard agreed, ‘and the story so ravishing! In fact it will astonish you so much, especially if you were here last night and caught unawares by our little ploy—’

Behind the curtain, everyone was in place, but Erik was still nowhere to be seen; he was not in his place, and the company—myself included—were looking around nervously to see where the mystery tenor could possibly be; Moncharmin and Richard must have finished their introduction, for there was another thunderous applause and the overture began. Mme Sablon quickly extinguished the two lanterns that hung on either side of the heavy, black draperies that lead to the dressing-room corridor.

The stage curtain lifted. Erik was still not in his place. Passarino and Don Juan were meant to be walking down the city street together, through the village market in this first scene of Act One; but Passarino merely stood there by himself, the flow of hockers and women selling flowers and boys doing acrobatics passing by. His song was the introductory piece :

This market is the holy grail
for all man could ever want;
everything that is for sale
or possibly be bought.

Tell me, my friend, what catches your eye ?
Have you appetite for pretty things,
or women passing by ?
I see many without wedding rings—

If any one should tempt you,
you just point her out to me.
And I promise by the stroke of noon
She’ll sit upon your knee.

He laughed raucously, and then the orchestra's dynamic dove down to a tremulous pianissimo to highlight Don Juan’s responding song.

But Passarino was still looking around for his friend. Where was Erik ?!

I watched from my place in the wings with my breath caught in my throat. I could see M Lévèsque’s eyes wildly searching the stage from his podium while he signalled the orchestra to sustain the dissonant tremolando chord; Don Juan was still nowhere to be seen !

And then Erik’s beautiful voice came floating in majestically upon the air ! Every line seemed to come from a different location upon the stage, yet still their master did not appear. Even the extras upon the stage were caught off guard, searching fruitlessly for their source :

Ah, what is life but a series of distractions
Pathetic whimsy of the moment all the while;
we avoid every consequence to our actions
by the flourish we claim as our style.

These teases may tease you, Passarino—
they may tempt you as they do tempt me.
But as we pull the strings, only we know
They see only what we want them to see !

At that instant, Erik suddenly appeared dressed as Don Juan in a massive puff of white smoke, right in the centre of the stage, where nothing could have concealed him !

The entire salle de spectacle erupted into cheers and applause at this most incredible entrance—and even those in the wings joined in ! We had all been held in such suspense—and his voice was so remarkable, so perfect, so enrapturing. M Lévèsque, now evidently satisfied that the lead rôle was indeed filled, continued to hold the orchestra at bay until Erik’s welcome died down, and his song finally carried on.

Erik’s Don Juan wore the white demi-mask—just as he had been last night, beneath the hood when I’d exposed him. The visible part of his face seemed cruelly handsome… as Don Juan and Passarino strode back and forth across the stage trading ribald observations in the second song, I could see women in the first few rows appraising my husband with long glances as his voice captivated them with its sonorous power. The flame of jealousy steadily grew within me, and I was glad I held the rôle that was to become the object of his character’s desire !

It was just after the second song that I entered upstage from the wings when I heard my musical cue, carrying a basket of roses, removed from their discussion. I ensured, however, that every movement I made was suffused with graceful elegance—sure to get the attention of Don Juan, and show those idiot women in the first rows who actually caught this man’s eye.

Passarino, do you see, that señorita who sells roses there ?
Do you see how the light reflects a universe of stars in her hair ?
Go ask her name. Find out where she lives.
For the buds in her basket I would my soul give !

We did not interact in that scene—Aminta does not see him when he notices her—but to hear Erik sing these lines for the first time made them so new to me; his spellbinding voice was so full of adoration that despite the double entendres which the audience was meant to hear, I knew what they truly meant.

Well I know rose’s thorns to prick,
as a thousand flowers have I picked;
but within the petals that unfurl,
set deep within and framed of curl,
none has set my heart alight
as that which possibly tonight
I would wager all my luck
the rarest rose which I might pluck…

These words sung by Erik became something which, from Piangi’s throat I had never even perceived; they were the phrases of a man set upon one thing alone—and it was all directed solely at me. Erik had used his opera as a means not to simply convey lasciviousness; his songs were a vehicle to musically make love to me—as only he could !

The entire show went on in this manner : Passarino, knowing I was not part of his stable of prostitutes, investigated my background on behalf of Don Juan, who only failed in his efforts to distract himself from his thoughts of Aminta by means of other women; his flirtations ended quickly because his true desire was her. Throughout this time, Aminta received seductive letters from an unknown admirer—Don Juan, of course—but was led to believe Passarino was their sender. Although she does not find him attractive, being wholly innocent and naïve, she places her stock in the content of the letters alone and is convinced that he loves her. At the end of the second act, she receives a letter asking to meet her privately at a feast, and she resolves to go, her heart aflame.

I have never participated in such a production in which the full company was so rapt in the wings—so very engaged in the entire performance. Erik somehow made the production come alive in a way that no other work had ever managed ! And the audience loved him. He had such unique delivery and bearing, he possessed such remarkable poise, and he had such an incredible capacity to hold their attention, both visually and musically; his voice was at its most alluring, and the entire house was subject to his magic.

That house was packed to the rafters, as well. The intermissions were fifteen minutes longer apiece, to accommodate the swelling lines of attendees in need of refreshments. Despite the extra seating, there were people leaning against the walls, even sitting upon the floor, having paid reduced admissions for the inconvenience. It was like nothing else I had ever seen… and the music wasn’t even something a man could hum, or whistle. It was difficult; it was discordant. But Erik’s vision was enchanting them all, despite that fact !

And Erik’s vision was more than simply opera—for every chance he got, he would appear onstage in the most confounding manner; items would appear in his hands which had previously been all the way across the stage, and no-one was able to say for certain whence it had disappeared from its original place. Occasionally his voice would seem to emanate from the audience, or different sides of the proscenium, and those seated in the gallery would look around to find him; then he would appear from some impossible place upon the stage to wild applause which only built and built as the night wore on.

At last came the Third Act—and with it, my simmering duet with Erik. We were to be united at this point in the action.

The hooded figure of Erik made his way from behind the boudoir curtains—and we re-enacted our duet from the night before. He was so charged from the entire performance that it was somehow more thrilling than the previous night; I coyly sat upon the edge of the table, and Erik seized my wrist and pulled me up its centre to where he stood, while his hands slid over my body and upset the lace ruffles of my dress; his hand upon my chest set my skin on fire and I responded to him not with acting, but with genuine desire. Erik had even written my exposure of him into the stage directions—he had even incorporated our kiss—and this was even more passionate than it had been the first time. The spectators erupted into shrieks of shocked delight.

Then suddenly, from the loges, came the repeated cries of one individual :

‘Shoot him !! Shoot him !! ’

From the stage we looked out towards a man with long blonde hair, dressed in a naval uniform, gesticulating wildly from one of the loges—the loge de Chagny—holding up a bright lantern to bring attention to himself.

Erik paused only momentarily, and then smoke, sparks and fire surrounded us—and through the trapdoor we disappeared once again.

Nadir leapt out onto centre-stage, dressed in his wool astrakhan cap and matching coat, announcing himself as a policeman in pursuit of Don Juan for his seduction of a French noblewoman whose reputation he had besmirched, on behalf of her brother, who was an officer in the French Navy—he gestured with his gun to the man in the loge, who then disappeared from sight.

One of Erik’s revisions had been to plant an actor dressed in a naval uniform in the de Chagny box—the only one besides Box Five which was empty upon this night; this man would call out ‘shoot him !’ In one fell swoop, Erik had incorporated all the bizarre events of last night into the stage show—to make it all seem as though it had been planned. The Persian policeman was simply a character; Raoul de Chagny was a character ! Or so thought the audience.

Erik and I returned to the stage after the dance which went on after Nadir’s escape from the knot of ballet dancers : Don Juan and Aminta were now on the run from the Persian and his employer, the Naval Officer; Don Juan made every attempt to conceal the truth from Aminta, even once engaging The Persian in hand-to-hand combat—the scene was so cleverly staged that Aminta never even saw it—but he only fell in love with her more and more, becoming increasingly tortured by the gulf between fact and fiction as they escaped the clutches of their pursuers. At last, on the shore of a vast sea, Don Juan threw himself prostrate before his love, and plaintively confessed his uncountable sins, handing her a dagger with which to render her judgement and retribution upon him :

Ne permettez pas ces fous français que me saignée !
Prenez ma vie pour vous-même, ma chérie !

But I, as Aminta, laid the dagger aside.

I could never harm the one
to whom I have given my heart.
You have indeed been foolish—
but forgiveness is an art
which I have mastered, I have mastered
and I grant its grace transform you
‘lest threat of death cause us part.

At which point Erik as Don Juan raised his eyes to me, and their depths reflected only the truest devotion, the deepest and most sincere love. This was not acting ! He then slowly rose to his feet, his eyes never leaving mine, and sang a haunting and mighty proclamation.

I am a scoundrel, whom thou hast forgiven;
thou hast spared a curséd knave.
Thou art more than the fulness of heaven,
thy shining light hath my heart bathed—
Smitten am I with the beauty of thy nature,
starved with hunger for love by pain of regret.
Thy trust in me hath saved me, thankfully not later;
I am unworthy of thee but so grateful that we met !
Thus I give thee my heart, in glad exchange.
I give thee my soul ! My mind will not change.

I kissed him once more; we then boarded a boat which was invisibly manoeuvred by three stage-hands dressed in black—and pulled away across the stage just in time to evade The Persian and the Naval Officer for a final instance, and the curtain fell as the closing music swelled.

When the curtain again rose for all of us to bow, the audience’s reaction was immense. Everyone was out on the proscenium; as the principal rôle, Erik was the last to appear… we were all looking for him to emerge from behind us, but he unexpectedly appeared at the very front of the stage, in a massive plume of white smoke ! How had he done it ?

He took my hand in his, and bowed; the entire house nearly melted down in response. Everyone stood, everyone cheered; Erik had to make so many curtain calls and bow so many times I lost count. Flowers were thrown upon the stage towards both of us, and as I looked at him, so happy and so proud of his accomplishment that I could have died, I could see in the footlights that his eyes were shining with tears.

And then, at last, another huge plume of smoke… and he was gone !!

The performance had gone off perfectly—more than perfectly. The audience had finally dispersed after a twenty-minute ovation, and the company immediately disbanded into small groups to find any late-night bar or café they could; Nadir had accompanied me to my dressing room and Erik appeared through the mirror to join us; the three of us celebrated privately together, Nadir seated upon the stool at my dressing-table, Erik and I seated upon the divan.

‘Erik, my friend—I must whole-heartedly congratulate you. By Allah, your artistry is so great that I have been fending off questions about my prior acting experience from other members of the company here. It is not ideal for me, especially for one in my compromised position—but everyone believes the subterfuge. This has been a master-stroke of your genius.’

‘You flatter me, Nadir,’ answered Erik, clearly pleased by the praise even as he denied himself the pleasure. ‘I have done nothing of which any other halfway intelligent man would not also be capable, were he to write a sensible opera plot. Frankly, it is rather outlandish—wouldn’t you say ? For an utter scoundrel of a character to abscond from an impossible situation rather happily ?’

Nadir flashed his beautiful teeth. ‘Are you talking about yourself, or Don Juan ?’

Erik gave him a lopsided smile in return. ‘Take your pick, daroga.’

‘So,’ Nadir continued, disregarding his own previous question, ‘what are you going to do now it’s clear that your work is assured of success ? Will you write another opera ? Will you star in another rôle ?’

And then, Erik shocked us both; he reached up and unhesitatingly removed his demi-mask, looking straight at his friend.

‘Be honest with me, Nadir. Do you really believe I have any career as an actor ? I do not. I am always in danger of discovery with a face like this.’

And then suddenly a fourth voice spoke from behind my folding screen across the room—a voice which caused the men to spring up in alarm, and made my blood run cold.

Raoul.

‘You’re a monster… a fucking monster !’

He stepped out from behind the screen, dressed in ordinary street clothes and his hair tucked up under a Homburg hat, holding a small revolver in his hand; it swung quickly between both of the men. His eyes were wild, and he grinned a sickly grin that looked far from happy.

‘I knew something was wrong with you… I knew something wasn’t right. And you—’ he said, gesturing at Nadir, ‘are you even a policeman ? Or was that just an act ? You’ve all been working in concert, to trick everyone… you’re all frauds. And you’re a literal monster !’

‘Raoul, no !’ I shrieked in horror from my place upon the divan; Erik snatched at my shoulder and pushed me roughly away, and I was hurled from my place, sliding over the polished wooden floor into the corner behind the dressing table.

‘Don’t move again, or you both die !’ Raoul said, thrusting the gun up higher, his aim now shifting erratically between both of the men. ‘I’ve got you this time—including this fake policeman. You like watching me, desert rat ? Well, watch this, you bastard. You and my brother can’t get rid of me so easily. Philippe fell asleep after just one glass of wine at dinner, thinking me safely aboard the Navy ship… Can you believe it ? The imbecile !’ His strained voice punctuated the air with maniacal laughter. ‘But money buys complicity—and I managed to get away ! I came back here for Christine—but I didn’t expect any of this at all… what are you, monster—are you even human ? Did Christine know you were a—a thing—when you tricked her into marrying you by concealing your cadaverous face ? No sane person would ever marry a thing like you !’

‘Raoul, don’t !’ I called out from the corner, but his eyes were fixed unmovably upon Erik and Nadir.

‘Shut up, Christine,’ he barked, ‘you’re coming with me because I already had you picked out. Your marriage to this creature, doesn’t count. And you—’ he again gestured towards the men with his gun—‘I’ve got one bullet for each of you—one for this hideous monster, one for this piece-of-shit Arab !’

‘You’re a fool if you think this man is an Arab,’ Erik said dangerously from where he stood in front of the mirror. ‘You’re a fool if you think Christine didn’t marry me by choice, or that she’s going anywhere with you. You’re a fool if you think that idiotic little Derringer is going to scare anyone. And—' here his voice dropped into a growl so full of insidious malice that a chill ran up my spine, ‘—you’re a fool if you think you’ll be leaving this room alive.’

Erik had subtly extended his fingers as he spoke, his left arm moving almost imperceptibly, his face livid and his entire demeanour transformed into something truly terrifying.

‘Well, it was enough to kill a powerful foreign president… so I think it’s enough to kill you.’ Raoul snapped the fingers of his left hand in my direction, without looking at me, and held out his arm. ‘Christine… get up. We’re going.’

‘We’re not going anywhere, Raoul,’ I said firmly. ‘Put down the gun—you don’t understand what you’re doing.’

‘No, it’s you who don’t understand, Christine,’ he spat, still not daring to take his eyes off Erik, ‘I already picked you out ! Years ago ! I’m supposed to be the boy who saved your scarf from the sea !’

This again ?! Now ?!

‘“Supposed to be—”’ I broke off. ‘God, you bring this up again and again ! Why ?! ’

‘Because I had to work so hard to gain your trust… but you’re so stupid, you didn’t even remember that boy ! I remember watching it happen—from up at our house—whoever it was. Even then I knew I had to find some way to make you care about me—because otherwise you never would. So I waited long enough to make you think it was me who’d done that for you, so long ago… but you went off and married a monster !! Ungrateful bitch !’

With his last words, Raoul had begun sidling towards me, his vitriol focussed to a point—Erik took a step forward, his left arm flying up; at the very same moment there was a sharp crack; silver exploded all throughout the room as the mirror behind him broke into a thousand shards—and simultaneously, another arc of silver shone and flashed in the light.

Raoul emitted a surprised gulp as the tiny handgun leapt from his hand and skittered across the floor amidst countless shards of silvered glass… then my eyes refocussed to see a thin noose around Raoul’s neck, drawn tight, its other end under tension in Erik’s hands—and Nadir holding a curved and deadly-looking scimitar against Raoul’s adam’s apple; both men had moved like lightning, and I realised both were in a position to kill Raoul with the slightest movement... Erik could either strangle him or break his neck; Nadir could slice it wide open.

‘Erik ! Are you alright ?’ I screamed, getting to my feet—but Erik stood in place and extended his right hand to keep me away.

‘Stay away, darling… there’s too much glass,’ he commanded, without moving.

Across the room, Raoul spat hoarsely, ‘God, you people disgust me ! Christine… you’re supposed to be mine !’ He flinched as Nadir pressed the curved blade into his skin and hissed something in Persian which I did not understand.

‘My friend asks you not to force him to kill you,’ said Erik in a mocking tone, ‘and I must say, he shows far greater restraint than I'm inclined to do.’ He jerked the rope harshly and Raoul grimaced as Nadir's scimitar drew blood just above his collar; but Nadir did not relinquish his hold on him.

‘Erik—’ I looked helplessly at the floor, trying to find any means to cross it to reach him; glass was everywhere.

‘I said no, Christine. Keep your distance—please.’

‘It’s quite clear the lady has chosen Erik,’ Nadir said acidly, ‘and that you have chosen insanity. I don’t know how you avoided leaving on that ship—but by Allah, it is now my life’s duty to ensure you do leave port in the brig of the next one. Unless, of course, you want my shamshir to taste more of your blood.’

Raoul opened his mouth to respond, but Nadir pressed still harder with the scimitar and silenced him.

‘Let go your Punjab lasso, Erik,’ Nadir called over his shoulder without lessening his grip upon Raoul. ‘I swear to you that I shall personally avenge any injury upon your person this lunatic may have inflicted; there is no need for you to soil your hands with trash such as this.’

Erik’s fingers opened stiffly, and dropped his end of the rope; Nadir sliced deftly through its strands with his blade, and it fell to the floor as he began hauling Raoul towards the door, the crunch of glass beneath their feet.

‘If you ever set foot upon French land again,’ spat Nadir in Raoul’s face, baring his teeth menacingly, ‘I shall know about it. I shall be constantly watching you. You will not be able to even take a shit without me knowing about it.’ He flung open the door, then forced Raoul out into the deserted corridor. ‘Do you understand, young man ? And you shall never come here to the opera house, ever again.’

They continued to move together in ungainly steps, our friend clearly in control.

‘I shall see you in time, my friends,’ he called towards us soberly, ‘and I shall see you to jahanam, where you belong, fool boy.’

As soon as they had exited, Erik spoke to me in an urgent tone.

‘Christine… go fetch a broom from the stage wings. Be quick… please.’

I looked at him in fear; his face seemed unnaturally pale. Without hesitation, I silently and quickly did as he asked.

He stood stock-still as I carefully swept around him, pushing all the glass shards into the corner. The entire mirror was not destroyed, as it had been made of several panels seamlessly fit together—but the piece which still remained affixed to the wall behind Erik was broken in a large spider-web pattern, with much glass missing from its centre and laying bare the wooden wall-panelling behind it; I now realised it was also spattered with blood. I dropped the broom where I stood.

‘Erik… ?’ I asked hesitantly, both fear and bile rising up from the pit of my stomach.

‘Come now, my dear… help me get home.’

It was only then that Erik turned around towards the entrance to the Communard’s passage, and I saw that his back, neck and head were covered in blood; a large, deep crimson stain coloured the back of his costume, just above the shoulder-blade.

‘Mon dieu, Erik ! You’ve been shot !!’ I rushed to his side, but he again held up a hand to stop me.

‘Do not touch me, Christine—I am covered in glass shards. Come, darling… my strong sense of humiliation and loathing at being shot in front of my wife by that idiot boy may be enough to keep me from fainting in the tunnels, but we should make haste… I shall need your aid to tend to my lacerations.’

Two hours later, in the second bedroom of our home, I had managed to stanch his wound, in both front and back; thankfully the entrance and exit points were clean—and was still picking glass shards out of my husband’s entire posterior with a pair of tweezers, dropping each fragment into a basin; he lay prone upon the Louis Philippe bed, his forehead upon his arms, stoically bearing the pain. Except for the wound, the damage was superficial, but it was extensive; Raoul’s bullet had exited his shoulder and broken the mirror behind him, the glass launching itself through the fabric of Erik’s waistcoat and shirt, and into his skin. Some of the cuts wept blood as I removed the glass; his back was largely scar tissue and it would require extra time to heal. Every so often I swabbed clear grain alcohol upon his back, grimacing as he would groan and struggle not to writhe from the terrible stinging. The pain kept him from fainting; he had lost much blood from the gunshot wound. Fortunately, the thick twill trousers and tall leather boots of his costume had protected him below the waist; otherwise the glass splinters might have reached down to his ankles.

‘Oh, how I hate that lying little prick for doing this to you !’ I exclaimed for the hundredth time.

‘Christine, my love… this is nothing. My back is already scarred. Just be sure you get every shard… and don’t touch my clothing outside, I shall deal with it in a couple of days… I will have to burn the damned things…’

Earlier, I had clumsily helped him disrobe just outside the house while wearing his thickest pair of leather gloves, which were much too large for me. Despite my caution I had still received a few scratches on my forearms; glass was in everything. It had been quite an ordeal !

‘Erik, darling… let me get the magnifying glass to be sure I haven’t missed anything. But first, I shall bring you an apple and some leftover cold chicken… I want you to eat it all while I look you over once more, alright ?’

‘Yes, dear,’ he sighed wearily, his voice muffled as he lay face-down upon the bed.

At last, my husband lay resting in front of the fire in my bedroom. I had stanched one particularly deep cut in the back of his head, in a patch of scar tissue, that had been difficult to stop from bleeding. His body was spackled with plasters, his shoulder was wrapped tightly, and he was more than ready to sleep.

I left him in peace, and went into our parlour to let myself cry. How I despised that two-faced Raoul ! Whatever would possess a person to do what he’d confessed to ?

The strange thing was… once he’d finally admitted it hadn’t been he who really saved my scarf from the sea… I remembered the event. It hadn’t been him. It had been a young boy named Gaston, a local boy from Perros-Guirec, whom I never saw again.

Why would Raoul have pretended to do something years ago, that he hadn’t actually done—taken credit for someone else’s actions ? Especially something so trivial ? It just made no sense to me.

The next afternoon, Erik was up out of bed and joined me in the parlour, the colour considerably restored to his complexion.

‘Oh, darling,’ I said as I kissed him gently upon the cheek, ‘I’m simply relieved to see you looking so much better. Last night you were pale as death !’

‘Hélas,’ he said, ‘it’s no question that Piangi will have to play the rôle of Don Juan tonight… and likely for the next few nights. It’s a pity… but perhaps one of my herbal salves will speed recovery along, and I can return to the rôle before the run is through. I must admit I rather enjoyed myself last night. Well… until the scene in your dressing-room, of course.’

‘You need to rest, Erik,’ I cautioned. ‘Piangi can handle the rôle, even if it’s not ideal. If you open up any of those wounds again…’

‘Why, it’s merely a rôle—not a violin concerto… my wounds will be fine,’ he said defensively. ‘Do you really think I’m so reckless and cavalier, my dear Christine ?’

I considered it briefly.

‘Yes, dear. Yes, I do.’

The crooked smile that appeared on his face in response was all my heart needed at that moment.

Chapter Text

Chapitre XVII - ‘La fin de siècle…’

I lay there in silence, the heavy pall of shame weighing upon me like a shroud over a corpse—but I was miserably alive; the only thing truly dead was my pride, and I couldn’t forget it.

That bastard child of pretender noblesse had shot me in the shoulder with a puny little gun that would fit in a matchbox ! Me—who was once the master of this theatre ! What new level of disgrace I now suffered… shot by a child, with a child’s toy !

I had been so close to ending his pathetic life with my Punjab lasso, too—I should have thrown it sooner, and pulled harder; I would have spared everyone the trouble of the broken mirror, not to mention my own bullet wound and perhaps two hundred new, small lacerations—but Nadir shocked the hell out of me by pulling that shamshir out of his belt ! I may have taken the daroga out of Persia, but apparently no-one shall ever take Persia out of the daroga ! Ha !

And that man has taken a few leaves out of my own book, it seems… for without my even knowing it, he’d become a member of le Deuxième Bureau, convinced the Opéra managers that I was one of his spies, averted the crisis of any potential mob chasing after my sorry ass, thickened the plot of my very own opera production by uncomplainingly becoming a character in its third act, and then—now—had saved my life once again by means of an ancient Persian weapon which I had no idea he even carried… he’d even threatened to kill the boy himself ! Saved my life—for the second time, in as many days !

Now, Nadir and I had squared our obligations at last. But even so, it galled me, for the sheer manner of how it had occurred.

God… I must be getting soft in my old age ! Clearly, it was time to retire. Good it was, therefore, that I had built a house in the country for Christine and myself and the family we looked forward to having. Good it was, also, that I was planning to leave the Opéra behind us, and to start anew… I would do everything possible to give my wife the kind of life she deserved ! I still had a significant fortune stored away from my varied travels across Asia and my architectural work in Persia; kings paid well, and I had taken outrageous advantage of my position, with the sage foreknowledge that it would not last.

But those days were far behind me; I had now reached a point in which I, Erik, le Fantôme de l’Opéra, architect and executioner for the Persian royalty, magical conjurer and illusionist extraordinaire, gitano herbalist and professional thief, mechanical inventor and theorist, master builder for Charles Garnier, composer and writer of what was now the most sensational work ever staged in the history of Parisian opera—and that which pleased me most : lover and husband of the singer Christine Daaé—was now flat on his stomach in bed, covered in bandages, arm in a sling, merely another gunshot casualty in the already long list of victims of those horrid and lazy inventions—for their bearers do not possess the courage nor the fortitude to take a man’s life with their own hands ! And shame of all shame, it had been wielded not by a dashing criminal, nor a canny policeman, nor a skilled assassin of international repute… but by a toddling child, a callow urchin in the midst of a tantrum, a narcissist of immeasurable degree operating from some unknowable, self-serving internal ideation.

I could hardly bear the thought !

Thus it was that Piangi did return to the rôle of Don Juan. The production was nowhere nearly as exciting with him in my stead; when some days later I watched from my place in Box N° 5, I was heartsick with the pang of disappointment. It should have been me upon that stage with my lovely wife !

Curiously, Nadir was himself absent from many successive performances over the following few days; I’d had Christine convey to his most admirably discreet maid Lucretia that I’d been shot, but I had received no correspondence from him since; thus, I could only imagine he was seeing to the promise he had made upon his hasty exit with the insufferable prat in tow. I wondered if he’d known that I’d been injured, and had only been too decent to let on. A man only knows by experience the pain of vulnerability and weakness in front of his friends, and thereby understands the means by which to spare another the pain of similar humiliation… and, after all, Nadir and I had an understanding borne of the many years and difficult experiences which we’d endured together.

His rôle was thusly taken over by the understudy who had formerly been a dancer in the ballet troupe along with Christine; I remembered him well, having once hated him thoroughly for the way he had grasped her leg in the performances of Salomé, which seemed so long ago—before I had even revealed myself in physical form to her ! But now he had been rendered perfectly harmless in my eyes; so much attention did he receive from certain quarters for his turn in the part of The Persian—Christine had informed me that her friend Meg Giry was becoming smitten with the man, and what did I think; I of course responded that the match was only natural, and that Meg could certainly have fared much worse—and I hardly even gave the young man a single consideration beyond this, except for the fact that his presence upon the stage meant that Nadir was obviously being kept at some onerous task; Mlle Giry was free to choose whomever she wanted so long as it wasn’t some criminally stupid and rhythmically-impaired fool.

In the meantime I received numerous letters from the managers enquiring about the tenor for whom the house had erupted in tumult on the night of the ‘real’ première. They had not only extended the number of performances of my opera ‘due to popular demand,’ but they wanted him back… Ha ! Just imagine that ! It seems many of the audience from the first full performance had returned to see it again, and were unhappy about the substitute of Piangi by comparison. Le Petit Journal was full of gossip, not so much anymore about the mystery composer but now the mystery singer. They fawned over the content of the work—even as they disparaged the tonality… the fools ! They also wanted to know : why did the infamous Don Juan wear a mask ? No explanation was ever provided to the public, but it seemed to make no difference to the audiences; they embraced it as just another part of the curious staging.

At last, my friend the daroga sent me a letter, stating that he had returned to the city, that he would participate in the production that night, that he’d been pleasantly surprised by its extension of another two weeks, and that he would stop in beforehand this evening to see me, via my Rue Auber entrance.

Christine had already ventured up to the ground level to ready herself for that night’s performance, so I went alone to go meet Nadir on the far side of the lake, giving myself extra time to gingerly pole myself across the waters in my still-enfeebled state. I detected the sounds of his descent from the moment he stepped foot in the tunnels, and it wasn’t long before I could see his most excellent set of teeth shining in the darkness.

‘Erik,’ he said graciously, fumbling to shake my hand in the near-complete darkness, ‘you are recovering sufficiently, I trust ? Lucretia knew my whereabouts, and wired me after Christine visited the house in my absence.’

‘I am doing better,’ I said succinctly; ‘my shoulder is healing, but still quite painful and stiff. Ah, Nadir, you've changed your hat !’

‘Oh—it’s just a little something to preserve my incognito. But those Derringers are nasty little buggers—by Allah, that infantile lump wasn’t kidding when he bragged of their danger. They’re too easy to conceal—really a problem in terms of security. But at anything less than point-blank range, they are at least not so terribly destructive as their larger counterparts.’

‘I’ll be fine,’ I said tersely as I guided my friend to the gondola; he tossed in a carpetbag before stepping aboard. It was then I realised that, in addition to his new wide-brimmed hat with its low crown, he was clothed in a short cape and long cassock which buttoned entirely down the front; a small bit of white collar was just visible at his throat.

‘Daroga… what in hell's name are you wearing ? Tell me you haven’t…’

‘No, Erik… I most certainly have not converted. I know it is a rather outrageous disguise—and may Allah forgive me for dressing like a Christian priest, but it was necessary !’

‘Well… looking like that, daroga—you’ll certainly have to forego your habit of calling upon Allah. It’s decidedly inauthentic. Are you also carrying a rosary ?’

‘A what… ? Oh… those beaded strings they keep about ? By no means ! I may need resort to this as a disguise—but I still possess my dignity as a follower of the Prophet, peace be upon him. ’

I chuckled gaily as I gently set us off across the water, towards the tunnel which led way from my house while he lit a cigarette of his usual fragrant tobacco; rather than elaborate upon where he had been or why he had been gone, instead he treated me to a tale of woe concerning his change of wardrobe; it turned out that, due to the publicity received in the papers of the opera, its characters, and costuming, he could no longer be seen in the 9th arrondissement, or frankly anywhere on la rive droite, wearing his now-trademark astrakhan wool ensemble; ‘The Persian’ had become a popular icon of the moment.

‘Erik—would you believe that when I arrived back in town from my errand, I was immediately set upon by enthusiasts of your production ? They wouldn’t be put off until I had signed postcards for them, or whatever else they happened to have on hand… but they didn’t want my name, they wanted a signature bearing only “The Persian”… and as I doled out autographs, more people kept noticing the crowd and approaching, it took over half an hour to get rid of them all… afterwards I had to immediately purchase myself a completely new, and different, hat and coat to wear !’

‘Ha!’ I laughed facetiously, ‘well of all the possible outrages, Nadir ! How I do sympathise with your frustrations ! Of course it only makes sense to dress like a curé, in order to throw people off the scent !’

‘Yes, my friend… no-one shall recognise me like this. My anonymity has once again been restored.’

‘I don’t know that I’ve ever seen a priest with a moustache,’ I added. ‘Nor do I believe it is considered seemly for them to smoke.’

‘Well,’ he shrugged indifferently, ‘I’m obviously not from around here. Perhaps it’s done differently in the home country. Nobody will know the difference.’

‘Until some poor soul in need of redemption asks you to absolve him of his sins, and expects you to actually know some bit of Christian rhetoric.’

He looked at me sharply, as though he hadn’t considered this possibility, and then laughed. ‘Oh, the Qur’an has plenty to say about the man whom they believe to be a second god ! I could certainly set them straight… and I would gladly hear out their transgressions as well… all the better to gain information I would not otherwise have had ! Just so long as they do not recognise me as “The Persian”, the disguise will have served its purpose.’

‘But surely,’ I offered, ‘your turn in this suddenly popular rôle really will afford you additional opportunities for espionage which you previously have been denied in certain circles ? For surely this will provide for you some elevation in social status. I would expect that various snobbish highborns now believe you to be a legitimate actor of some pedigree—’

‘You’re not wrong about that; I’ve received enough dinner invitations to feed me every night for the next month and beyond. And I have already accepted three engagements which I do believe will be most rewarding in terms of… the legitimate gathering of information—at which I plan on appearing as myself.’

‘Well, daroga, I shall have to fabricate for your benefit, from the annals of my knowledge of the theatrical literature, various believable lies for you to tell about acting credits to your past experience—all of them, of course, in faraway and possibly even nonexistent cities, but nonetheless impressive in terms of repertoire or in the esteem they shall grant you as topics for conversation over what is sure to be a meal that is most certainly not halal.’

‘I accepted only those where I observed duck, chicken, or veal on the menu. And I shall relish supplying these new stratified contacts with vast quantities of falsehoods in order to convince them that I have nothing actually to do with police-work. And that, as an “Arab”, I’m terribly miscast as a Persian.’

I roared with laughter as I once again surveyed his curious raiment; only Nadir could rouse my spirits so !

‘Ahh, my friend,’ I chuckled, patting him on the back as we alighted near the archway which lead towards the deepest underbelly of the stage, ‘the fact is, you are such an effective bullshitter and teller of lies for the sake of the law that you frankly already are an actor of considerable merit. And this particular disguise, only proves it... Father Kahn.’

He laughed at my remark with the same good humour as always; we continued to chat lightly as I saw him to the rear of the concealed doorway which opened to the darkest part of the upstage, behind the backdrops.

‘And now we part, Erik… I must go dress as myself,’ he said, patting the carpetbag. ‘And… I’m sincerely glad that you were not mortally wounded, and are recovering.’

Once he was safely through, I doubled back, turning into the Communard’s passage in order that I might kiss my wife for luck in her newly re-mirrored dressing-room. As I made my way there, I reflected upon the strange feeling of others being happy that I was alive; I also considered how Nadir certainly seemed to share some of my very best scoundrel qualities—even if I did say so myself ! But I was encouraged by the fact that he was having a curious sort of fun with his unexpected new circumstances.

Well… once I was sufficiently recovered from my damnable injuries—I intended to do the same !

At last, the week of the final Don Juan performances came—a string of evening performances, and one last matinée. I had recovered enough to play the rôle in the shows, although my shoulder was still bandaged beneath my costume; the managers received the news of the return of the now-favoured tenor with delight. In addition, each night I took great pains to make it obvious that le Fantôme had unquestionably occupied Box N° 5 for the performance, so they would certainly never guess that he and the unknown singer were one and the same.

At each of my performances, the reaction of the audience was astounding every time. The screams of ‘encore’ were such at the final evening presentation that I did, in fact, have to return to the stage after having already disappeared—and I sang another song, a cappella, for which the audience fell absolutely silent in rapt attention. And then, when it was finished, they held me with applause for another ten minutes before I disappeared again and refused to return.

I had never experienced anything like it !

Moncharmin and Richard even wrote several more letters to me afterwards, asking not only if I would consider allowing them to stage it again later at the end of the season and if I might arrange for ‘The Masked Tenor’ to return for the entire rôle this time—as well as to ask him whether he was interested in singing further rôles for them ! But the question which staggered me the most, was this : might I consider writing another opera for future production ? Might I !

Well, perhaps… perhaps.

After this, the company moved on to what I lamented as yet another staging of Robert le diable—Meyerbeer didn’t have a nearby rue named in his honour without reason, after all, but I consoled myself in the fact that the rue was small, commensurate with his true degree of musical importance; thus I used the promise of utter programmatic boredom as an opportunity to make what was my final trip down the Seine without Christine. She went to stay with Nadir for the interim, and I busied myself with packing most of our belongings, which I cunningly disguised as crates of derelict props which had been sold to a high bidder during a private auction; these were carted to the quay and loaded onto a barge without ceremony while I booked passage upon a smaller passenger steam-ship to accompany the load to Les Andelys.

Once arrived the following day and our belongings finally loaded upon a hired team and wagon, I conducted my way to the site of our new home and again met with my trusted contractor, Pierre Trebuchet, to inspect the work; I happily found it to my satisfaction and perfectly complete except for a bit of work in the garden which was being finished. I spent three days arranging our rooms enough to live in comfortably, and to surprise Christine—although she really does seem to loathe it when I keep secrets from her, I couldn’t help it—I set up the bedroom next to ours, which had been outfitted as a nursery, with a bassinet which I had secretly made for our child, carved and fitted together by my own hands.

The piano was also delivered whilst I was there; I tuned it myself, employing my most favoured temperament, and played it just enough to ensure I was satisfied with the instrument… I had not the heart to play music for my own enjoyment, when I was apart from my dear wife. How I hated any separation from her !

Thus I returned upriver to Paris, ready for this next stage of our lives.

Back in the city, before leaving the riverfront, I made arrangements for our last trunks to be shuttled to the quay that evening for our trip downriver together the following day. My mother’s Louis Philippe furniture and my pipe-organ had to stay behind in the cellars of the Opéra; so be it ! How much better would it be, to trade these relics of the past for the future haven of our new home ?

Our new home ! My heart swelled to the bursting point as I considered it.

It was shortly after lunchtime that my cab drew up at Nadir’s to collect Christine. As I entered, Lucretia informed me that my wife was napping upstairs; the daroga—this time mercifully dressed as the man he normally was—thereupon invited me to take tea and engage in our favourite pastime while we waited for her to waken.

Some minutes later, Nadir sat grimly puffing a cigarette and studying the problem before him at the chess board when suddenly he announced quietly :

‘Bismillah.’

With that one word, I knew from our long association that I was about to hear something considerable. I said nothing in response; well I knew that it was typical for policemen to take their damned sweet time when it came to anything they did.

‘Now that your opera has finished production and we are once again free to resume our former habits, I have been making some discreet inquiries.’

‘Are you saying, Nadir, that your bourgeois little dinner engagements at the homes of the socially elite and nouveau-riche were habits you had before I made you famous ?’

‘Well—no,’ he smiled unapologetically, glad to look up from where my black knight had endangered his white queen within only two moves. ‘But, my inquiries were all the more easily carried out by the fact that I was already in the eighth arrondissement for these reasons.’

I barked a laugh. ’By god, daroga—the eighth ? My, my… you’re keeping some exceedingly rarified company these days ! Well by all means, do tell… what nefarious skullduggery have you uncovered in the city’s most prosperous quarter ?’

‘Hélas…’ he sighed, pushing his queen forward one square, upon which I instantly pounced with a bishop which I’d removed to my farthest ranks and about which he’d clearly forgotten.

‘You’d think I would make a better chess-player, considering the degree to which I myself have to manoeuvre similarly in my work,’ he said sourly.

‘One does not necessarily inform the other,’ I consoled him, ‘as one is reality and the other but a mere game played for enjoyment.’

‘So—I just happened to be passing down boulevard des Malesherbes,’ he continued.

‘Well, well. The uppermost echelon of fashionable addresses,’ I couldn’t resist commenting.

‘—and which just happens to be address of the family of that petulant brat who damaged Christine’s mirror, and your shoulder in the process… so I thought I might as well stop in to call upon the elder brother, to remind him of the conversation I’d had with him on the night of the première, and to apprise him of the fact that he had failed in his promise to me. And by so doing, I uncovered a few facts about de Chagny the younger which you may find interesting, Erik.’

I shrugged in distaste. ‘I highly doubt that anything about such a snot-nosed coward of a boy could ever be of the remotest interest to me.’

He ignored my comment—as was his wont, when he was on a serious tack. ‘It seems as though his elder brother, le Comte, did indeed arrange a rapid deployment of his younger charge—as the younger boy claimed before he shot you.’

‘Oh ? Well it apparently wasn’t rapid enough—considering the fact that he managed to shoot me.’

‘Do you recall anything else the young man said to us then ?’

‘I recall him hurling a host of foul epithets at my beloved wife—which, had we not been held at gunpoint, I would have forced the snivelling rat to gaze upon his own navel while I ritually disembowelled him for even thinking such things.’ The chess board between us was wholly forgotten now, as my fuming rage was fanned into a flame of pure hatred by the mere recollection of what had happened.

‘Anything else ?’ my friend prompted.

I sat and thought. ‘And I recall the fool stating that his brother fell asleep at dinner—or some other such maniacal and trivial nonsense. The mad little bastard !’

‘Indeed—his brother “fell asleep”, so to speak, because the young man poisoned him. There was enough laudanum in the wine carafe on the buffet to drug an entire dinner party. Le Comte nearly died, in fact, from simply consuming half a glass.’

‘The idiot must have wildly miscalculated the dosage.’

‘Not at all,’ Nadir said easily; ‘I believe it was his sole intent. That young man is capable of carrying out something dastardly—even if his methods are not up to your standards of sophistication.’

‘Do you still believe him to be an anarchist ?’ I asked bitterly.

‘No,’ he answered, ‘I believe him to be something far more insidious than that... he is a pathological narcissist, and quite a developed one at that.’

I slammed my hand down upon the table so emphatically that our tea-china rattled and upset the pieces I had won from Nadir. ‘Daroga, I thought the same damned thing ! That little pompous, egocentric prick has no concept of reality, and an injury to his vanity could be fatal. The most dangerous, and least predictable, sort of person !’

‘To be sure,’ agreed my friend. ‘Although people fear them, petty criminals are cinq-sous for a dozen and are nevertheless quite similar to their law-abiding counterparts. But men like de Chagny are the true threats. While most of them are content to simply abuse and hold in psychological hostage those of their family in the privacy of their own homes—the few who come to kill, torture and abuse for sport, for the sheer vindictiveness of it ? They are all pathological narcissists… just like him. And he is only getting started in his career.’

I folded my arms. How I hated to even think of that vile and pathetic child !

Then Nadir chuckled. ‘Perhaps I need to speak with le Deuxième Bureau about hiring you as an analyst, Erik. You’d do quite well… you, of all people, certainly know what evil lurks in the heart of men.’

‘I’m retiring to the country, daroga. My sole interest is now seeing my family live happily and healthily while I compose the music of my dotage and teach my children how to become fine, inimitable musicians.’

‘In any case,’ Nadir said, veering back to the former topic with impunity, ‘I ascertained that the elder de Chagny had in fact, on the night of the original première of Don Juan, sent the younger home under supervision of their driver—then hired a cab for himself, by which he went straight to the residence of the boy’s commanding officer, and demanded in no uncertain terms that his brother be required to report for immediate active duty before lunchtime the following day. The officer yielded to le Comte’s conditions and agreed to send off the wire containing revised orders first thing the next morning—and this he did; I verified all aspects of the story. And most curiously, the boy even appeared to acquiesce to these demands, reporting the next morning at the time he was told.’

‘Yet he bought his way off the boat—as everyone knows the wealthy in this country are wont to do for anything which they wish to avoid,’ I ventured as I uncaringly pushed a pawn forward in response to Nadir’s abrupt decision to castle his rook and king. ‘But that fails to explain why the cretin would have drugged his brother’s wine in advance of the following day. What was his point in doing so, other than sheer wretchedness ?’

‘Ah ! And I wondered that, too,’ he said, crossing his arms and once more ignoring the board between us. ‘While the motive may not be immediately obvious to you, it is only because you—while having taken the lives of men in the past—did not commit the acts out of mere ambition; you did so for reasons of practicality—thus your motive was frankly logical. For example, in Persia it became your job to execute criminals, and to do so creatively, by means which would elicit excitement and suspense for those watching—otherwise your own life would be taken; hence, you complied, rationalising it as a showman orchestrating any other show, however morbid the actual task at hand may have been.’

I grunted in agreement; I so loathed to recall those royal commands to which I had been subject !

‘And when we made our escape from the guard of the Shah-en-Shah—and later when we made our way over the Arabian peninsula and crossed into Egypt—those men whose lives you claimed were either decided obstacles to our freedom, or they were direct threats to our continued existence. Or,’ he said with a sheepish grin, ‘they had injured me almost mortally, and you acted in vengeance as my friend. And thus, by the gracious blessing of Allah, we both sit here today.’

We sat there, the eyes of one probing the depths of the other's, as we both reflected upon those traumatic moments from our shared past—those moments that had forged a bond which even blood relation and common background frankly cannot touch.

‘But you did not kill those men out of your own selfish insanity,’ he continued. ‘Those instances were borne out of a sense of comprehensible rationality—even if not condonable by the code of civil law. And it is my opinion that most men, when placed in the same circumstances, would make the same choices as did you. However—this is not the case with young de Chagny. His reasons were twofold: one, he poisoned the wine sheerly to punish Monsieur Philippe post facto; and two, he wanted to more easily sneak back in… also for the twofold purposes of gloating over his achievement, and ambition for his own gains. For once he had bribed his way off the naval vessel, he sat all day at a café on Pasquier, smoking away the while; the waiter there—who has waited on him countless times these past months and knows exactly who he is—attested to the fact that the boy filled three consecutive ash-trays with the ends of cigarettes. He then returned to the family home shortly before the dinner hour, for three reasons,’ here Nadir held up his right hand and emphatically counted off his fingers as he enumerated them : ‘to ensure that his brother was unconscious, and to take pleasure in it; to change clothes so as to disguise himself; and to avail himself to funds from his brother’s bedroom safe.’

‘Ah ! He is a petty thief as well ?!’ This was a turn I had not expected. What a bizarre sort this hateful lad had turned out to be !

Nadir went on unabated. ‘His brother’s personal valet, a certain Monsieur Candillon, found Monsieur le Comte unresponsive at the table when the soup was brought out—and not only was he unresponsive, but the remainder of his wine-glass had been emptied over his head, and the flowers from the centre-piece dumped upon him; the valet hurried back downstairs to the kitchen and raised the alarm amongst the staff, after which he and the cook returned to clean up and carry the stricken man back up to his bedroom. It was then he noted that the safe had been opened… and he was absolutely certain the safe had not been open when he and his master had left the room after dressing for dinner a mere forty-five minutes previously; it had been at this point that Monsieur le Comte took his customary evening glass of wine. Add to this, the fact that Monsieur Candillon afterwards found that the younger man’s wardrobe, which he himself had emptied of uniforms earlier that morning, was open, a naval uniform hanging in it, and a set of common street-clothes missing.’

‘So the valet immediately suspected the younger brother ?’

‘When he saw the manner in which le Comte had been ridiculed, he suspected—and then when subsequently he saw the open safe, he said he knew it to be fact. He has served the family for many years; he knows them better than anyone.’

‘I’ll be damned. The treacherous little bastard ! What a perverted sense of revenge, indeed !’

‘So it was then, once the money had been stolen, that the younger de Chagny absconded from the house—and I hope I don’t sound revoltingly smug when I add that I was also successful in locating a hansom cab-driver, whose first fare of that evening’s shift was a slender young man wearing a Homburg hat; he hailed the cab from the corner of boulevard des Malesherbes and rue Pasquier, at about the same time the alarm was raised over le Comte within the house. And most damning of all, was the young man’s destination…’

‘Le Théâtre de l’Opéra !’ I interjected.

‘He paid off the cab-driver at the corner of rues Scribe and Gluck,’ the daroga confirmed.

‘The administration entrance,’ I muttered quietly.

‘Yes… the perfect means by which to duck inside and sneak into Christine’s dressing-room, and await his chance to exact retribution for his offended vanity.’

Nadir had been right; the fool hadn’t done the job with any grace to speak of—but he had done it effectively, which was all that mattered.

‘Le petit connard ! ’ I spat venomously.

‘By the time I hauled him into le bureau des Maritimes at the quay,’ Nadir continued, ‘the naval vessel had long since departed, but they realised he was missing during the evening roll-call. They wired back to the Navy office in Paris, who sent gendarmes to inquire at his home.’

‘And did you goose-step him into the office with your shamshir still at his throat ?’ I was filled with a great sense of schadenfreude at the very idea of Nadir doing such a thing to this boy who, while I had despised him from the moment I laid eyes on him, had nevertheless, during the course of the last twenty minutes, surpassed mere loathing, derision and scorn; I now felt the deepest revulsion and hatred I had experienced in the past thirty years—and I wanted him to suffer !

‘I held it to his back between his ribs by then—and I promised him he’d be run through before he could even realise he was dead if he made any attempt to cross me or to escape. He was thrown directly into a cell for having defied orders and deserted. Although the Navy is not my jurisdiction, it was a simple thing to arrange a liason through my own office, and I stayed there all night watching over him. I also personally escorted him onto a Navy steam-ship the next morning, and stared at him through a port-hole all the way down the Seine, while he sat locked in a cabin—it was then I received the wire from Lucretia that Christine had come by with the news you’d indeed been shot. It was two days before we joined the expedition ship in Le Havre; wherein he was thrown into the brig—just as I’d promised him he’d be... and who else was already there, but the man he had bribed,’ Nadir added in a mocking tone. ‘I even stayed on the ship until it was one full day out to sea—so as to be sure it was utterly beyond his ability to return. The Navy had arranged for a second steam-vessel to accompany us, which was our escort until I was ready to rendezvous, which returned me to shore the next day. Back in Le Havre, I mercifully took the train back to Paris the following morning. Thus, my absence of some days, and the need for my understudy as you recovered your health.’

Here he at last paused for a moment, before adding wryly, ‘I am a man of the desert, Erik… not a man of the sea. It was not a pleasant journey—not by any means. But I did it gladly, and I would do it again, for a friend such as you. You may be a snail-eating charlatan, but you twice saved my life, and it’s something I shall never forget.’

‘But daroga,’ I said, the efforts of my friend on my behalf eroding some of the hatred which his story had stirred up in my heart, ‘you have now twice saved mine. You are not in my debt—we are now even.’

‘It is not a question of debt,’ my friend pronounced stiffly, ‘it is a question of loyalty. You many times took grave risks to assure my survival. One cannot ask for such loyalty; it is either freely given, or it is not given at all. My gratitude to you for such a gift, cannot be measured.’

‘You are a true friend, Nadir,’ I finally said.

‘It is a title I am honoured to hold,’ he replied.

‘You will be my child’s god-father—or, at least, the symbolic equivalent of such.’

He smiled broadly. ‘I shall gladly bring the goat upon the child’s birth. Perhaps even two.’

‘Shukran, sadiqi,’ I said simply. For what else could one say ?

He nodded, took a sip of now-tepid tea, and turned his attention back to the board between us.

‘So what now becomes of the fool ?’ I asked as Nadir made a simple move with a pawn.

‘Check,’ he announced.

Startled, I looked down. Good god… he had indeed somehow managed to sneak up on my king ! I quickly took the pawn to remove myself from the situation. That had been a close call.

‘Praise to Allah, he is absolutely beyond your concern at this point,’ said the daroga with a tone of great finality. ‘He is more of a threat to himself than he is to your happiness. That said, I shall maintain a careful surveillance of his situation. The older brother has improved and is once again on his feet, and while he wasn’t pleased to see me he was nevertheless willing to cooperate and gave plenty of details. I can assure you, Erik, no-one in Paris is inclined to miss him. In any case… checkmate.’

I stared at my friend as he took my king with his bishop, sliding in and knocking the piece off its square with a flourish and a devilish smile.

Placing my hands flat on the table, I sighed in resignation as I pretended to carefully study the onyx stone and the wedding band beneath it which adorned the smallest finger of my left hand.

‘I’m losing my touch, daroga… it’s time to retire, move out to the country, and start a family.’

‘Good thing, then,’ he said, ‘that tonight is your last night in Paris. Are you quite sure you won’t stay here with me, now that your house by the lake is empty ?’

‘No, my friend, I thank you for the very kind offer, but Christine and I shall stay in the Louis Philippe room, and I shall play my organ one last time this night. It is time to say goodbye to the only true home I’ve ever had.’

‘Well, Erik, I wish you all the blessings of Allah as you start this new chapter of your life. I simply cannot tell you, how proud of you I am… frankly, I never believed I would ever see the sight—you, married and with a child on the way !’

‘Indeed, daroga… and I would never have believed you would become an actor of such renown !’

I laughed loudly as he rolled his eyes and shook his head.

‘Hazan jyd,’ I heard him exhale softly under his breath, as he extracted a cigarette case from the breast-pocket of his jacket; he selected one, struck a match, and touched the flame to its tip.

‘Well, my friend…’ I held out my hand to shake his, and he took it as he breathed out a cloud of smoke. ‘Congratulations on beating me at chess for the second time ever.’

But of course, it was at this precise moment that Christine entered the room.

A laugh of sparkling delight escaped her lips, and she almost skipped across the room to stand over our table and view the carnage of my first loss in years. ‘Nadir… you won ? You actually won ? ’

‘I did indeed,’ he said, smiling winsomely through the haze of thin, silver tendrils which surrounded him. ‘So tomorrow you’ll have to take your husband out of town, and “put him out with the pastor,” as I believe you Europeans say.’

‘Pasture, Nadir,’ I corrected good-naturedly, ‘the word is pasture… “out to pasture”.

‘No, my friend… I used the correct word. I was making a pun in reference to my most excellent new disguise.’

Chapter Text

Chapitre XVIII - ‘L’ascension vers de nouveaux hauts…’

That night, Christine and I spent our last night in the Opéra basement.

It was an emotional goodbye for me; I had frankly never thought to leave my Fifth-Cellar home until Christine came to stay with me. And though we had a beautiful and lovely home now awaiting us just a day’s journey down the Seine—and I was prepared to make the change and accepted it, desired it even—it was nevertheless very difficult to leave. Knowing, all the same, that I could return whenever I wished; despite the fact that I surely would… still, once Christine was soundly asleep at my side in the bed in which I had been born some five decades previously, I silently wept copious tears to think of leaving it all behind.

As we departed the following morning, I didn’t permit myself to look back.

I knew the Opéra would always be a beautiful jewel, and that barring some hideously unforeseen circumstance it would stand for a very, very long time—especially as Christine had expressly forbade me from detonating any of the many barrels of explosives which I had stored in the cellar… quite honestly, I’m not sure that I would ever really have detonated them—unless of course the unrelenting repetition of mediocre Meyerbeer works had continued as it once threatened to do ! I would rather have left the place in rubble than be forced to hear one more idiotic and appallingly dull note… !

But the pain of leaving this magnificently wonderful building behind me—so much of which I had crafted and overseen myself—for the first time ever in any permanent sense, was extremely profound. It had truly been my home.

Although my new mask was an utterly convincing one, fitting so close to my face and so well-camouflaged that no-one ever suspected it was not my true visage, and although I had worn it during every trip I had made to oversee the work in Les Andelys, it was still my preference to withdraw into seclusion; thus we retired to the privacy of our steamship cabin early on, and there we remained until first light. We were due to arrive at the dock shortly after seven o’clock that morning; I wanted Christine to see the village upon our approach, so we hastily dressed and readied our overnight bags, afterwards making our way to the foredeck, where we stood closely together against the chill of morning, my arm wrapped around her shoulders.

At last the vessel rounded a great bend in the river, and first a castle, then a town, came into view.

‘There it is, Christine,’ I said as I pointed ahead, ‘Les Andelys.’

‘Oh, Erik!’ she cried with wonder, ‘what a beautiful sight ! I’ve never seen such a charming place in my entire life !’

‘Do you really think so, my dear ?’

‘Ohlala—it’s wonderful !’ She pointed up to the massive Norman edifice which rose up over the valley upon a long ridge. ‘Tell me again, the name of that great castle ?’

‘Those are the ruins of Château Gaillard,’ I said. ‘It is nearly a thousand years old.’

She gazed up at it in wonder as we passed below the towering fortress, finally rounding another gentle bend, at which point an island came into view.

‘Do you know the name of that island ?’ she asked eagerly.

‘Yes… that is l’Île du Château. There are legends that it is haunted by spirits.’

She giggled into my shoulder. ‘Oh, goodness… well, I have experience living with a phantom. But I can’t imagine what it’s like to live somewhere that is actually haunted !’

Not long after the island came into view, we disembarked at Les Andelys to find the cart and two horses which I had bought the previous day at the local hostler's and arranged with him for it to be delivered that morning to await the boat’s arrival; I helped Christine up into the leather-upholstered bench seat while our trunks were loaded in the back, then handsomely paid the dock-workers who’d helped us. I climbed up next to her, taking the reigns of the handsome pair of chestnut geldings—which I had chosen for their gentle and endearing personalities—and urged them to start up gently for her sake. It had not been particularly rainy of late and so the road was relatively level and dry, and only badly rutted in a couple of places which tended to collect standing water.

Christine loved every metre of it—every tree was just lovely; every bend in the road was so picturesque; any other traveller we passed was the nicest person she’d ever had the privilege to wave at. I had never seen her so happy and excited… excepting possibly the evening we were married… or, perhaps even the first night that we performed together upon the stage in my opera ! It made my heart incredibly full, just to witness her ecstatic splendour.

It took just over an hour to reach our front gate with the horses at a walk. I climbed down to unlock it, then led the horses through, closing it behind us and climbing back up to conduct us down the driveway. Christine became extremely excited at this point—the most excited I have ever seen her; it wasn’t until we had rounded a grove of trees from the original forest which I had intentionally left uncleared for the sake of privacy, that the house itself came into view : a lovely off-white limestone edifice with a jerkinhead slate roof, two storeys tall, with the main entrance at the base of a large central turret faced with a large bow window on the first level, which rose to a second level above the roof-line. Christine was so moved that she simply went silent, her dainty gloved hands covering her mouth in amazement as we neared it. I urged the horses around the right side of the turnaround, and brought them to a stop beneath the porte cochère at the side of the house.

Leaping down to the fine gravel of the driveway, I helped her out of the seat, and then leaving the horses hitched for the time being—I would lead them to the stable, unharness and curry them later, for I had hired no help, preferring to do the work of tending our home and property myself—I haltingly led her around the corner to the front door; she kept stopping to laugh in disbelief with myriad cries of ‘ohlala’ as she looked in through the windows of her own home, repeatedly saying she couldn’t believe it was real !

When at last I had coaxed her to the front entrance, I pulled a sizeable skeleton key from my coat pocket and handed it to her.

She gazed down at the key, with its pretty filigree handle, and beamed.

‘It’s beautiful, Erik !’ she said in awe.

‘Open the door to your new house, my darling.’

‘Ohlala, oh Erik… ohlala, I can’t believe this is really happening !’ she exclaimed.

Hands trembling with tremendous excitement, she inserted the key into the keyhole with some effort, but it turned easily; the latch snicked open, and she gingerly pushed open the right-hand door.

‘Shall I carry you over the threshold of your new home, my lady ?’

She laughed open-mouthed in response and threw her arms around me; I scooped her up and carried her inside, setting her down in the centre our new grand foyer.

She emitted an enormous gasp, slowly turning in a circle and looking all around in awe of the lovely interior.

‘My god, Erik… I just can’t believe it… c’est exactement le salon de la lune de l’Opéra !! ’

Above our heads was a small rotunda of painted shafts of light and stars in sparkling silverleaf, which had been fashioned in a precise re-creation of le salon de la lune from the opera house, from my original building plans; it was my small ode to my former residence, and one of my favoured aspects, which I had faithfully incorporated into the new design, down to the last detail; silvered mirrors around us extended the views to infinity, and realistically-painted bats flew around the base of the small pendant chandelier as they heralded the night !

And just as in the opera house, three sets of classically arch-topped doorways opened up before us : one led upstairs, one led to the left, and one to the right.

‘Take your pick, Christine… what would you like to discover first ?’ I asked, astonished to find that my own voice trembled with anticipation just seeing her face alight with such joy.

She looked back at me, beaming, and chose the door to the left; its interior was hung over with plush velvet wine-red curtains which I’d left closed for maximum effect; these opened to a small landing with three shallow marble steps leading down; this was the conservatoire. Its floor was oaken, its high ceiling criss-crossed with fine timbers, its asymmetrical walls plastered above a marble wainscot of dark grey bardiglio sombre surmounted by carved rouge griotte moulding, with small corinthian columns of green spath fluor spaced every four feet around the entire room; leaded beveled-diamond glass windows looked out over the front lawn and driveway. The sunlight pouring into the room shimmered due to the refraction, and made for pleasing effect. The room was variously hung with additional deep wine-red hangings which could be opened or closed as needed to either attenuate or amplify the natural effect of the hall's reverberation.

But Christine may or may not have taken initial notice of these features, as something else claimed her attention forthwith.

‘Oh my god, Erik ! We have our own piano ?! ’ she shrieked, rushing down the steps and over to the instrument, sounding a tentative note upon the keyboard; it resonated in the perfectly-tuned space, just enough sustain for the relative size of the room—thus had been the motive for my specification of materials and the implementation of their design. But we were going to live in this house for the rest of our lives; there was no need to tell her all of this now.

‘Yes, my dear… we have a piano.’

‘Erik, Erik, oh my god ! Ohlala, this is too—’

And then she turned around, towards the front windows, and froze in her tracks.

‘We have a harp ?! ’

‘I thought perhaps you might like to hear something other than an organ. Which we also have, just in a different form; there is a Harmonium reed organ set into the wall there.’

She positively screamed in delight !

‘Oh mon dieu, ohlala, Erik, Erik, play them, play them !!’ she cried, bouncing on the balls of her feet in her impatience to experience everything at once.

‘Would you like to see the rest of the house first ?’ I laughingly asked her.

‘Oh Erik, I can’t stand it ! This is just too much ! I can’t believe you have done this, I can’t believe you thought of all of this—I’m so overwhelmed—’

‘It’s all for you, my love ! Come, darling… let me show you the rest of the house—and then, if you still want me to, I shall play them all for you.’

She rushed up to embrace me where I stood at the base of the steps; now she was weeping.

‘Oh, Erik… you’re so wonderful… truly the best husband there ever could be…’

Her words were so distorted by her tearfulness, that I could scarcely understand them !

‘Darling, my darling… there, there. You haven’t even seen the entire house yet !’ I said gently. ‘What if there are aspects elsewhere which you don’t even like ?’

‘Oh Erik, don’t be silly… I love every bit of it…’

At last she gathered herself and took my hand; she led me up the stairs and across le salon de la lune to the door opposite—through which lay the entrance to the main parlour.

It was a tastefully-appointed room : directly across from the entrance, on the opposite wall, sat a stately fireplace; to either side of this, and lining the interior wall, were tall, densely-packed, built-in bookshelves with leaded-glass doors—cut in the same patterns as the windows; and the two windows across from them were mullioned in three large sections each, the outer two of which opened like Parisian windows, to let in the fresh air as desired. Beneath them were built-in window-seats filled with thick pillows, creating cosy niches for reading or drawing. The fireplace boasted a deeply-carved mahogany mantel, with a corbel of deep cobalt-glazed tiles surrounding a firebox trim and large hearth of black-and-white marbre grand antique; there was a large space for a tableau above the mantel, which I had left empty for Christine to fill however she desired. In the centre of the room, facing the tall windows through which the sunlight poured, sat a low-backed sofa upholstered in oxblood-red leather which sat at an angle to a gold-brocaded wingback chair and a shared table stacked up with books; behind this entire area, in an opening between the bookcases, two shallow steps descended onto a wide landing which gave access to the rear parts of the house.

On the thick patterned carpet in front of the fireplace, something small, fuzzy and round lay in a patch of sunlight—something bedecked by a band of glittering diamonds, which shone with rainbows in the morning light. Christine saw it and gasped with pleasure as the round lump raised its head and meowed plaintively.

‘Aaisha ! Have you already made yourself at home then in this lovely space ?’

She stroked the cat, whose eyes remained sleepily pressed into two slits. Aaisha licked the back of Christine’s hand briefly, then stretched out in the most adorable posture, reaching her paws as far as they would extend; then she sat up and immediately began cleaning a hindquarter, paw thrust high in the air—this made us both laugh at the extreme feline aspect of it all. Once she was satisfied, she leapt up and unceremoniously slinked out of the room.

Following her towards the landing, I stopped near one of the bookcases in the corner and, facing Christine, crossed my arms and cleared my throat; it took no more than this for the bookcase section to suddenly swing out towards me, revealing a fire-proof niche lined with shelves and drawers for important papers—such as the plans for the Paris Opéra, as well as our new house, and innumerable music manuscripts !—and the remainder of my Persian treasure.

'You may rest assured that whatever you might store in this spot shall never be discovered by anyone, my dear. Not only is it utterly secure and seamlessly concealed,' I explained, 'but it is perfectly fire-proof as well.'

Christine looked aghast at the secret cupboard, then back at me happily, with fresh tears in her eyes.

‘Erik, dear… this place is phenomenal. I’m simply amazed. It’s just incredible. It’s… I feel like I already know it, because so many of your things are here… but yet it’s completely different. Somehow, everything seems so new in this place… it’s such a strange feeling !’

‘My darling… this is a space we shall both fill with our things over time. It is the very least I could do for you. For our child. And for any other children we may have.’

She stepped in close and wrapped her arms around me.

‘I love you so much, Erik.’

‘As I love you, my darling Christine.’

‘Can we get a dog to keep Aaisha company ?’

‘Of course we can.’

Her eyes widened and she hunched her shoulders in excitement.

‘I want one of those sausage dogs from Germany !’ she cried.

‘A dachshund ?’ I asked, wondering from whence this desire had sparked, ‘the kind bred for hunting badgers ?’

‘Yes !! I want one of those. With the little short legs, and the long body !’

‘Alright, my dear… then we shall get a dachshund !’ I said, delighted that she had chosen such a sensible sort of animal.

She pirouetted away and clapped happily like a child, then walked in a long, slow arc all around the room, looking closely at everything.

‘Come, my dear… let me show you the rest of le rez de chausée.’

And she loved it—she loved all of it. She loved the dining-room, the kitchen, the scullery, the breakfast nook, the wine-cellar with its entrance hidden in plain view in the pantry, the cosy Persian-style lounge in back; she loved both the front and rear staircases which led to the first floor; she loved the landings and the linen-closets. She loved our bedroom, with its great satin-and-lace canopied mahogany bed and its own pink marble bath—and she loved the nursery I had placed next-door; when I told her I’d created the baby’s bassinet myself she burst into tears once more.

She loved the little sewing room, the large and darkly-panelled study, the two guest-rooms, and the two empty spare rooms which were, as yet, nothing at all.

The first-floor hallway was ornamented with tall rectangular wooden panels reaching two-thirds the way up the wall; I led her to a place that was slightly offset from its centre and stopped.

‘Watch closely,’ I told her.

With her eyes fixed upon me, I extended my arms and, without touching anything, passed my hands over the wall panel directly before me; making no sound at all, it sprang open and slid back, revealing what it had concealed : a narrow wooden staircase spiralling gently to the second floor at the top of the turret, which stood above the rest of the house.

She emitted the most sparkling laughter. ‘Oh Erik… you are truly the master of trap-doors !’

Seizing my hand in hers, she stepped into the aperture of the open panel and pulled me along behind her; once we had passed through and began to ascend, it shut behind us, of its own accord.

‘How on earth did you get it to do that ?’ she asked in wonder.

‘It’s magic, my darling,’ I chuckled, ‘but I do promise to teach you its secret when we come back down.’

The top of the staircase was sealed off by a robustly-built arched oaken door with mediaeval fittings—and it was locked. I unfastened a small but ornate key from my pocket-watch chain and handed it to her—and she once more inserted the key in the lock, then looked back at me with a smile.

‘This door looks positively ancient.’

‘It is. It was recovered from an abandoned monastery, not too far from here.’

‘I love it. It feels like the entrance to a most decidedly secret place !’

I said nothing, merely smiling as she pressed upon the handle and the door opened inwardly on silent hinges… it was indeed a secret place—just for her and myself !

We stepped into an entirely round space that, by design, was larger than it appeared from outside despite its thickly-set walls. It was surmounted by fifty-two small triangular windows all the way around the base of the ceiling, individually paned with multi-coloured glass—pastels facing the sunrise in the east, transitioning subtly to darker jewel tones facing the stronger afternoon light to the west—and through this colourful tiara crowning the house now filtered the most beautiful rays of rainbow-hued morning light. Five large trailing ferns were spaced evenly around the room, suspended from the roughly-hewn rafters of the hipped roof above the circlet of windows; between these timbers the plaster ceiling was painted a deep azure, and had been pinholed so as to permit the spangled appearance of stars in the sky. Here sat my divan from the house by the lake, as well as an enormous round pouf in the centre of the room, set into a carved frame anchored to the quarter-sawn oak floor. Altogether, especially by daylight, it was a stunning room.

‘My god, Erik,’ she whispered, as if afraid to break the spell of the place, ‘…it’s gorgeous ! ’ Coloured highlights shone in her hair as she slowly revolved in a circle, taking it all in.

‘Christine,’ I said, stepping up close behind her, ‘I created this room to exist strictly for us. It is a place in which we may escape the drudgery and demands of domestic life, as the need arises—and only we two shall ever know about it. By all outward appearances, the turret above the first floor simply decorative… and to be sure, no-one but you and I, my dear, shall ever hold the secret to its access.’

‘Every room is so beautiful,’ she sighed as she looked up at the coloured streams of light pouring through the windows, ‘but this may be the most beautiful room of all !’

She turned and looked at me with an enchanting expression; the curiously low, soft modulation of her voice sent a jolt to the pit of my stomach.

‘You are the most amazing man in all of France.’

‘My darling,’ I said, reaching out to pull her close, and pressing my face into her hair to inhale its delicious scent, ‘you are the most deserving and lovely woman in all of France. And I am the most fortunate man there is, to have you here with me, in our very own private domain.’

I gently enfolded her in my arms and kissed her upon the forehead. ‘You are my queen,’ I said quietly.

She looked up to meet my gaze; her blue eyes swam with tears. Reflected within those endless pools, I could see my own visage—one which now appeared whole and ordinary, due to my mask which was so perfectly forged and painted to conceal the truth.

‘Erik, my love. You are everything I could have ever wished for.’

I bent my neck to place my lips upon hers, but she swiftly raised a hand to stop me.

‘Erik… kiss me nakedly… with your own face.’

I paused, then reached up over her shoulder and removed the replica of the face which might have been, had only I been born as a normal man—and tossed it lightly upon the divan off to our side; she gave me an immaculate smile.

‘You are beautiful, my husband… exactly as you truly are.’

This time, when I again bent to kiss her—she did not stop me. And I placed all of the gratitude, all of the passion which dwelt within my heart for her, into that kiss.

It didn’t take long before the intended use of the room made itself clear in my deep sense of arousal; I needed her—needed to express the entirety of my profound love for her.

‘Come, my love…’ I whispered heavily, ‘I want to make love to you, here in this aerie which will forever be just ours, secretly…’

Her hands were already grasping behind me, pulling the ends of my shirtwaist out of my belted trousers, her searching hands quickly finding their way to the tender skin of my bare back underneath.

‘Erik… god, how I love you… I cannot possibly even tell you how much…’

‘Then show me,’ I hissed, before kissing her deeply once more.

The taste of her delectable mouth filled my senses; I sensuously ran my hands down her back before feverishly raking up her skirts; when at last my fingers made contact with her body, I clutched at her backside and carefully pulled her closely into me, flexing my body to conform to hers. She untied my cravat and opened my collar as we slowly moved towards the round pouf.

Christine was wearing a plain-bodice silk dress with a high waist which was closed by a long line of hidden hooks and eyes, of which my deft fingers made quick work; I pushed the soft fabric back over her shoulders and the dress fell to her ankles. Immediately she reached out and began to pull at my belt, unbuckling it and teasing open each button of my trousers with a slowness which threatened to drive me mad as she erotically traced her fingers heavily over the fabric; at last she freed my desire from its prison of wool. The trousers fell to the ground in a heap, the thick buckle of my belt landing upon the oak floorboards with a loud clank.

In the back of my mind, I idly wondered if the damned thing might have marked the wood… but I let go the thought, for if so, with any luck, by the time I was dead there would be many, many such dents surrounding this bed !

I grasped her bodily, pressing myself closer still against her; the strong physical need which I felt for her was its own intoxicant and it affected me like nothing else. I popped open the short busk of her stays, laced wide at the sides for the benefit of the child she carried, and dropped it; she raised her arms above her head without my prompting and I gathered up her chemise and lifted it up and over them. I dropped the article to the floor; then I knelt down before her, and she reached behind her back to untie the ribbon which held up her drawers. They fell away before my eyes, and I gently placed my hands on either side of her swollen abdomen, kissing her navel as she ran her hands through my hair.

This was where our child rested, waiting to join us in time; the fruit of our love, the growth of my seed within her… my very own child, inside the body of my very own wife, the only woman I had ever desired, ever dreamt of… my Christine !

My hands felt their way to her hips, as I kissed the underside of her belly and brought one hand around between her legs, caressing her deeply there with long fingers; my sensitive ears could already detect the sound of moisture deep within her, and it made my blood boil. I hunched even lower and pressed my face into the dark curls which shrouded her so modestly; the taste of my wife upon my lips, the unmistakable scent of her in my nostrils, only furthered my sense of complete intoxication; on my knees, I guided her backwards onto the large pouf without interrupting my attentions upon her. At last she lay back and I could access her properly; I exhaled in deep satisfaction upon hearing moans of the purest ecstasy issue from her songbird’s throat.

Once I had slaked my thirst for her in this manner, I rose and crawled upon the bed to join her where she lie flat upon her back; her hair splayed out in a radiating pattern amidst tendrils of pastel light, like a painting of a heavenly nymph. I lifted her legs and slid my knees beneath them, to either side of her hips, her legs draped over my thighs.

‘Christine… my wife… let me take you… let me show you how much your husband needs you…’

Her response was an incoherent murmur; my pulsating and insistent hardness could wait no longer as it brushed against her outsides, and I reached down to hold her open so I could enter her. Her vivid pink softness glistened in the sunlight as I guided myself into her folds, my hands moving to hold her hips aloft as I slowly filled her. She felt so good around me that I groaned loudly at the sensation, needing it again, and again. I tenderly moved in and out of her, scarcely breathing, my eyes tightly shut against the delectable sensation of her body enclosing mine.

‘Erik, my Angel… don’t stop… don’t stop,’ she whispered urgently.

I was putty in this woman’s hands. I would do anything for her. I had once been enslaved against my will; but for her I was utterly, voluntarily, bound.

I slowly sped up the tempo at which I thrust into her, and the intensity of her moans of pleasure only grew louder… precisely why I had built this room with thick walls, so we could be as loud as we wished, whenever we wanted, just as we had enjoyed in the idyllic privacy of the house by the lake.

The pace of our lovemaking steadily grew, and within minutes I was covered entirely in a slick sheen of sweat; I opened my eyes to look upon her in the full light of day and saw that she, too, scintillated silver with perspiration. My god, what perfection she was… to think I had caused this impossibly beautiful creature to live in the dark with me for so long ! Now that I saw her long curls shining in the dappled rays specked with motes of dust, I gave silent thanks that I'd finally had the sense to realise she could no longer live such a life; the moisture upon her bare skin glittered in the light so that she nearly appeared to be a supernatural being, made of some star-like material which glowed from within. My eyes were open wide, feasting upon this incredible sight; this was the first time we had ever made love in the natural sunlight !

What an astounding revelation... !

The tension in my body wound itself tighter and tighter, like a coiled spring, as I approached the climax of my passion; I was ready to explode—but I gritted my teeth and staved off the urge, forcing myself to desist; I had to bring her there with me, especially this time…

As if from a great distance through a swirling fog I heard her call my name once more, begging me not to stop… her voice was tremulous with desire, climbing by fourths and fifths into her upper range, each note emanating from her throat like the tone of silver bell. That voice, that perfect voice… it induced shivers of thrilling sensation to possess every nerve in my body—just like the first time I’d ever heard her sing.

It was then I could feel myself leaving the physical limitations of my person, of my mind— gradually rising up into the rafters, into the sky, to a place I had never seen, in the arms of my wife… I was still aware that on some level far below us, my body acted of its own volition, lancing into her sacred treasure with a movement borne of instinct—but nevertheless at the same time, Christine and I—the pure, spiritual essence of us both—rose up, up, up; we kissed deeply, merging in some profound and inexplicable way.

It must have been then that we reached la petite mort, her voice calling out in successive exhalations of the most delicious triumph, her legs locked around my waist and holding me in position, embedded within her as deeply as I could be; soft white light overcame us as my seed emptied into her with a force which felt like exsanguination, drawing itself out to an almost impossible degree. A great cry escaped my lips in the shock of that moment, as suddenly the most incredible golden haloes of pure, sublime light surrounded our spirit selves; every colour in the universe exploded like fireworks in the air around us as I maintained my hold upon her; our lovemaking had transcended the ordinary, evolving into something far greater than mere sex, as we sang together in the most unearthly harmony I have ever heard… sang from the most profound places of our very souls, the two of us united in the most sacred co-mingling of our very essence !

I even seemed to see us together from outside myself, from multiple perspectives… but how could this be ? I marvelled at the vision which met my eyes, as well as the very solid sensation of her in my arms in this new realm; this superextraordinary union with Christine had somehow launched us into a heavenly nirvana… I was dazzled by the spectral light as the remnants of my earthly consciousness fell away like so many unnecessary obscurities, as the fundamental energy of my very being melded with that of hers.

It was not an illusion borne of the depths of my fertile imagination, nor was it temporary insanity induced by amorous and hedonistic abandon… nay; something far deeper had occurred between us—something far more incalculable. And I was utterly held in awe at the profundity of it; a bond which I had previously thought could be no tighter, was now somehow even more so. We were wedded in a capacity far greater than any ephemeral, physical sense; we were inextricably linked, and we always had been… I could see the entirety of our long existence together, all our many joinings and separations across multiple lifetimes, and the one thing which lie common to all of them—our great, true and endless love. Thus it had always been, thus it would forever be… !

This was the first time I had ever transcended the mere and lowly yearning of the flesh, to experience pure and unhindered completion of the spirit.

Chapter Text

Chapitre XIX - ‘Le récit de la mission sécrète’

Cher M Leroux,

Khili mamnuun, as we say in my birthplace of Tehran, for your last letter — which I found to be unusually perceptive ; and yet, if you do not mind my saying so, it is clear that there is much you do not understand. It does not escape my notice that you are without question a singularly intelligent and shrewd man — therefore, may I ask why you are throwing away your talents in the field of journalism ? If you can ever manage to rectify this oversight, and instead direct your penchant for unearthing obscure details towards either law enforcement or drafting a masterpiece of literature, I have no doubt that the name of Gaston Leroux will become known far and wide, and your future success assured.

The story which I entrust to you herein is grave indeed. One might be forgiven for wondering why I share it at all ; but as you have already penetrated the truth of the matter so thoroughly, and have so prudently kept the details to yourself rather than publishing them prematurely as you could have done, I believe you deserve to know the full extent of it, and accurately — rather than, in the absence of facts, drawing your own hypotheses to explain what you cannot learn. I have many times noted that when left to our own devices, we very often resort to somewhat absurd and fanciful imaginings to explain a truth which is fact quite banal. And thus I believe that if I provide for you the fullest picture possible, it will explain everything more than sufficiently ; I also believe you possess a nature sympathetic enough to understand the necessity for the events as they unfolded.

To that end — I share the following with you only with your sworn promise to maintain the absolute secrecy of both the events and my identity. Call me whatever you wish ; give me a false name — or better yet, none at all. But if your eventual account of this tale, however you choose to present it, is not highly fictionalised, you shall indeed regret your indiscretion.

You asked if there were any official records on the case, and there certainly were ; I dutifully filed reports and maintained evidence to support my statements in every official case to which I was assigned — standard procedure, as you know. But since my retirement, who could say what has happened to the mass of it ? I have not the slightest idea and I cannot help you there… knowing your French bureaucracy as I do, it was all most likely filed off in a series of store-rooms in some former royal palace, to be left for some unsuspecting poor bastard whose job it shall be to one day try to make sense of it all ! But I doubt very much that you shall ever manage to avail yourself to them, even if you were able to discover where they reside. I will hasten to add that even if I myself were the one doing the asking, I would surely also meet with failure !

Therefore, enclosed I present to you an amended copy of my accounting of events from the diary I kept at that time. You will find certain identifying details are either missing or removed ; for I have rendered it purposefully vague in some regards and yet provided quite a bit of backstory in others — and I promise that I have not done this to infuriate you ; to the contrary, I have elucidated all I can about the case without compromising too much, and have granted you certain other intimate details so as to better understand my motivations.

As to your promise of discretion, may Allah Himself hold you to it.

Please, do not hesitate to write to me again if you require further explication or have additional questions.

Yours in trust,
Nadir Khan
officier 2^e b. de l’État-major général, retraité.

------------

le — janv 187—

At present I rest in a stateroom of a steam-vessel bound downriver towards Le Havre. Despite my extreme weariness of travelling in this manner, this occasion demands it, as there is much cause for high celebration at my dearest friend’s new home — and in any case, travel upon the Seine is so comparatively sedentary when viewed in contrast with my most recent exploits, that it affords me the perfect opportunity for introspection ; thus I shall set down here for myself those events which have just come to a close, in summary of the report I completed and filed yesterday with my superiors at le 2^e b.

Since the final performance of my friend’s opera and his subsequent departure from Paris three months ago with his wife, the routine of my life has changed considerably ; without benefit of any habitual chess games between us, nor the pleasant distractions of his dear Madame’s occasional visitations… not to mention the already apparent cooling of my recently-charming social life ; hélas, this Parisian public is fickle indeed in their love of novelty, and they do bore easily ! My former triumph will soon be forgotten… while although presently I find I still must dress as an infidel priest if I wish to preserve my incognito, I will soon be able, more or less, to return to my former habit.

Moreover, in this void of my friends' absence, I found early on that a sense of disquiet had overtaken me ; thus, in addition to the daily packet of security briefs from le 2^e b, I formed a new practise of reading both morning and evening editions of every paper published within Île-de-France. Hence it was in —, upon the date of the —, I saw an item which aroused my immediate suspicions. For it was exactly the sort of thing I kept eyes out for… especially as I have always had the keenest sense that Allah would call me to act… to uphold His banner of justice and retribution.

Paper in hand, I called for Lucretia, who appeared quickly.

‘Lucretia… I must leave Paris immediately. I must leave within the hour, if at all possible.’

‘Has our morning despatch already arrived ?’ she asked querulously ; for in her guise of maid, she always answers the door and collects the post, and in fact disapproves very heartily of my ever doing this myself.

‘No,’ I answered ; ‘the newspaper. Look at this.’

I held up the paper, folded open, in half and lengthwise, and pointed to the article which had alarmed me ; she read it quickly, a look of wry comprehension quickly dawning upon her features, and frowned.

‘Oh, god… you know what this means,’ she said gravely.

‘Yes. Every moment could mean the difference between life and death. I won’t even have time to advise le 2^e bureau of my departure.’

‘I shall do it in your stead, Nadir. And I shall pack your bag right away —’

‘No, my dear — nothing in my closet will be adequate. I’ll purchase something appropriate once I am nearer my destination.’

‘Catch the first train bound for Lille,’ she ordered, ‘and I shall check the time-tables and devise the best and most direct route for you. Call upon the telegraph office in Lille to obtain your itinerary — I shall have wired it to you by then. As Jeanne. To Armand.’

‘Very well... I thank you in advance for it. And I shall keep you apprised as to my arrivals at each point on the route, once I know where to go.’

Her hazel eyes fell once more down towards the paper, her lips compressed in thought.

‘You should take both your French and Arabic sets of false papers, for the usual reasons… I'll fetch them from the safe. When you finally arrive, we have an operative in that town who is half-French and is faithful to us. He maintains a local identity there under the name Yngve, and is quite multi-lingual... he will be a more than capable translator. I shall wire him immediately and advise him of your arrival. We will create a diversion story during your travel. But it has been some weeks since I was last in contact with him, so look for my confirmation by wire along the way.’

‘I will. Lucretia — your unfailing capacity for strategy is simply… there are no words to convey my respect for you. You are like the great Napoléon.’

She blushed, her eyelids fluttered, her nostrils dilating minutely as she looked down modestly at her hands. ‘Oh, my... surely you flatter me far too much with such a comparison, Nadir... no-one can ever be so great as Napoléon...’ She shook her head sadly. ‘Ahh, but it will be cold where you are going… and I know how very much you dislike the cold...’

She turned upon her heel and left the room, making for the safe ; I dashed into my bed-chamber and threw on my priest’s cassock, tossing only a few bare essentials — indeed, just my coat and cap, and the rest was mostly cigarettes — into my valise.

We met a few moments later in the hallway by the front door ; her lace-trimmed maid’s cap set off her lovely features perfectly. One would never guess that beneath it rested one of the most capable minds in all of French counter-intelligence.

She handed me my false papers, and I tucked them into my valise.

Here we paused awkwardly… I wanted very much to speak my heart, but I refrained.

‘I thank you, as always, for everything,’ I said to her.

‘Nadir —’ she began, her voice softening, ’— is there any chance you won’t return from this ?’

‘Not a chance, my dear… not a chance in jahanam. I shall return to you… I swear it before Allah.’

‘Alright. Then I shall hold you to it.’

She leaned in and kissed me upon the cheek. I returned a light kiss upon hers, and turned towards the door… then I thought better of it, and quickly whirled back ; I dropped my valise, and did the one honest thing I could : I seized her by the shoulders, stepped up close to her, wrapped my arms around her and rashly kissed her passionately, before pulling myself away.

‘Forgive me, but… just in case I fail in my objective.’

And then suddenly she began laughing ! This usually stone-faced woman, always so believable in her rôle as my maid, was simply shrieking with laughter. I do not exaggerate when I say it offended my vanity to no small degree. Granted, my wife had died long ago and I had kissed no other woman in all those many years, but — surely there are some things one does not lose one's ability to perform !

‘Oh-la Nadir, I’m so sorry,’ she gasped, struggling to regain her breath, ‘I am not laughing at you. It just feels incredibly strange to be kissed so very passionately by a man of the cloth !’

She erupted into fresh laughter at this revelation and I looked down at myself, realising it was true. A Christian priest kissing a maid, no less ! I began to laugh as well.

I shrugged indifferently. ‘Such an unnatural tradition, that one ! It makes no sense at all. In my country, even an imam takes a wife.’

She abruptly stopped laughing and leaned into me — very close — and smiled. ‘What are you insinuating about wives, then ? And that wonderful kiss ?’

‘Was it really wonderful ?’ I asked.

‘You know that it was.’

My heart thumped so as to leap out of my very chest… and I kissed her again.

‘You had better come back to me, Nadir Khan.’

‘Anything you desire, Lucretia.’

We kissed yet again — Alhamdulillah, I had forgotten how incredible it was to kiss another ! — and then with a great deal of self-discipline, I tore myself away from her, grabbed my valise and opened the front door.

‘Good day, Mademoiselle,’ I said.

‘Bon voyage, Monsieur,’ she answered.

We were both back in character. I went down the stairs and exited the building.

The hours passed rather quickly once I was upon my way. Once again restored to my customary coat and hat in Lille, and having obtained my itinerary by wire from the brilliant and peerless Lucretia, I re-boarded the same train and we passed into Belgium. Beyond there we entered le Pays-Bas, without incident, as I slept in my compartment ; it was early morning when at last I reached Amsterdam. The first thing I did was to stop at the telegraph office and wire my partner, who I could tell through our coded messages had reached our contact Yngve, and that he would meet me at my final destination under the pretense of taking me ‘ice-fishing’. Therefore, I stopped at a second-hand supply shop and bought myself a used rucksack, a thick woolen sweater, two woolen undershirts, a leather jerkin and cap with thick wool lining, some thick canvas gaiters and a stout pair of double-lined gloves. Thus outfitted, I found my way to a café near the waterway, and within a few inquiries quickly identified the the fastest steam-packet in the harbour ; I immediately marched off to the docks to locate her captain. And by Allah’s grace, the timing was fortuitous indeed, for the captain had been planning to cast off that very afternoon; any later and I’d have missed him !

There was a Belgian sailor aboard the vessel — he wore a dapper little waxed moustache, fashioned into neat, symmetrical curls — who spoke French, and he translated between myself and the Dutch captain. But even if superficially the captain and I shared no common tongue, there is that one universal language which unites men all over the world — that of gold. I handed the man a pouch heavy with guilder and he peeked inside, stuffing it quickly into his inner pocket and nodding vigorously as he puffed upon his long slender pipe; he spoke at length in Dutch while I stood and listened, having not the slightest clue what he might be saying.

‘Yes Monsieur,’ the Belgian translated the man’s garble for my benefit, ‘we will certainly depart on time. The crew are aboard, and we’re full in ballast and coal. Captain says he was considering holding until morning tide on account of the weather these incoming ships have encountered. But as you’re in a hurry, we can skirt the squall out to sea — it will add some time, but will still get us there faster... nothing we haven’t done before, and we're in no danger of running out of fuel. You can berth in any of the spare staterooms — you’ll want to keep your brazier lit, too. It’s sure cold sailing this time of year. And don’t you worry yourself about ice, as we’ve had ourselves a mild winter this year and the sea is open… it’s the spring you have to worry about, with the ice-bergs and all which break up as the water warms and flow down from the North and the Baltic… just one of those can take a vessel down within a matter of minutes, Monsieur, but we're unlikely to see even one…’

Now whether these were all precisely the words of the captain — whose name I could not even pronounce — or those of the Belgian editorialising on his own, I had no idea; but either way I was heartened by every word.

The sailor took me below-decks and I chose a stateroom ; going inside to stuff my valise into my new rucksack and secure it, I took the opportunity to shrug into the woolen layers I’d purchased, for the wind blowing in over the icy water was frightful to one so averse to the cold as myself. I knew these conditions would only worsen, which I dreaded… but there was no avoiding any of it, as it was the task set before me. By Allah, I would accomplish it !

There was just a bit of time to spare, so I quickly ran ashore again to wire Lucretia from the telegraph office there at port, in order to advise her of the estimated duration of the voyage, so that our contact would know what time to meet me.

Jeanne :
Have been told two days to reach good fishing.
Maybe slightly more ; depends upon the weather.
Will inform you of my arrival.
Armand.

The wire was sent ; I paid the fee and returned to the end of the dock where the ship waited, steam building from her smokestack. Shortly after I came back aboard, there was quite a bit of yelling, a bell rang several times; and we hove away from the dock and slowly came about and steamed into the canal. I stood upon the deck only long enough to finish a cigarette, before finally taking the sailor’s advice and retiring to my stateroom.

Amsterdam is a complicated mess of waterways and thus it was nevertheless quite some time before we emerged into the Zuiderzee — and there we dropped anchor for an hour as I was told this was to be sure of the highest possible tide as we made our way across the treacherous Waddenzee. I passed this time smoking cigarettes in the lee of the smokestack, which gave off quite a bit of warmth but also belched out quite a bit of coal smoke. After this wait, the captain must have judged the water navigable as the crew hoisted anchor and we set off after two or three other vessels which had also been waiting. I wondered for a time if we were going to be impeded by these other vessels upon the water ; but much to my surprise, once out in the open sea, we passed them quickly — for this type of steamship was screw-driven and unlike anything I had ever encountered ; it was fast... so much the better for me, as I needed to make the greatest haste possible. Even once the weather began to hit, the slight detour we had to make on account of it was enough that the speed of the ship made up for it — and fifteen knots, even thirteen, is nothing to laugh at in the midst of winter at those latitudes, although this was certainly not a constant velocity.

But the waves rose enough that I could not avoid becoming seasick ; in addition to this was the added disorientation of the exaggerated effect of abbreviated days and the long, long periods of night. While this had plagued me ever since my arrival in Paris, it only worsened the further we sailed ; and the clammy air only grew more frigid, so much so that the tiny brazier in my stateroom seemed to emit no warmth at all, but instead merely the light of glowing coals. For what seemed like a full night I was back and forth from my stateroom to the railing upon the deck, vomiting over the side in that miserable darkness !

At last the weather passed, and true to the math of the good captain, and with thanks to the dedication of his crew to that machinery which permits man to cover distances never seen before our lifetimes, I was, incredibly, able to send a wire to Lucretia after a voyage of only fifty-three hours.

Jeanne :
Arrived at port, shortly will go ice-fishing.
Shall wire you at the first inn south of town.
Armand.

Immediately after sending that wire, I found the appointed spot and, incredibly, Yngve was waiting for me, and spotted me easily. Taking only one look at me, he immediately recommended that we visit the nearest fur-trader to purchase a knee-length sable coat for me — to which I happily agreed — and the one I picked out was quite well-made — and best of all, it was warm ! I was grateful to have it to wear, for even the layers of wool and leather in which I was clad still left me chilled through to my very bones. And indeed, after just a short time in the fur coat, I started to feel much better. I traded my leather cap and jerkin for a cap of fur as well, and was considerably transported by its additional warmth. Even though, to my astonishment, it was clear that I was the only one around who was so affected… many of the local townsfolk wore merely sweaters. What a hardy sort they all were ! I had no interest in attempting to prove myself one of them… Tehran’s winters may not have been warm ones, but they weren’t this bloody cold, that was certain.

At this point I was wholly in the service of Yngve, who as a half-French local (he spoke many languages with an equal fluency which I greatly admired), I was saved from the hassle of having to communicate by means of pointing and hand-waving. Although I knew nothing more about him than what had been told to me by Lucretia, once we were installed in our horse-drawn sleigh — loaded up with fishing gear which was entirely for show — he began to fill me in about how he ended up in le 2^e b ; his father had been a French fur-dealer who had married the lovely blonde daughter of one of his business contacts. His father’s brother back in France held an official office and had guided Yngve as a young man to work in an assistive capacity for the purposes of the French government as well, since at that time they were actively aligning themselves with operatives all over the world. Yngve considered himself to be an equal patriot of both countries.

Yngve seemed a solid and knowledgeable man, and quite likable. He managed our team quite capably and the snow underfoot seemed of no consequence to him ; under his capable hand, our passage over the snow-covered landscape was rapid indeed — despite the fact that much of it was in the dark, lit only by stars over our heads as we headed south.

Mercifully, we stopped at the first inn we came to — and I was pleased to get out of the cold. My companion ordered hot coffee for us, and enquired whether there were any telegrams for me, eventually handing me one from Lucretia which had arrived earlier that day, in anticipation of our calling there :

Armand
Having dinner with Aunt Augustine tonight.
Hope you are catching fish, and staying warm…
Jeanne.

This innocuous news was, of course, standard ; there was no need to worry about anything unless she reported ‘a grease-fire in the kitchen’ or that ‘one of the children is ill’. Yngve briefly jabbered with the locals as we stood at the counter while I hurriedly wrote out a reply.

Jeanne :
No fish yet.
Skies are clear and beautiful.
I have bought a fur coat.
Armand

We took places at a communal table by the inn’s large stone fireplace and slowly savoured the precious, warm liquid ; although he appeared entirely nonchalant, Yngve was listening in closely to the idle talk which surrounded us, making gay chatter with the locals at well-timed intervals. One man, who had refilled his heavy beer mug twice in just the time we’d been there, Yngve engaged particularly and eventually it was evident the man was enquiring about me ; Yngve supplied him with something which seemed to satisfy him, but then suddenly he began opining at length about something which obviously irritated him. Yngve encouraged him for twenty torturous minutes ; it seemed to be something serious if Yngve’s reaction was anything to judge by… but I could understand none of it. So I simply sat, smoking blithely as I finished my coffee, discreetly scrutinising every face in the room.

Perhaps after forty-five minutes or so, we left the premises and bundled ourselves back into the sleigh in that breathtakingly cold night air ; I must say that for being as near the sea as we were, the humidity had abated considerably — for which I silently gave praise to Allah. Then, once we got going back along the road, Yngve imparted to me that the indignant beer-drinking man who spoke to him at length had divulged that his next-door neighbour, just three days ago, had had a fur coat and leather boots stolen off his property outside of town, whilst they’d been outside to dry. The town was small enough that the very idea of thievery was deeply upsetting ; more upsetting still was the fact that the man’s neighbour had initially accused him of taking them — he himself, the man’s own neighbour of many years, who had no use for such things during such a warm spell as this ! The man had only been able to vindicate himself by demonstrating that his own enormous feet would have never fit his neighbour’s medium-sized soles.

Thus we continued upon our way south ; despite my well-made fur coat, the constant wind in our faces made our progress less than enjoyable. The distance between inns seemed to have employed an unusual standard of measurement : the distance traveled by which one’s face felt entirely numb ; and then an oasis of warmth, firelight, coffee, and (for those kafir, of which I was the only exception probably in the entire country), beer along with Allah only knows what other follies. I sat by the fire and availed myself of Turkish cigarettes from my cigarette case, which whenever we stopped anywhere was keeping me busy indeed, digging into my rucksack for the paper packages from which to keep it filled.

We stopped at two more inns that evening, until at last Yngve decided we had better stay for the night in the last one, as we would reach the border by morning. I was more than thrilled to climb into my small bed that night — the first place I’d lain my head in the past few nights which hadn’t been moving in some fashion ; I had secretly feared that Yngve would insist on sleeping in a tent pitched upon the frozen shore in order to maintain our guise as fishermen. Allah be praised indeed that he did not !

I slept very well that night, upon the clean and soft ticking of the simple mattress, the air having lost its bite now that I was in a room with a roof over my head and a stout wood-stove in the corner — by which I left the chamber-pot to warm. So pleased was I, there in my soft and cosy place of respite, that I didn’t even trouble myself that we had gained no interesting information since that given by the drunken man.

The next morning I woke up refreshed, and met Yngve downstairs where we breakfasted upon salted fish and scrambled eggs on toasted bread, along with all the strong hot coffee we wanted ; I would honestly have preferred tea instead, but it seemed apparent that there was none, and so I drank it knowing I would soon regret it if I didn’t.

The cold air buffeted our faces as Yngve drove the horses to and beyond the international border, without my having realised it ; eventually I asked him when he would arrive in the neighbouring country, and he replied that we had already been in it for some time. This astonished me. I asked him if the two countries got along quite well.

‘Sometimes — yes, very much indeed. And at other times… no, absolutely not, sometimes the hatred is really quite deep,’ he answered succinctly.

‘And yet we passed no distinct border ?’ I asked.

‘Oh. Well… there used to be quite a pronounced one. But it’s been increasingly less pronounced over the past fifty years — especially down here by the sea. This most recent chapter began around 1814. Then afterwards the king here decreed — well, first, actually, there was an invasion — although now that I think about it, really one has to go back all the way to the Reindeer Grazing Codicil… or, well, honestly, even further back than that —’

‘Never-mind,’ I stopped him from what sounded like a torturous narrative, ‘it sounds just as complicated as the relationship my country has with its neighbours. But it’s obvious one doesn’t need papers to cross this border.’

‘Oh, indeed. Frankly one doesn’t need them until one gets either too far east or too far south.’

I considered this fact and its implications as we continued to move towards the next inn.

In this manner we worked our way further south over the following three days — dropping into the inns as we came to them, listening to the local talk and during which I would smoke copiously, as it was far too cold, not to mention nearly impossible, to smoke in the sleigh as we travelled. Each time we stopped, Yngve made a number of indirect comments which never appeared to be anything more than idle talk, yet had the surprising effect of bringing out any number of revealing answers… I mentally took notes at his impeccable technique of readily soliciting so much information without obviously doing so, as he would go down the list of everything he’d gleaned once we were back upon the road — and the list eventually became considerable. There were things randomly stolen, one horse missing from its stall, only to show up in someone else's barn further down the road the following day, and a large number of disturbed haystacks.

Upon the morning of the fourth day I began to worry that it would be only too easy to fritter away valuable time by pursuing small pieces of information of this kind ; although stopping at every inn along the way was informative, and had given us clues, I was getting anxious — and I could tell we were getting close, but we had to act fast. So after discussing the possibilities, we took a chance based on probability, and dashed through the last four hamlets without stopping, in order to quickly reach the next large town with a sizable port.

Just as the Qur’an expressly forbids drinking, it forbids gambling — and as we hurried along, I privately begged for Allah’s forgiveness as I had done just that ; I had taken the chance that a wild guess might net a profitable result. An educated guess, yes — but one which may yield no guarantee. I had followed my intuition — but it meant taking a risk which meant we could lose everything. Yngve understood this, too ; but he also agreed it could be strongly worth it.

Thus, pressing the horses, we reached the port town just as the sun had crested its low zenith within the sky ; we immediately stabled the animals in back of a dirty tavern upon the quay, and filed into it. The place was full of sailors of many types, and while I sat smoking at a table by the mullioned window, Yngve quickly learned that here was currently docked a foreign clipper captained by a man of dubious merit — whose pliant loyalty was easily bought. He had been in the process of loading cargo bound for the city to the north, from which we’d come four days ago — when suddenly he’d changed his plans and was now sailing south, for Copenhagen, an hour after sunset… tonight.

‘Yes,’ explained Yngve quietly, ‘that man over there is apparently one of the crew, and he’s fairly angered by the change in departure… it seems someone back up in the town you arrived in owes him quite a bit of money, and he had planned on collecting the debt when they arrived tomorrow. But now he won't be able to collect it for at least two or three days more. He said that a shabby-looking individual suddenly showed up late this morning and presented the captain with a very strong argument for changing his course.’

I asked him if the sailor had said anything about this odd person who looked shabby and yet had money enough to change the captain’s mind ; his eyebrows flashed up and down. ‘Yes… the sailor mentioned an accent. It’s the one you’re looking for. And they're already aboard the ship.’

I immediately dug through my rucksack and pulled out a bag containing the same amount I had paid the Dutch steamship captain to ferry me out of Amsterdam, and slipped it to Yngve.

‘The final favour I shall ask of you, my friend,’ I told him in a low voice ; ‘go secure passage for me on that ship. Tell him I can ensure his sudden trip to Copenhagen will be far more profitable than he’d initially expected, so long as it is agreed that neither of us shall ask any questions of the other. Tell him he shall receive a second bag containing the same amount upon arrival to port, if he is amenable to it. And tell him I should prefer to board the ship immediately before setting sail.’

He disappeared and I lingered in the tavern, slowly consuming coffee and calculating my plans while I awaited his return. If Yngve succeeded — if I succeeded — there would be just enough time to send a wire to Lucretia and advise her to arrange a return trip home to Paris for me from the Danish port-town in the morning.

Within twenty minutes he had come back ; he imparted instructions that I was to be waiting at the end of a particular dock, forty minutes past sunset, for a dinghy bearing the vessel’s name which would ferry me out to the clipper — and not to tarry in boarding the dingy, for we would immediately cast off as soon as my feet hit the deck. Excellent !

The sun was just reaching the western horizon shortly after four o’clock as the worthy Yngve and I bade each other goodbye ; he intended to actually go ice-fishing as he made his way back home. I thanked him warmly for everything. We wished each other good luck with our respective endeavours, and then I made my way to the telegraph office.

Jeanne :
Sailing Copenhagen in half an hour. Arrive morning.
This will be my final fishing expedition, if no luck I shall return home.
Armand

As darkness fell, I ducked into the stable behind the tavern and, throwing my rucksack upon a food-trough, reached into it and quickly retrieved my heavy shamshir in its brass sheath ; I opened my coat, untied my sash and re-wrapped it over my sweater, threading one end twice through the weapon's loop upon my left-hand side, with the handle oriented towards my belly. I secured it so that the scabbard hung down along my leg beneath my coat, its curved shape twisting around my thigh so as to thus maintain a lower profile — one of the major advantages of its design — and I tied the bottom of the scabbard up above my knee, so it would not rattle noisily or dangle beyond the hem of my coat. Thus satisfied, I re-fastened the closures on my heavy coat and turned up its collar so as to obscure my face more readily ; I unfastened the ear-flaps of my cap to let them hang down for the same reason, then threw the rucksack over one shoulder — my entire preparation observed by no-one but six or seven horses, chewing disinterestedly in their stalls — and I went out the stable door, making my way at last towards the docks.

The lighter blue of twilight had become deep indigo by the time I reached the appointed waiting-place ; I had smoked two cigarettes by the time I could just make out an approaching row-boat bearing two men. I waved at them, and they called out the name of the vessel, to which I responded the same. I quickly thrusted both arms through the straps of my rucksack and tied it round my waist, flicking my cigarette stub into the lapping water as they finally reached the dock. One of them, his features rather obscured in the strange light but clearly rough-looking beneath his tricorne hat, held out a hand for me to take ; I hopped off the decking, perhaps a half a metre down and into the small bobbing vessel.

The crewmen presently rowed out to where the larger vessel was anchored near the further reaches of the immediate harbour ; the name of the clipper, painted upon the prow of the hull in large letters of luminous gold, was clearly legible as we rowed past it. I climbed the dangling jacob's ladder up the wooden-slatted side of the ship — and another crewman came to the railing to help his two ship-mates so that the dingy could be hoisted up and stowed behind the foremast. Beyond this, there was a rectangular structure upon the deck just in front of the mainmast — most likely a top-deck bunk-house for on-duty deckhands — and I moved beyond it, past three tall piles of netted cargo which were lashed to the deck, to stand near the mizzenmast, where I would not be immediately in the way of the men moving about ; aft of me, two men stood upon the the poop deck, holding the wheel and speaking like two men who despised each other — our good captain and his helmsman, no doubt.

As I stood there observing all this in the rapidly deepening gloom, my eye happened to notice the door to the bunk-house structure amidships open tentatively, then a shadow emerged. It hovered near the bunk-house wall for a moment with the door still partially open, before extending an arm to grab at a passing crewmen (who by the outline of his hat I recognised as one of those who had ferried me aboard). While I couldn’t hear what the shadow said, I heard (but could not understand) the loud and irritated voice of the sailor, who barked a response ; the shadow then stumbled back over the bulkhead and in through the doorway, and the door slammed shut.

The frigid wind blew in off the ocean as the crew worked to hoist up the vessel's anchor and cast off her mooring lines ; another two men adjusted various mainsails to port, manning enormous blocks-and-tackle, while several other crewmen shimmied up the rigging on the port side to attend to various sheets… and the ship began to move. Behind me there was movement upon the aft deck and I heard the ne’er-do-well captain bellow out orders as a bell rang multiple times. Further adjustments were made to the open sails, then three men went to the foredeck of the ship and worked in unison to raise a foresail, and we slowly edged out of the harbour, past the protection of many small islets, and out into the open sea.

The quickly-spreading darkness seemed no obstacle to the crew who, after another bellow from the captain, began to systematically work at a seemingly infinite number of sails. The large white expanses of fabric steadily opened one by one as the men climbed up the webbed side-rigging and pulled at ropes to let them drop down, then lashed them into place. Within just a few moments we were moving quickly and at a seemingly steady angle ; the biting winter wind was constant and I knew our progress through the water would indeed be rapid enough to reach Copenhagen in only a matter of hours.

Once the clipper’s progress was assured and the trajectory established, there was much less noise on the deck as the captain left the helmsman to man the wheel, and the crew largely disappeared below-deck to points unknown. Whilst they’d been out and about, however, I’d had plenty of opportunity to observe their general character ; the crew aboard this vessel were crude and unsavoury, and the thread of the criminal element among them was strong. I smoked many cigarettes and worked hard to stay out of their way ; to anyone who spoke to me, I replied roughly in Arabic — this would surely fail to be understood whatsoever, which suited my purposes, so as to preclude any further conversation. Fortunately, I did not seem to attract further interest from the crew.

Perhaps two hours later, I had moved to the starboard railing just to the aft of amidships, leaning against one of the great piles of netted cargo which was taller than I. As the cutting wind blew past me, I nevertheless smoked inveterately, keeping my cigarette in the lee of my body, when at last a movement up ahead caught my attention ; it was a shadow — seemingly the same one as before — creeping around the corner of the bunk-house, and coming directly towards me. I pulled up my collar just a bit more — although there was little danger of being recognised in this darkness, especially with over a weeks'-worth of beard growth now covering the lower half of my face. The shadow walked in an odd manner, dragging his heels with every step, as though his boots were too large for him.

‘Pardon me, friend — the scent of that tobacco has been making my mouth water for a while now. Might I have one ? A cigarette ?’

Unsettlingly... I understood perfectly the words spoken by that voice in the darkness. And not only did I understand the voice… I recognised it.

He dropped a small duffel-bag to the decking between his feet ; a bag this small, which he wouldn't leave behind him even to ask for a cigarette, would surely contain money — and only Allah knew what else.

‘Eine Zigarette ?’ he tried again, bringing his hands up and miming the action of lighting one. I could tell even in the dim starlight that he wore a fur coat much like my own, but that the sleeves were too short, leaving his slender wrists exposed with the movement.

Not daring to speak, I made a grunt of assent, and reached into my coat to extract what I needed… may it never be said that Nadir Khan ever denied a last request. Certainly not to a 'friend'.

The light that briefly fell upon his face as he struck the match to light it, was the only confirmation I needed of what I already knew.

And so it was that when we reached Copenhagen in the early hours of morning with one less passenger than we’d initially taken on, no-one — neither the now considerably-richer captain, nor his crew — seemed inclined to notice, nor even to care, so long as there was money rattling in their pockets, from whomever had the means to pay… hélas, one of them had paid dearly indeed.

Thus, from the telegraph office of Copenhagen in the early hours of morning, I read Lucretia’s coded instructions :

Armand,
Aunt Augustine is hoping for steamed dumplings from Lübeck.
Is it too much out of your way ?
Jeanne

My response was equally lackadaisical :

Jeanne :
Fishing trip a success, but completely out of cigarettes.
Since I need more, will get dumplings too.
Armand

This was enough that I knew I was to catch a steam-ship if possible, to Lübeck ; once there I knew I could take the train to Bruxelles, and then mercifully home to France.

I desperately desired, and needed, rest ; I felt increasingly exhausted from the incessant travel — made worse by the bizarrely long nights, and the constant presence of the cold from which there was no escape… but I could not stop moving. Thus, after an agonising hour during which I worked at the very little bit of German I knew, I managed to ask a passing dock-worker, ‘Ein Dampfschiff nach Lübeck ? ’ and was finally understood ; he pointed to a vessel before which I’d been standing the entire time. It would depart at noon, I found upon further inquiry, and so I immediately got myself up its gangplank and purchased a fare.

Inshallah, these inland waters were considerably more calm and the passage largely coastal, and the voyage passed without incident. Unlike Copenhagen, the city was not built upon the sea ; the river-mouth here boasted only a small hamlet, and there was a long and winding river passage before we disembarked in Lübeck proper late that evening — like Paris, this city has also grown outward from a sizable island. I found a hostel at which I deposited my bag, and made enquiries regarding the possibilities of eating anything ; I was shown a loaf of hard bread and side of bacon, which I naturally refused.

So I struck out on foot to see what I might find, simply following my nose. After perhaps a fifteen minute’s walk, imagine my joy upon finding myself in the Jewish quarter ! Though it was late, I managed to find one restaurant which was still open and offered fare which, if not halal, was at least kosher. Lucky, it was, that I had not arrived in town upon a Friday night ! And so I ate well indeed.

Returning to my lodgings, I was nearly dead on my feet. I knew Lucretia might be anxious to hear from me, but my arrival in town had been too late to avail myself of the telegraph office. Shrugging off my one dissatisfaction, knowing it couldn’t be helped, I let myself into my room and got myself out of my coat ; but foolishly, I laid down still wearing my clothes... only to waken in them, seemingly without having changed position even once, at lunchtime the following day.

Although this was irritating, it was immaterial ; I was close indeed to the Hauptbahnhof, and was gratified to have handed to me, upon presenting my French papers at the will-call window, a first-class pass-book for Bruxelles. There were two telegrams waiting for me — the second one from that morning, and most displeased — and I dashed off a reply profuse with both thanks and apology, along with a promise to make it up to her upon my arrival the following day.

Boarding my train shortly thereafter, and once on our way, I fell into hard slumber yet again, thinking fondly of Lucretia, who from such a great distance had yet nimbly made uncountable aspects my trip so much simpler. The telegraph wire really is the most remarkable invention of our century !

The journey to Bruxelles was lengthy, filled with various short stops through German towns both large and small ; I slept until the porter woke me for dinner, and then on my way to the dining car bought three packs of Turkish cigarettes from the cigarette girl in the corridor. I used one of them completely within the next four hours as I drank tea and read through the five French-language newspapers they had on hand ; I observed nothing of interest. At last, just past ten o’clock, we reached our final stop; that night I again lodged close to the station.

The next morning, I awoke with the sun. I made my ablutions at quite a leisurely pace — my first proper bath in nearly two weeks — and then, donning my only remaining clean shirt and reverting to my usual astrakhan hat, I went out to a barber shop for a proper close shave (and afterwards, whilst I was still turned towards him, the silly Belgian barber waxed my moustache so that I looked like an absolute dandy ; I had a good laugh at the image which met my eye in the mirror once he spun me back around for a view of his handiwork. I had forgotten how they adore this ridiculous conceit in that country !). Then, I took myself out for breakfast — a lovely affair, which I enjoyed immensely between cigarettes, at a lovely café-type restaurant in the vicinity. I thought many times that a waxed moustache certainly demands the use of a pipe ; I would be lucky indeed not to set my lip on fire ! With this consideration in mind, I unfortunately wasted a great deal of excellent tobacco by stubbing out my cigarette before it was quite down to the stub. Hélas !

Ahh, the small pleasures of life… I was mercifully back to speaking French (as queer a feeling as that was — as that language which I so often found such a hassle, was now to me a respite !), I was sitting out-of-doors in splendid conditions, smoking merrily and very much at ease — in that rare and sublime state of being close enough to one’s goal that one might relax at last. I was better-rested, I was certainly well-fed, I was no longer nearly as cold, and I no longer looked like a mountain man... most importantly of all, I had tobacco !

On my way to the train station, I purchased an impressive and very fancy box of Belgian chocolates for Lucretia — and boarded, at long last, the line which would take me to Gare du Nord and have me home in two hours.

It was still early afternoon when I hailed a hansom cab to return me to the Rue de Rivoli. I let myself into the building, climbing the same staircase I had descended in departure almost two weeks before. How it seemed twice that ! Something about it seemed eerily new and unfamiliar — as though I had experienced so much and travelled so many parasang that it was like encountering it again for the very first time.

The door was answered by Lucretia when I rang the bell — looking every bit the dutiful domestic in her black dress and starched white apron and cap.

‘Why — Monsieur Kahn,’ she said politely, curtseying as she stepped back; stepping inside, I realised I was starting to break a sweat.

‘My goodness, Lucretia,’ I said as she closed the door behind me, dropping my bag there in the foyer, ‘it feels as warm as Dacht-e Kavir in this house ! Here, please — these chocolates are for you, my dear, it might be prudent to put them outside so they won’t melt…’

‘Thank you, Nadir,’ she said, laughing as she took the box, ‘but I believe your overwhelming sense of warmth might be accounted to the fact that you’re wearing a… an entire bear.’

Surprised by her remark, I looked down and realised that she was right; I had become so accustomed to the weight of my fur coat that I’d no longer even registered it in the chill air of my return journey.

I had to laugh with her. ‘Why, it’s not bear… it’s sable. I’ve become quite fond of it !’

I shrugged out of the heavy garment and it landed on the rug with a thud which caused the china cabinet to shudder ; hoisting it up, I hung it upon an empty hook at the mirrored coat rack by the door — indeed, it required two hooks ! — and then I turned to her once more.

‘My goodness… it’s now astonishingly cold in here. I’m afraid my wandering sojourn has gotten me completely mixed up…’

Lucretia laughed again and guided me into the library, where she had a pleasant fire going in the hearth—and then she surprised me even further by throwing her arms around me !

‘I’m so glad you’re back safely at last, Nadir. I don’t know why, but… this time it was so much worse than even the time you went to Algiers ; I’ve just been worried about you so much, even though you had promised to return… that period in which you were en route to Lübeck and I’d had no idea whether you’d managed to find the vessel, or made it there safely, or what might have happened… I know it was less than twenty-four hours, but I had grown so accustomed to hearing word from you at least two or three times each day, knowing you were safe… My goodness, the telegraph wire is certainly spoiling us, isn’t it ?’

The feeling of her in my arms was so pleasant… I let her stay there for as long as she wished.

Shortly afterwards, we sat in front of the fire while I debriefed her upon the finer points of the journey, precisely what I had learned and accomplished, and detailed the helpfulness of Yngve.

‘Ah, yes,’ she commented, ‘I know him quite well. When he is in France he answers to Yves, and he possesses a highly affable quality which makes him utterly trustworthy — he excels at getting information without seeming to. It’s the primary aspect one such as he should have.’

‘Indeed. He was astonishingly efficient in that regard,’ I said admiringly. ‘I would be very glad indeed to see him again, the next time he visits our city, but — I don’t think I’ll be eager to visit him on his own soil ever again. Although, it’s certainly true that I’ve developed quite a sense of affection for my new fur coat !’

Lucretia stood deliberately, giving me a hard look before she moved to the desk, from which she retrieved an envelope.

‘Well, it stinks of woodsmoke, cigarettes and something akin to a dead fish wearing orange-blossom aftershave,’ she stated flatly and without sympathy, ‘and it needs a good airing out. I’ll tend to it shortly. In any case, this arrived two days ago.’

She held out to me a black-bordered letter bearing a postal mark from —, and the unmistakable scrawl of my dearest friend :

My dear daroga,

My wife is so very near her term and it’s starting to gnaw away at me, for I am considering all kinds of things I never before thought possible, and am noticing many things more which rest uneasily in my mind.

I’ll get right to the point : why is this burden entirely upon the mother ? She is the one who will experience the pain of childbearing and nursing and the lack of sleep in order to feed the child… But what of the father ? Why do I possess no means to give our child milk ; why are precious few means of assisting either of them within my ability ? It seems a cruel injustice of nature. And in the meantime, I hardly even know what to do with myself.

This is quite serious, Nadir, because I am due to become a father in what could be mere hours, days or weeks and I already feel like a useless and doddering fool. I will happily make breakfast for my wife in the morning, as I usually do — as well as lunch at midday and dinner in the evening, but these petty chores seem like such a triviality compared to everything she is, and will continue to, endure by contrast. And this fact leaves me feeling at a supreme loss for how to either offset or complement it.

I hope that, perhaps, you might be willing to impart to me some of your wisdom of fatherhood, albeit may some of those memories be bittersweet indeed for you to recall — I do sincerely apologise for dredging them forth if so — but keen is my wish that you might be of aid to your friend in his bewilderment… the only friend to whom he can turn in his hour of need.

Your humble servant.

By Allah… what a heady question ! What bitter memories, indeed… that of Reza… of his mother ! Of his birth… of their deaths.

A movement at my side startled me out of my introspection ; it was Lucretia, proffering my cigarette box.

Ahh, but she was a perfect being.

That evening I composed and sent out a reply to him by evening post.

Two days later — in fact it was yesterday afternoon — I was nearly finished writing my report for le 2^e b. when the downstairs bell rang and Lucretia hurried down the stairs to see who it was. Finishing my sentence and setting down my pen as she re-entered the house, I looked up to see that it was a telegram, addressed to me. She told me from whence it had come, and we exchanged a knowing look… and then with impatient fingers, I ripped open the envelope and pulled away the flaps to read the message :

Daroga,
Child born last night.
Wife is well.
Please come visit forthwith.
One goat will suffice.

‘Alhamdulillah ! ’ I cried happily ; my eyes re-read the message a second time, then a third, to take in every word ; there was a rustle of crinoline and I remembered that Lucretia was still standing attentively at my side. I reached out my arm and handed her the wire ; she snatched it from me and hungrily read its spartan words, then looked at me and shook her head in bafflement.

‘So… so he’s saying the baby was born, but… I don’t understand what he means here. What does a goat have to do with anything ?… Could this be some mistake made by whomever received the message as it came in... ?’

‘They have had a daughter,’ I said, smiling an omniscient smile as I rose from my chair. ‘My friends have had a daughter !’

I laughed with delight at the astonished look upon her lovely face as she again checked the telegram for any clue.

From where I sat, I reached up to draw one of her hands away from the thin slip of paper, and took it into my own.

‘Now… if you’ll pardon me, my dear… I must finish this report right away. Then I shall hurry out to deliver it personally ; while I am out, I shall stop at the telegraph office and reply to him. But I’m afraid this means I shall be leaving most likely tomorrow, to make an extended stay with them. Can you forgive me for leaving you again so soon ?’

The telegram fluttered as, maintaining it in her grasp, Lucretia laid her other hand atop mine.

‘This trip isn’t official, Nadir… he is your best friend. Go and be with him… with them both. He needs you. There will be sufficient time to plan our wedding upon your return.’

My lips parted wide in a smile which could not be dimmed — which she returned. For Lucretia had indeed agreed the evening before, to marry me !

Chapter Text

Chapitre XX - ‘Le commencement d’une nouvelle vie’

It was three months after we had left Paris, when on the eighteenth of January, over the course of some sixteen hours, Christine bore our child, on a Friday evening.

I had been woken out of a dead sleep by the sound of a gasp and a moan at my side, perhaps around three o’clock in the morning. It was not yet time for the last cock to crow ; our bedroom was lit only by the cold blue light of a full moon.

‘Christine !’ I cried, sitting up as soon as I had woken ; she lay next to me, panting. ‘What is the matter ?’

She clutched at my wrist upon her chest and said nothing for a time — during which I was flooded with a most profound anxiety. Was she starting to labour, or was something wrong ?

‘Erik —’ she choked out between breaths, ‘the baby... ! It might be... time !’

I leapt out of the bed, my hands shaking so that I could scarcely light my bedside candle ; it was bad enough, in fact, that I had to resort to striking a match like a crass amateur, for what was undoubtedly the first time in nearly forty years. But as soon as the wick had flared into steady flame, Christine seemed completely at ease, heaving a great sigh.

‘Good lord, the pain I just felt !’ she exhaled. ‘But it’s subsided now… get back in bed, Erik… it’s early yet. I don’t wish to waken Madame Delmas before it’s really quite time. She warned me it would come sporadically at first.’

My heart was pounding so from the start I’d had ; was it safer to go for the midwife now ? She’d been checking on Christine every day, and the afternoon prior had told me that the birth was indeed nigh. I heaved a breath, unsure of what to do. What a useless lump I was !!

Losing Christine in the midst of her labour was my greatest and, if truth be told, most horrendous fear. I was immensely ill-at-ease with the idea of lying back in bed, knowing my wife would again be wracked by contractions — if in fact that’s what they were.

But I did as she bade me do, and lay once more beside her. As luck would have it, I had just dozed off again when the sudden tensing of her body roused me once more.

‘Oh, god !’ she cried involuntarily as a surge of fear gripped me once more upon waking ; I again leapt from the bed, lit the candle and began to dress, pulling on trousers in the chill air of our room — the fire had burnt down to ashes, and the winter air grown strong — and, once I hoisted up my braces over the shoulders of my nightshirt, which I had stuffed down into the legs of my trousers, I added some small twigs and a fresh log atop the embers in the fire-grate, and attended to Christine in its slowly-growing light.

The next surge of pain came to her only within a few minutes, and I told her I dare not wait any longer to ride for Mme Delmas. Christine simply nodded — and I knew, despite her personal strength, that if it rapidly became bad enough she would much prefer to be in the midwife’s capable presence.

Loath as I was to leave Christine alone in such a state, I rushed downstairs and out to the stable, where I threw a harness upon Hephæstus, one of a pair of geldings which I had acquired upon our taking up residence in our new home on the furthest outskirts of Les Andelys. I guided him out of the stable and into the yard before climbing up onto his bare back, as we had to make haste ; he thankfully needed little coaxing as he doubtlessly felt spurred on by the unreasonable hour and the anxious energy which cascaded off me. I silently gave thanks for the bright moon which hung high over us in the southern sky as we swiftly covered the few kilometres to the home of the midwife, Mme Delmas, whereupon the sound of two baying dogs and a disgruntled cock and coterie of startled hens had announced my arrival. I had barely knocked upon the door before it was wrenched open by the older woman, swathed in a flannel dressing-gown and still wearing her night-cap; I breathlessly relayed the frequency of Christine’s spells, and she said she would rouse her niece Eugénie and then follow me in their dogcart as soon as they possibly could.

‘Can I ready the horse for you ?’ I asked, desperately torn between the desire to help them quickly get to Christine’s side, and to personally return to her myself.

‘Non, Monsieur,’ she called over her shoulder as she opened an inner door within the house and barked orders to whomever slept inside to get out of bed and to do what I had offered ; a sleepy-eyed adolescent boy appeared who wordlessly moved past me to comply with her demands ; he no doubt operated under the certain promise that, the sooner he performed his work, the sooner they would depart the house, and he could mercifully return to his slumber, assured of a long peace.

Mme Delmas then called out to me to get on home — so I made away from her suddenly-buzzing abode, Hephæstus quickly bearing me back from whence we’d come. I led him back into his stall, where he returned to the shadows without too much complaint ; I brushed him quickly, hung up his tack and then hurried back out to the yard to await the good woman and her niece.

Mme and Mlle Delmas were wise women indeed. The latter had dutifully made every visit at her aunt's side every day for the previous week as they checked my wife’s condition ; they had read the sign of Christine’s body that the time was nigh, and had told me so only the day before. Furthermore, Mme Delmas had assured me that it mattered not when Christine's time came, to call upon them whenever I needed to, for she always had a bag at the ready, full of clean supplies of whatever her trade demanded.

Since we had taken up residency in our new home, there had been much preparation in regards to the fact that this was Christine’s first pregnancy. Mme Delmas had already taught both of us a great deal — including the fact that I was to massage Christine’s perineum each evening, so that, when the child came, it would not injure her or cause any undue complication ; as this concern was paramount to me, I was only too happy to comply with their instruction so that my belovéd would befall no ill.

Thus, in those wonderful and yet torturous weeks leading up to her delivery, I did as much as I could for my wife — rubbing her feet and back, making her comfortable, ensuring that all the chores were done. I had carefully monitored what she ate ; I increasingly woke at night to survey her sleep. During this time, Christine’s moods varied in the most unpredictable manner ; indeed, I sometimes wondered what on earth had happened to the delightful woman I had married those months before. But Mme Delmas assured me that it was all the ordinary flux of these things, and was to be expected ; she was a woman some years my senior, and had seemed surprised when initially I had rather rashly confided to her that this was my first child and that I was most concerned with my wife’s health. Indeed, she regarded me curiously, replying that my wife was fortunate indeed to have found such an attentive husband.

Ahh, but in that phase of her need, how easily I would have killed a man who might have dared to care less than I did for a lady ! The very idea that men existed who did not place first their wife’s tender condition — no matter whether it was the first time or the seventh ! I would have taken great pleasure in garroting such a pathetic excuse for a human being… if Christine bore me a son, I would make it a point to raise him so that he would likewise regard women in the highest esteem !

My mind erratically played over such thoughts while I waited, wishing to run up and see how Christine was faring, yet even more anxious for the Delmas women to arrive ; this they did some minutes later. I helped them both down from the cart, at which point Mme Delmas called for Eugénie to bring the bag while she hurried to the back entrance — which in my haste to depart I had left standing open like an absolute fool ! The women disappeared inside, needing no escort to find our bedroom… so I took the reigns of their horse, a ten year-old mare who stood there in the moonlit yard, her ears twitching from side to side as she listened carefully to the sounds around her. As I looked into the animal’s face, I momentarily envied the simplicity of lives of beasts such as this. For I knew how it was to be treated as one of them… hélas, this did not mean that I was spared the worst aspects of being a human — and for me, this moment of supreme loss for what to do, or any idea for how to be useful, certainly qualified under that banner.

And so I stabled the mare, placing her in an empty stall with a feeding-bin of oats, in hopes of making up for yet one more in what was surely a long and baffling career of sudden midnight rides. She swished her tail before placing her nose in the trough, apparently pleased by what she found within it. I curried her, and then Hephæstus, to the degree they warranted — glad for the task at hand, but also feeling as though I should be inside to assist the women if needed, despite being simultaneously terrified by the same prospect. What a curious dread assailed me in those hours !

Correct the sensation had been, too, for when I returned to the top of the stairs I was told in no uncertain terms by Mme Delmas that I was to turn myself round and go right back down them — and to take my little dog too, unless and until they called for me. She went to the corner and picked up a clearly disconcerted Zouzou, our little black-and-tan sausage dog. Apparently Christine’s growing distress was causing him no small degree of insecurity as well — and they didn't want him underfoot. When her back had turned, I had seen into the room only for a moment ; they had stripped our bed of its blankets, and Eugénie was laying the bottom half of the mattress thickly with extra linens ; Christine was squatting in a large zinc basin which we normally kept downstairs for the wash, her nightgown lifted up around her swollen belly, the excess fabric clenched tightly in her fists... she was sweating profusely, and lines of pain were clearly etched upon her face. What in all the furnaces of hell was going on in there ?! And moreover, what had I done to my wife ?! Was this really the outcome of such unchecked ardour and sexual passion ? Down the stairs I went in a daze, Zouzou trembling under my elbow, as I considered gravely that this would surely be the first of many similar situations if I continued to fuck my wife as unrestrainedly as had been my custom in the early days of our association.

Initially, I sat in our parlour staring out the plate-glass window into the darkness ; then, I built a fire and sat listlessly once more as the sounds of my wife’s occasional cries of pain filtered down the stairwell. At last, able to stand it no more, I went to one of my hidden storage compartments and retrieved an ornate box filled with pre-rolled Turkish cigarettes — these had been a parting gift which Nadir had insisted that I take. I placed the box at my side, removed one and began to smoke ; within an hour I was thoroughly in sympathetic league my friend as I emulated his most repulsive habit. In this manner I passed what felt like long, unendurable hours as the dawn broke and the sun rose in the sky.

I filled the day by alternately cooking two meals which each midwife stole down to hurriedly consume in turns ; I had no appetite myself. And though I tried to occupy myself by going into the music room and improvising soothing melodies at both the harp and piano, my heart found no peace in it, and I gave it up. For the fact was that I was consumed by an ever-growing fear, that once the child exited the cloister of my wife’s womb, we would discover that it shared my disfigurement… and therefore yet another soul would be touched by the curse which had so wrecked my life — that is, until I came under the spell of Christine’s perfect voice ! This woman had saved me… but what would happen if she bore a child who resembled me ? She might then come to despise me ! And in the meantime, there was naught I could do which might assuage her pain and discomfort in bearing my offspring…

Oh, woe to the man who is mired in the mental trap of such angst !

The hours crawled slowly by, and my throat was burning from the sheer number of cigarettes I had consumed ; never in my life had I done such a thing. I tried in vain to find Aaisha, who in all the chaos must have hidden herself well indeed, and would not be drawn out until it had passed. The long shadows cast by the sun shortened ; then nearly disappeared ; then they lengthened again. Christine’s screams only grew louder and more frequent, and I was nearly beside myself with nerves. But then, at long last, I heard the summoning call of the young Mlle Delmas’s voice from the top of the stairs; immediately my hand froze in mid-air as I paused in the act of lighting yet another cigarette, while simultaneously, Zouzou’s head flew up from where his little muzzle had been resting upon his paws, curled unhappily under a blanket in his little bed at the side of my chair.

‘Monsieur… the baby has come at last !’ came her cry. ‘Come, come quickly !’

I practically flew to the foyer and up the staircase, Zouzou’s collar jangling behind me as he followed ; two at a time I took the steps as I rushed to the first floor — once or twice nearly tripping in my supreme desire to know what was going on. When I entered the dimly-lit room, Eugénie immediately shut the door behind me, effectively trapping me in a scene which nearly caused me to both vomit and faint in sheer apoplectic fit : a blood-covered child half-emerged from between my wife’s splayed legs, her feet resting upon the edge of the bed and her toes curled in the most unnatural fashion ; Mme Delmas, her sleeves rolled up to her biceps and the collar of her dress opened, on her knees upon a pillow on the floor and receiving the babe. Beside them lay the wash-basin, filled with sickeningly pink-tinged water, within which long, brownish-red tendrils swirled. The many clean sheets which had covered the foot of the bed were now quite repulsive, and a large pair of shears, a rag, and a closed jar of some clear liquid lay there. A bizarre odour filled the room and this, coupled with the sight of the infant, and the sound of its blood-curdling scream as it suddenly opened its mouth and filled its lungs with air, turned my stomach in a strong wave of nausea.

Reeling upon my feet, I grasped the edge of the commode beside me and struggled to master myself ; the babe was suddenly clear of Christine, who went limp and fell back upon the bed, utterly exhausted, blood and fluids dripping from her frightfully distorted womb — the sight of which made me feel faint once more ; WHAT HAD I DONE TO HER ?! The two women knelt over the wash-basin cleaning the child, who was still attached to Christine via an enormous vein which grew from to its abdomen, making it seem like a grape upon a vine, which disappeared inside my wife. Mme Delmas picked up the shears, and I quickly turned away, my skin crawling as I did my best not to recoil in horror at the true meaning of what it meant to bear a child ; good god, that these women could endure this meant they were much, much stronger than I could ever be ! There was the sound of a sharp metallic snap ; when I dared look again, the child was hidden from view behind the women. Had it inherited my curse ??

But my, how that child could cry — mighty and strong… the true offspring of an opera singer ! Even if it did turn out to be hideous… like its father… at the very least it would have the gift of voice ! And I could teach the child to use it well, if I could do no more ! I lurched to the window to let in some fresh air, only to be instantly upbraided by Mme Delmas and told to shut it again. When I turned, she was advancing towards me with a little tightly-wrapped bundle as Eugénie did something out of my view between my wife’s legs. At last I would be confronted with my progeny’s face ! Mme Delmas held out the bundle to me.

‘Congratulations Monsieur… you are the father of a very healthy little girl.’

I held my breath I as looked down upon her visage.

She was perfect. She bore no obvious trace of her paternity !

I, Erik, the monster of the gypsy camps — the executioner of the Shah-en-Shah — le fantôme de l’Opéra de Paris — somehow, I had produced something utterly without flaw ! I would not have believed it could have been possible, had I not seen it with my own eyes. In fact, the only distortion her face bore, was that created by the lens of my own tears as I looked upon her — and that rippling of her tiny mouth due to her ceaseless cry in pure bel canto.

I later learned that the two women had given the babe to me that they might attend to Christine’s afterbirth ; once done, they pulled her back up to the head of the bed and quickly removed the soiled sheets… what a pile of washing I now had to do ! They asked me if they should empty the wash-basin over the edge of the balcony of our small east-facing terrace, and I told them that they could. While they were thus occupied I moved to the side of the bed upon which Christine lay, propped up on seemingly every pillow in the house. Tears poured down my face as I sat next to her and held our baby for her to see ; she reached out and caressed the child’s little cheeks, smiling tiredly, her face ashen and her voice husky from hours of crying in pain. The little girl’s cries subsided somewhat as we held her together — perhaps sensing that all was safe now ; her suddenly-still face looked back at Christine with a gaze of wonder.

My voice trembled with such emotion that I could barely speak.

‘Our offspring, my darling Christine,’ I announced. ‘She is utterly perfect… and she has her mother’s voice !’

‘And her father’s eyes !’ Christine cried in a faint but happy tone.

I blinked the tears away—at last I was able to focus more clearly. My god… it was true !
Our child’s eyes caught the light in a curious manner and glowed with a golden hue !

Mme Delmas and Mlle Eugénie re-entered the room through the terrace door, and I rose from my place as the former approached to again wipe down Christine’s face with a damp cloth and ply her with water as Eugénie prepared a tea by the fireplace. While she drank, Mme Delmas told me that Christine would continue to experience varied pains and cramps over the coming days as her womb returned to its former state, and that neither of us should be alarmed unless the pain was considerable. They would return to check on Christine in the morning.

They set about gathering the various implements Mme Delmas had brought, when it struck me there was a howling at the door ; poor little Zouzou was still shut out of the room.

‘Might he join us now ?’ I asked ; Mme Delmas huffed that dogs were not sanitary, but Christine implored them until they at last opened the door and the little dog raced in, determinedly sniffing the floor at the foot of the bed as he tried to assess what in god’s name had happened during his banishment ; he occasionally interrupted his investigations with indignant vocalisations for having been shut out for so long, as he was most assuredly family, and as good as human !

As Mme Delmas carefully cleaned her tools and re-packed her leather satchel, I returned to my wife’s side now that she was settled, and reverently handed our child to her.

‘What shall we name her ?’ I asked gently. It seemed only right to let Christine choose the name of the child which she had so indefatigably carried for these many past months and borne with such excruciating pain.

‘Erika Renée,’ she said quietly, ‘after her father.’

I was astonished by this gesture… even as I thought of my darling wife, she was thinking of me ! Oh, I did not deserve such love !

I reached down and picked up Zouzou from the floor, and carefully allowed him to sniff the baby’s bundle ; he was still just a puppy himself and sensed a kindred spirit in this other newborn. Mme Delmas eyed me disapprovingly even as she directed her niece that Christine’s tea had steeped long enough to achieve its needed strength.

‘Madame Daaé will need to take a strong infusion of this herb every few hours for the next eight days,’ said Eugénie as she placed it upon the table within Christine’s reach. ‘Each cup will need to steep for at least ten minutes. We shall leave you a large bag from which to prepare it. Will you see to it, Monsieur ?’

‘Of course,’ I affirmed, eager to comply with any counsel she might provide.

‘This tea will help to cessate Madame's bleeding more quickly,’ she explained.

‘Nettle, I presume ?’ I asked.

‘Vous savez les herbes, Monsieur ? ’

‘I have experience,’ I shrugged deferentially, ‘but nothing like the marvellous care you have rendered my wife this day. I thank you both earnestly for all you have done for her.’

They both smiled and shrugged as they continued about their business, as if to say it was simply what they did. They also shared with us the interesting statistic that ours was the third baby of the year so far in our little commune !

At last, Christine leaned against my shoulder as the midwife showed her how to tempt the baby to suckle her breast and receive the nourishment she would now need every two hours or so ; she had clearly inherited her father’s intelligence, for it didn’t take her long to understand that Christine’s bosom was nonpareil, and that mother’s milk was the means by which to become healthy and strong.

Satisfied that both Christine and the babe were out of harm’s way for the night, I escorted the tired ladies downstairs and gave them each a large slice of quiche and decanted a bottle of my finest vin de Bordeaux for them ; Mme Delmas’s earlier irritation with me seemed to vanish as she and her niece enjoyed their food, saying it was very fine and commenting that I would certainly make a good father to my new daughter — which meant a great deal to me, considering how very much I was an absolute novice in said regard.

I left them to finish, encouraging them to refill their cups if they so desired, and went out the back door to the stable so I might bring out their horse and hitch up their dogcart. Ere long they joined me, needing a bit of assistance to climb up into the seat — apparently they had taken me up on my offer to finish the bottle — and Mme Delmas slurred that she would come again the next morning to check on her patients. Before she pulled the reigns to leave, I discreetly handed her an envelope which contained a sheaf of banknotes totalling twice the amount we had agreed upon for her services ; she wouldn't make the discovery, however, until they had arrived back home.

Once they had gone, I let Zouzou out to join me so that he might relieve himself... he was already learning to be quick about such things, for he disliked the cold. Afterwards, we returned to the house, where I gave the coals in the kitchen range a final stirring, and then raked out the fire in the parlour. I sat heavily in my chair and had a final cigarette, completely done in — if I felt it so strongly, how then must Christine feel ? I was galled by the very thought of all that had transpired since this morning, and I was startled awake some time later as the clock struck the hour, realising that I had unwittingly relaxed at last and dozed off.

I found that Zouzou had abandoned me long ago in order to join the rest of the family upstairs, and Christine was awake, nursing the babe. I had never seen her look so tired, but even in her clear exhaustion there was a radiance about her which I had never before witnessed — even when we had come here and she had seen the house for the first time ; even in the most uninhibited of our love-making… something about her was newly permeated with a joy which seemed to emanate from her deepest soul, and it made her even more lovely to look at — even more spellbinding to my heart. The mother of my child !

I dropped my braces and let my trousers fall upon the floor, too drowsy to hang them up in the armoire ; I withdrew the mask from my face and placed it upon my nightstand. I climbed into bed beside her, stroking her cheek as I did so and kissing her lightly upon her ear.

‘You are both such a beautiful sight, my love. I can’t imagine how tired you must be. I had no idea this was going to be such an ordeal for you.’

‘Well,’ she answered with a simple smile, ‘I suppose it’s the only way there is to bear a child.’

‘Next time,’ I offered feebly, ‘we’ll have to name our son after your father.’

Her lovely eyes squinted at me appraisingly. ‘Erik,’ she said sternly, ‘it’s far too early to even speak of “next time”.’

I held up my hand in apology. ‘Yes… yes, of course, my dear. I only meant to let you know that I do so appreciate the name you have chosen for our daughter… and I wish you to honour your own forebears only when, and if, the opportunity presents itself.’

Christine laughed softly. ‘Just… give me a while, darling, to regain my humour. It’s very sweet of you to say so. But nothing could be further from my mind at the moment. I daresay there were times when I thought I was going to faint from the sheer strain of it all.’

‘Oh, my darling… I am truly so sorry. I suppose you had half a mind to curse me in the midst of it, n’était-ce pas ainsi ? ’

‘There’s no need to suppose, Erik… I did curse you — many times over, in fact.’ She glanced down at our child in her arms. ‘But this little treasure makes up for it. Just look at how precious she is !’

‘My sweet,’ I said quickly, preferring to avoid the thought that Christine might never let me make love to her again, ‘when Mme Delmas comes back tomorrow, I shall ride into town and register the birth at the mairie. I don’t want to leave you here alone, so soon after all you’ve just been through.’

‘You must wire Nadir while you’re there, too,’ she murmured softly, leaning up against me and resting her head upon my shoulder, ‘and tell him he is an uncle.’

‘Yes, that’s so,’ I agreed ; ‘and I shall ask him to come and stay with us for a while — if you don’t mind.’ Then I paused in thought, and chuckled. ‘I’ll have to make the announcement in terms of goats.’

Christine — who was now quickly on the verge of sleep — nevertheless wrinkled her brow in confusion. ‘In… what ?’

‘Oh, I only jest. Let yourself drift off, my treasure. She seems to be finished — let me take her for you.’ I fetched the little one off my wife’s chest, and taking a soft cloth from a pile which Mlle Delmas had prepared, threw it over my shoulder and placed the infant there, patting her back softly until I heard her burp ; once she finally had, I placed her between her mother and I, so that she would feel assured of having us both close to hand.

Before long, my new little family was soundly asleep, each in the arms of the other.

Never had I known such heaven !

Throughout the night, there was the sound of plaintive crying at regular intervals when the child awoke and felt hungry. Christine eventually cried at the pain of repetitive nursing, saying it was painful indeed. I felt terrible, and utterly useless — all I could do was drag myself downstairs and bring Christine a plate of food, which she ended up gobbling hungrily. But other than this, there was so very little I could do ; I did not produce milk, and I could not ease my wife’s pains. The sense of powerlessness which I felt, was profound. I had sent Nadir a letter opining this very worry merely a few days before ; but hélas, he had surely only just received it, and therefore I had not the consolation of his response.

The following morning, when I had awoken, dressed and donned my mask once more, I took up the baby in my arms but she only cried unhappily until she was returned to her mother’s care. I fretted over this — why did she seem so often to cry when I held her ? But I had important tasks to see through on this day, and since I hated to leave Christine for any reason, after breakfast I went to the stable early to curry and harness up Hermès, our other gelding, so that I could leave as soon as Mme Delmas arrived.

‘Come, Hermès — we shall be flying down the road like the winged messenger who is your namesake. Let us get your harness on, dear boy.’

Hephæstus quickly came to the door of his own stall and thrust his nose out, snorting in his excitement at the prospect of going for a ride.

‘Oh, I’m sorry, my creature… it’s your brother’s turn today. Here — let us make it up to you with a little treat !’

The horses loved dried sweetgrass, and I took a sheaf of it from a lidded bin, and placed it in his feed-trough in his stall. He looked at me, twisting his ears round as though trying to decide whether he should choose between disappointment and temptation, but chose the latter and began to eat it greedily.

I led Hermès out of the stable and hitched him by the front door, just as the midwife’s dog-cart appeared around the bend of the drive; I walked round the house and met her in back to help her out and hitch up her cart, and ushered her inside before bidding her good-morning and taking my leave. Then I went back downstairs, at which point Hermès and I promptly left for town.

Taking the road at a fast gallop, we arrived in a quarter of an hour. Hermès loved to run and of late his desire to do so had been somewhat curtailed in my occupation with Christine’s well-being — I desired very much to make up for it somehow to the poor animal, knowing how very unhappy he was at being kept pent up in his stall. I would have to run the horses more often now that the birth had occurred… these were the things on my mind as we came to the main road, where I slowed Hermès to a trot and then a walk, whereupon we stopped in front of the telegraph office and I hitched him to a ring in the wall. Going in, I wired Nadir, then afterwards visited the mairie to declare the birth of my child.

As with any other civil process I had ever been forced to endure, the declaration was one of those tediously bureaucratic and time-consuming affairs which are as much a vital French institution as is good wine and fabulous art ; I was at the office for nearly two hours as the clerk verified my name and date of birth, and Christine’s name and date of birth, and where we lived, and the date of our marriage, and that I proclaimed the daughter as my own progeny ; he then slowly and silently wrote out all the information in the log-book, then finally turned it around for me to sign. One I had donned my reading-glasses and focussed upon the page before me, I saw to my pleasant surprise that the clerk was possessed of exceedingly good penmanship, and had written the baby’s name with a different nib entirely as a personal flourish of his record-entry style. I was impressed, and told him so... but then again, considering the substantial time it had taken, had he turned the book around and it had been illegible, I would have been very angry with him indeed ; and then the entry of my daughter's birth would have been promptly followed by copy detailing the man's death.

This vital task accomplished at last, I stopped at the post-office to collect our mail, and found Nadir’s reply to my letter, which I decided to read over coffee and a cigarette at one of our three cafés in town. It was a tome of true friendship… and it brought tears to my eyes more than once. I had known his son, those many years ago in Tehran ; I had seen him die… suddenly those experiences welled up so much greater sympathy in my heart than had been the case even when it had happened. I now could imagine how truly wretched my friend had felt at the loss of his family… no wonder he had decided to break ranks, and leave those memories behind in order to escape with me ! He’d had nothing to lose, and everything to gain…

Before I unhitched Hermès, I ducked back into the telegraph office in case there had been a reply to my wire — and to my great delight, there was.

May you both receive Allah’s blessing upon the birth of your daughter.
Making arrangements to leave tomorrow ;
shall arrive Les Andelys after the usual delay.
Looking forward to my second successive victory.
N. Kahn

Ah, my dearest friend ! I felt myself bursting indeed with a genuine excitement to see him… but if the Persian bastard thought he would beat me at chess twice in a row, he was deluded.

I re-folded the telegram and stuffed it into my jacket pocket; then I stopped next-door at the boulangerie to procure a baguette — there would be no time to bake my own today— and then Hermès bore me out of town; once we were free of the houses, I let him have his head and run at his own pace. The barren wintry landscape and crisp air raced by our faces and we were home in only a few minutes.

Once there, I led Hermès to his stall, quickly brushed him down and gave him his own sheaf of sweetgrass — and then I entered through the back door, calling up the stairs to announce my arrival, and set to preparing a meal for my wife and Mme Delmas, the latter of whom appeared before long.

‘I hope you don’t mind that today I bought bread in town, Madame,’ I said to her as I set to scrambling some eggs upon the range. ‘Would you like a bit of fish paste on the side ?’

‘Oh, Monsieur, you such a very kind and generous man ! And I wanted to tell you,’ she said, digging into her apron pocket and pulling out what I recognised was the envelope I had given her the night before, ‘I didn’t realise that you had so grossly overpaid Eugénie and myself until we arrived back at the house. The cost we discussed was for both of us, not for each of us. Therefore, I have brought back half.’

‘It was not overpayment,’ I stated firmly, ‘but rather a measure of my appreciation for you both. And I insist that you keep it all, and not to argue with me about it — and that you eat as much as you like before you depart. How is my dear wife upon this fine winter morning ?’

‘She’s doing quite well,’ she said as she chewed upon her well-buttered bread, ‘the nettle tea is already having its desired effect, and the degree of discharge from her womb this morning was not inordinate. It is just as expected. I will come again tomorrow until I am fully satisfied that she is getting on as she should be — the colour is returning to her skin. She is a healthy woman. Now she’s been complaining that the nursing is painful —’

‘Oh yes, that was causing her a great deal of grief by about the third feeding.’

‘Well, there’s not much that can be done about it except to get used to it, but I have brought her a salve for chafing and I am content that the baby is feeding as she should be.’

‘And you detect no issues of any kind with the child ?’ I asked cautiously.

‘Well, she has unearthly eyes — just as do you, Monsieur, if you’ll beg my pardon for being blunt. But she is a darling babe, and seems perfect indeed.’

‘And, Madame Delmas, may I ask you something equally as blunt ? What on earth should I do with myself in order to be useful ? It seems to me that the brunt of all of this has been upon the child’s mother… and it doesn’t sit well with me. I would like to help them both in some way.’

The woman fixed me with a piercing gaze.

‘Many of the men who have become fathers under my eye do not even concern themselves with such things, Monsieur. They visit the tavern while I attend to their wives… they drink wine, balance their account-books, work in the fields, as they usually do. Rare are those who do all they can for their wives — but we do have a few of them. And yet you put them all to shame, Monsieur. You shall certainly be a most wonderful father. Just keep doing exactly what you are doing — this experience is only temporary… as is everything !’

I thanked her for her wisdom, and as she finished her meal we made conversation about her past experience, which intrigued me. She had been delivering babies for over forty years, she said — starting as an apprentice to her mother, who was also a midwife, when she was only thirteen years old.

I led her to the front door, whereupon she placed her warm bonnet over her grey chignon.

‘May I ask, Monsieur, why it is that you and Madame do not keep servants ? It is curious that one of your station does not even have a valet.’

‘I am unaccustomed to living with anyone except my wife,’ I explained, ‘and as a composer, I relish my quiet solitude. It is possible that Christine may need to take on a personal maid at some point — but I am happy to do everything that would normally be required of a servant, as my duty to her.’

She grinned at me thoughtfully and shook her head, then passed through the door which I held open.

‘Would only that my Théophile take a leaf from your book, monsieur !’

That afternoon I had been upstairs with Christine and the child, trying once more to hold her and becoming greatly discouraged to find that, once again when I took her in my arms, as soon as she looked upon me, she cried. This was beginning to give me a complex, for it was almost as though the child could see through the mask I wore and penetrate my true visage ; but I had no time to dwell upon it, for I suddenly perceived the sound of a horse and wagon coming up the drive. Christine, who had gotten up to sit on the chamber pot, told me to lay the child upon the bed so I could attend to it. Peering out the window, I saw that it was a farmer from town, and that he had a pretty little black-and-white nanny goat tied to the railing in the back of the wagon, blithely riding along. I hurried downstairs and outside to meet him in the yard, and he told me he’d received a telegram from Paris arranging for the purchase and delivery of one goat, to me.

‘The man from Paris was most insistent that the goat reach you today,’ the man said as he grabbed her around the legs and set her down. She gazed around curiously at her new environment.

I could not suppress a jolly laugh as I knew Nadir had not been able to resist sending me the customary gift of one who’d just had a daughter ; had it been a boy, he would have sent two !

The goat had a rope lead tied around her neck, so I led her into the stable and gave her a stall, forking out some hay for her to eat until I had time to fit her with a collar and stake her out in the yard. The farmer filled his pipe and made small-talk about my geldings as he watched me work.

‘Thank you for bringing her, Monsieur… I can see that she is of quality stock. I’ll come to see you to see about a buck when I’m ready to breed her in the springtime,’ I told him, shaking his hand before he climbed back onto the wagon and took up the reigns. ‘We just had our first child yesterday, and by spring it will be good to have the milk.’

He nodded as he held a match to the bowl of his pipe, and told me exactly where to find his gate. ‘Just come whenever you like, Monsieur, and we’ll get you a good buck from my herd. Goats are excellent to have on the property, you might even be wanting more for your lawn come summer, as big as it is.’

I agreed with him and we saluted each other as he snapped the reigns and turned the horse, driving off down the driveway back towards the gate.

When I came back inside, I went to the kitchen and cut a few slices of bread and cheese as I prepared nettle tea for Christine. Zouzou stationed himself at my feet the entire time, in the off chance that I might drop a crumb or two — and ate them up eagerly when I intentionally did.

He ascended the stair behind me as I carried the tea-leaden tray, and spied Christine in the rocking-chair which I had recently built for her and placed in the graceful curve of the bow window of the first-floor corridor ; she had our infant upon her shoulder, patting her gently upon the back.

‘Who was that man, darling ?’ she asked curiously as the dog and I joined her.

‘Oh,’ I said casually as I placed the tray down upon the octagonal Moroccan table beside her, ‘it was a farmer from near town, delivering a goat to us as a gift from Nadir.’

‘A goat ?’ she asked with surprise. ‘From Nadir ?’

‘Yes, my dear… in the daroga’s tradition, a goat is a customary gift upon the birth of a child.’

‘They do this in Persia ?’

‘Yes. The animal is often sacrificed, of course, and the meat shared with those less fortunate.’

She shot me a mortified look.

‘Oh, Erik ! Surely you wouldn’t !’

‘No, no my dear — it is a female goat and it would be excellent to breed her come spring. Then we can supplement the milk for the baby, to lessen the burden on you. And, they will crop the grass short when it starts to grow back... I believe it will be quite useful to have a few of them around.’

‘Darling… I love Nadir, you know I do — you don’t think he’ll be offended when he arrives to find that we haven’t — sacrificed it ?’

‘By no means, I’m sure. The sacrifice isn’t a requirement. But in the spirit in which it was given, I shall share something of our means with those who have less.’

‘You’re always thinking of that, Erik… you always have. Meg told me how you supplemented her mother’s salary with money you would often leave for her in loge cinq.’

‘Debienne and Poligny were paying her a pauper’s wage… and the woman is a widow. How else is she supposed to get by ? And she was wonderfully discreet. Le Fantôme de l’Opéra rewards those who help him, just as he brings grief to those who are less deserving !’

Christine laughed lightly, a gay note in her voice. ‘Le Fantôme de l’Opéra… no longer of the Opéra, but instead now a father who spends all his time in an apron, tending his house in the country !’

I had to laugh, too ; it would have been the most preposterous thought ever conceived merely a few months ago — but here we were, and it was true !

Christine moved the baby from her shoulder, and held the child out to me.

‘Darling — I want you to take the baby. Something occurred to me, and I want to see if I am right.’

‘Why… I don’t know, Christine… I feel like she must not like the scent of me.’

‘Erik… come. Come and hold your daughter.’

I heaved a sigh, and reached out to take the sleepy child from her arms. I was beginning to feel a great deal of dread at these moments — for the child never seemed to fail to cry. And, sure enough, despite her near-somnolency, she became fully awake as soon as I took her, and began to bawl.

‘What am I doing wrong, Christine ? I — I just don’t understand — ’

Suddenly, without a word, Christine rose from the rocking-chair and reached up her hand to my face… and pulled off the mask I wore, which deceptively gave me the appearance of a normal man and had made our lives in Les Andelys so much more tenable than my life in Paris, or anywhere else, for that matter, had ever been. I gasped as she did it — for I hadn’t even had time to anticipate such a move — and a deep wave of fear came over me as I felt surely the baby, if she had been unhappy in my arms before, would now become wholly terrified. Surely my true visage was enough to visit death upon such a babe, only a day old !

But to my shock and surprise, suddenly the baby quietened. She gazed into my countenance as though — as though it was what she preferred to see !

‘She has your magical eyes, Erik,’ Christine whispered. ‘She knows your true face… she doesn’t like it when you hide it !’ Christine reached up and caressed the ruined half of my face, and the child gurgled happily in my hands, looking intently at me all the while.

I pressed the child to my chest, and cried.

The next day, I hardly had any time to dwell on the curious nature of my child, for I had vast quantities of washing to do — much of it was blood-stained linens and serviettes which I’d left outside the day before to soak in frigid water. I subsequently spent a great deal of time over the washboard scrubbing for all I was worth. Once the blood was no longer apparent, I finally threw it all into the washing-pot over the fire in the corner of the scullery, and slaved over the hot water, stirring it round with my great wooden spoon.

Poor Christine would bleed for a while yet — especially whenever she nursed. But I reflected grimly that this was precisely why I had selected my murder weapon of choice — the Punjab lasso — for it was a bloodless instrument ; and I was not a man who had the stomach for such gore. Nay ; while I was highly tolerant of death itself — indeed, I’d had no choice otherwise in Tehran — but to make a disgusting mess of it, to soil one’s very own finery with the blood of another and be reduced to cleaning it all in this inglorious manner, required a man of a much more stone-hearted disposition than I was possessed. The Persians may make use of their shamshir — indeed, I knew Nadir had used his before. But a shamshir was not an instrument for Erik !

By day’s end, I had collapsed into my armchair and availed myself once more to my now-dwindling store of cigarettes ; fatherhood was already becoming a thankless task. And to think I had feared I would not be capable of contributing to the family ! Surely just a few weeks of this difficult work would even out the inequality of burden between Christine and I… surely ! For I had cleaned and dusted the room which would be Nadir’s for the next several days ; I had supplied his bed with clean linens and made it up nicely ; I had hung up to dry in the cold winter air, all that which had been soiled by the birthing ; and there were already numerous serviettes of Christine’s — and there would be more to come — and diapers were becoming a steady source of incredible filth, and would of course need washing every day.

Good god… somehow, in all the preparation of the past weeks, I hadn’t even thought about diapers. It occurred to me that this was going to be a constant for the next two years. Ahh, if only the Parisian public could have known that now, rather than inducing the thrill of fear into the hearts of théâtre-goers or the company itself, the P. of the O. was now relegated to a daily routine of washing faeces from baby’s diapers !

But yet… if I had to wash the faeces from the diapers of one who could gaze upon my naked face openly and without fear… then I supposed it was the least I could do in return.

The following morning, Nadir’s arrival was imminent ; I rose with the cock’s crow and lit a candle (this time without having to resort to matches like a daft arse) by the light of the moon in order that I might dress. Christine was up too, nursing the infant. I kissed them both on the forehead before I stole down the stairs in perfect silence — although there was no need for it any longer, creeping along in a wraith-like manner was by now for me such an ungovernable habit that I was hardly inclined to break it.

Shortly, I harnessed up the horses to the cart, and we trotted off to collect Nadir from town before daybreak. The two geldings, Hephæstus and Hermès, were fast and efficient, impatient to be on the move after having been confined to the relatively safe boredom of their stalls. I again promised myself that I would make a point to run them with Nadir — for he was a lover of horses and had been quite an accomplished equestrian back in the ‘Rosy Days of Mazandaran’.

We reached the dock upon the Seine in good time. A light snow had just begun to fall as I reigned in and came to a stop. I sought out Nadir’s usual profile upon the gangplank of the steam-ship from Paris, but it eluded me ; and when at last I did espy the Astrakhan hat atop his mustachioed head, my eyes nearly fell out of my skull — for he was now swathed in a voluminous brown fur coat and wore a waxen moustache ! What on earth ?! I roared with laugher and alighted from my seat, ecstatic to see my foolish friend, no matter the unexplained eccentricity of his appearance.

He walked up straight to me and we embraced one another like long-lost brothers, and stood in the cold as his accompanying luggage was unloaded from the vessel. I was still quite physically exhausted from all the laundry I’d done the day before, so I paid a couple of young dock-workers to load my friend’s trunk and travelling-case into the cart, and we both stiffly climbed aboard.

Nadir lit a cigarette, offering me one from his case out of gracious habit — and while in the past I normally refused, my acceptance of it now caused him to raise an eyebrow.

‘Don’t act surprised, daroga,’ I drawled as we both exhaled into the cold wind, ‘these past few days have been, quite frankly, some of the most vexing that I have ever endured.’

‘Ahh, yes,’ he sympathised, ‘I suspected as much. Which is why I brought along quite a supply for us both.’

‘May Allah bless you for a saint !’ I cried.

‘Ridiculous kafir !’ rejoined my friend, ‘we do not have saints ! That is not what Allah does !’

We then both laughed heartily ; damn it, but it was good to see the bugger !

‘Erik… you are already looking the part of a soft country father. It seems as though you’ve gained fifteen pounds since last I saw you.’

‘And you… I don’t even know what the hell to say about you, Nadir. I believe you could only outdo yourself by adding a pair of light grey spats, a monocle and a gold-tipped cane. Not to mention a golden cigarette-holder, and a diamond ring to match. Either that, or you ought to be wearing nothing but a mismatching assortment of plaids under that coat… it’s a difficult determination to make. Have you been roughing it on the Canadian frontier, or have you suddenly been taken under the wing of a Belgian dandy ?’

My friend’s head bent back in uproarious laughter and he clapped me on the shoulder.

‘Oh, my friend — it has been too long ! I have so much to tell you. Including the fact that… well… I must confide in you something which has been troubling my heart — and which I did not disclose to you in my letter of the other day.’

‘By all means, daroga… do tell.’

‘I have asked Lucretia to marry me.’

‘You — you’ve proposed to… your maid ? ’

‘Yes. Or — well, no. Because, Erik… Lucretia is not my maid.’

For a moment I was struck dumbfounded — was this really the daroga talking to me, who had not so much as seriously considered another woman after his belovéd wife had passed since before even I had known him ?

’Nadir,’ I gasped, heedless of the wind in our faces, ‘you don’t mean to say you’ve been keeping her as a mistress, and pretending — !’ What I was saying was too shocking a thought even to myself, to finish saying it aloud… but Nadir shook his head and waved it away.

‘No, no, certainly not. No, Lucretia is far too good to be anyone’s mistress…’

Having somehow lost his first cigarette — or perhaps he’d finished it so quickly that I hadn’t seen him do it — he retrieved his cigarette case from somewhere within the immense animal pelt he was wrapped in, and went through his little ritual of selecting one, then striking a match and lighting it in a protective pose, his hands held round the flame — then he exhaled with an exaggerated sigh of relief.

‘The fact is… she is my partner. Dans le deuxième Bureau. Her assignment has been to pose as my maid for the past two years. But in fact, it has been a front, and we have ended up falling in love. And she agreed to marry me, just three days ago.’

I let out an unguarded guffaw. ‘You sly himar ! You don’t mean to say Lucretia is —’ here I dropped my voice conspiratorially, despite being wholly alone together out in the country lane, with only Hephæstus and Hermès to overhear us — ‘Lucretia is also a spy ?! ’

‘Indeed she is, Erik — indeed she is ! And a damned efficient one, too !’

‘And so what of her religious persuasion… isn’t she Catholic ? Is she going to convert ? Are you going to convert ?’

Nadir roared with laughter again. ‘Don’t be absurd… of course neither of us are going to convert ! May Allah forgive me, for I know it is against the teachings of the Qur’an… but I frankly believe it unimportant at the moment. If we lived in Islamic society, well then of course it would matter, it would be unavoidable. But France permits us a degree of personal liberty unknown elsewhere in the world… ’

‘My god, Nadir… how incredibly patriotic of you ! The next thing I know you’re going to casually drop the news that you’ve installed a bust of Napoléon in your living-room.’

He looked at me seriously. ‘And so what if I have ?’

I nearly dropped the reigns in reaction — but the acting skill of Nadir had completely fooled me ; for he began laughing again and elbowed me, then grabbed my arm to keep himself from falling out of the seat.

‘So you haven’t, actually ?’ I asked, still unsure.

‘Erik… I may work for the French government, but I have not fallen so in love with it that I have embraced your culture to that level. I still have my dignity as a Persian.’

‘Well… perhaps ! And yet the West is clearly getting to you. Just look at that moustache ! One heedless trip to Bruxelles and you have become a fashion-plate of some kind or other !’

‘And just what makes you so sure I’ve been to Bruxelles ?’

‘Who else would wax a moustache in that idiotic manner ? It’s beginning to catch on even in our capital ! I thank whatever merciful force there is that I moved out to the country and will therefore avoid seeing these insufferable new fads.’

‘Well, I needed a shave when I arrived there. I didn’t intend for the chap to do it… and he used so much wax, that I don’t even know how I’d ever manage to get it out, short of cutting it off completely — which I’m not about to do. So I’ve maintained it for lack of recourse.’

‘My dear Nadir… I fear I’m going to have to start keeping tabs on you ! How you have surprised me in these past months, I must say ! My, my ! Have you been on some secret mission for le Bureau ?’

‘It’s a long story, Erik. I shall explain everything over our next chess match… which I fully intend to win,’ he taunted.

I studiously chose to ignore this statement. ‘Have you continued to hold your seat at the Opéra in our absence ?’

‘When duty has not called me away — yes. You may be interested to learn that my former understudy François has become a rather popular cast-member and has ascended to become the principal male dancer. He and the young Mademoiselle Giry are recently betrothed. In fact, I bring from her a gift and a letter for Christine in which I believe she will share the news. And… ah, yes, the Spanish woman has resumed the rôle of principal singer, but she is already waging war with the new lady, an American, who has come to take Christine’s place…’

‘Were you aware that Meg Giry formerly had her heart set on that insignificant prick of a boy ?’ I asked acidly.

Nadir frowned in disapproval — I couldn’t help but notice that his newly-waxen moustache made the more impassioned emotions rather difficult for one to take seriously.

‘François is far more suitable. The girl surely doesn’t even know what a favour I rendered her by deposing that deplorable lump.’

‘Ahh, yes — where he remains in exile in his polar prison ! What a gift you gave us all !’ I quipped.

Nadir cleared his throat, and quickly changed the subject.

‘Speaking of gifts,’ he asked, ‘how did you like the goat I sent ? And you have somehow failed to tell me your new daughter’s name.’

‘The goat is staked out in the yard as we speak, happily cropping grass. She’s a wonderful little thing. And our daughter — well, I’m chagrined to say that Christine insisted on naming the child after me. So we shall be calling her Renée, as for some reason I have yet to untangle, I feel strange saying Erika.’

‘By Allah, I fail to see what there is to untangle, Erik… it’s not a mystery : Christine loves you, and you have an inferiority complex.’ He flicked his cigarette out onto the road, and crossed his legs, apparently quite satisfied with his succinct little analysis of my personality. ‘There you have it.’

I harrumphed, despite the fact that I secretly agreed. ‘Well, well… you’re becoming quite the European polymath, daroga. For now you court not just the masculine aesthetics of Bruxelles, but the newest and most academically-challenging concepts of Austria, too.’

He shrugged, unmoved by my sarcasm. ‘Mark my words, Erik — these new-fangled theories will yet revolutionise the field of criminal justice. Just wait, and see… and remember your sage friend the daroga when you do.’

‘So tell me more about this arrangement between you and Lucretia. When are you planning to marry ? And since, as you say, she works for le Bureau too — wouldn’t that rather compromise you both ?’

Nadir joyfully prattled on about her, and about these details, until I turned our cart through the gate of our property ; as we rounded the bend, the new goat bleated as we approached, standing in the lee of some trees, and my friend expressed his satisfaction with her ; but the snow was starting to collect, so I hopped down to remove her stake and tie her to the back of the cart, to follow us down the drive.

‘I’ll have to get a plaque made to mount upon the gate, indicating that I keep an attack goat on the premises,’ I jested as I climbed back up. ‘Now, you’ll want to enter properly, through the grand entrance, Nadir. I’ll let you off, then pull around back so the valet can unload your things. That’s a good man. Just give him a moment to answer the door… he’s getting on in years.’

He hopped down off the seat, and lit a cigarette before reaching out to pull the bell, which I saw him do as I guided the cart around the corner and through the porte cochère ; stopping the team in the back, I let myself in through the back door and traversed the house so that I could open the door for our guest.

Nadir laughed merrily when he saw that I was, indeed, my own valet… well — with a dachshund to help, of course.

Thus I gave him the full tour of the rez-de-chaussée ; and he marvelled over all the details and the rapidity with which it had all been done. I employed a few of my usual choice remarks on les maçons Normands, until we reached the Persian lounge, with its tiled walls, potted plants, draperies, hangings, and long bench seats covered with cushions ; the chess table sat in the centre of the room, flanked by two carved wooden chairs inlaid with mother of pearl ; the corner was piled up with cushions around my large hookah ; the scent of incense permeated the room. Nadir clapped his hands and bowed in deference as his eyes met the sight.

‘By Allah ! it is as though a desert wind had risen and transported me back home !’ he cried in amazement. ‘Erik, your talents know no bounds ! If someone had knocked me unconscious and then brought me here to waken — I would sincerely believe that I had been whisked back to Tehran !’

I laughed drolly. ‘Never-mind the fact that if either of us were ever whisked back to Tehran, daroga… it would only be to receive a public execution supervised by the Shah-en-Shah himself !’

We both roared with laughter at this, only to be chastised immediately upon the unannounced entrance of Christine behind us.

‘My goodness… as though such a thing could be of even the remotest amusement. You two men are always the same… making light of things which are no laughing matter at all !’

We both turned round to receive her displeasure from where she stood in the arched doorway, only to find her smiling and holding out our new babe towards our dear friend.

‘Come and say hello to your little niece, Nadir ! She is most excited to meet you !’

Nadir rushed to embrace her, and was immediately disarmed by the child ; he sat down upon the cushions in front of the large window with the multifoil arch at top, cooing to her sweetly — the father he had once been, emerging once more for the first time in years. It wasn’t until I saw him thus, that I realised how very much Nadir had changed since Reza’s death those many years ago… Reza, who would now be a young man himself, had he lived… and my heart swelled to consider that Nadir now had a new chance to pursue happiness, to once again recapture some of the happiness of his former self, which he so thoroughly deserved !

Christine’s eyes glistened with tears as she watched him interact with our child — looking towards me with meaningful glances every few moments. For insofar as any infant can instantly love a person, the baby loved Nadir ! I can only imagine that she sensed in him the stifled love of a father who has lost his own child, which he now poured out in profusion as he could not keep himself from weeping upon her splendid little bald head as he expressed how proud he was, heaping blessings upon us in Farsi as expression of his happiness for us ; she latched onto his perfectly absurd waxen moustache with her tiny hand, and would not let it go !

‘You have both been tremendously blessed by Allah — and granted the gift of life,’ he said tearfully. ‘It is beautiful… it is truly beautiful !’

The four of us together may have seemed an odd assortment to anyone who might have casually observed the scene… but one thing I believe they could not have denied and would have perceived most strongly, was the power and sincerity of the mutual love and care which filled that room.

FIN

Chapter Text

Chapitre XXI : ‘Trouvé dans les collections d’antiquités des Archives Nationales’

Les dossiers privées de Nadir Khan, officier naturalisé avec distinction, 2e b. de l’État-major général (1871-1896)
Dossier N° 67 : ‘divers’ (inventaire : quatre éléments)

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Élément N°1 : document non identifié, écrit par le main - dix feuilles

11 nov 77

I write today in pencil because it’s so fucking cold the ink is frozen.

I spent the last two days vomiting because we were caught in a storm on the North Sea and the conditions were so bad that none of us could move from our bunks. We had to hold on for hours to keep from falling out as the ship rolled. Thank god the chamber pots are cemented to the floor or god only knows the mess we’d have had.

Life at sea at these latitudes is miserable. I am frankly not a sailor. Then again I don’t know what I am. Nothing I ever try seems to work.

I can hardly think of anything except how all of this is Christine’s fault. Her and that fucking monster and the desert rat… that bastard is really the real reason why I’m here, he forced me onto the steamship, they locked me in a cabin for the entire time, giving me only onion soup and day-old bread, then at Le Havre I was transferred to the Navy ship in manacles like a fucking criminal. I heard he stayed on board until we were at sea… I heard there was another boat following the ship from Le Havre and he travelled with us for a full day out to sea before he was satisfied and got on it and left to return to Paris. Fucking foreign trash.

17 nov 77

I remember how, when I was a child in Perros, seeing the other children play and I would sit in the garden and pretend they would come to play with me. I remember seeing that one boy save the red scarf of the pretty Swedish girl, when it flew into the sea. I thought I could force her to think it was me who did it… but she never really seemed sure. Although I feel certain she at least kind of liked me… if she had remembered that boy saving her scarf, I KNOW she would have trusted me. But she didn’t remember, and I had to pretend too much. It ruined all my plans.

That idiot stagehand didn’t manage to get the inside history on her either, like he promised… so she would believe me and that we really knew each other well. God, that fat idiot, I should have hanged him backstage when I had the chance.

I remember, when I was away at boarding school in Nantes, a girl in town named Joséphine. She was the daughter of a man who was a city clerk. Not the greatest upbringing, but good enough to make a woman who would be sure to appreciate our family name. She would be very grateful, as long as I made her like me, she would be really thankful that I was interested in her.

Of course, assuming she isn’t already fucking married, like Christine turned out to be. I wonder why the bitch married a man who doesn’t even look like a man ? It must have been him at the party. He was tall and tried to intimidate me then. It made me so angry I just don’t even remember what happened… but I remember that smug face. Strange, even though I couldn’t see his face under that skull mask, I knew it was smug. Ha ! Why was he even wearing a mask like a skull... when that was his actual face ?? He could have just not worn a mask at all ! It's because he is STUPID. Fucking stupid, ugly monster !

Joséphine is a good place to start. When I get back to France, I’ll go to Nantes and find her. I think I can win her over and make her like me. I think that’s the perfect kind of woman, someone who’s used to much less and they know they owe you something for rescuing them from their terrible fate. You just show them a little kindness, and they realise how lucky they are to be talking to a nobleman from a noble family with a name like ours.

If I can get some information about Josette and use it to look better, that will help even more. Because then she actually already owes me some gratitude from years ago. Didn’t she used to really like the red boots in the shop-window ? I’ll tell her I wanted to buy them for her but my asshole father wouldn’t let me.

That same fucking asshole who used to tell me I wasn’t allowed to play with the other children because they were garbage. ‘Les gens pauvres qui vivent dans la corbeille,’ that’s what he said. And always threatened to make sure I wouldn’t be able to sit down for a month if he ever caught me with any of them. God… I’m so glad he’s dead now. Sure, Philippe took after him but, god how I fucking hated him… how I hate them BOTH. The oppressive asshole. Doesn’t he know children just want to play ?

Anyway, Josette, I’ll call her Josette and she’ll know we’re close because I’ll tell her that’s what I called her when we were younger. She’ll know when I tell her I remember those red boots, she’ll know when I smile at her how lucky she is, how lucky she is that someone from my family is paying any attention to her. And I’ll take her to dinner and I’ll make her believe she is so lucky. She’ll HAVE to marry me. Otherwise I’ll put her in a situation to make her look bad and she’ll have no choice. That would be perfect.

find out whether Josette is already married
if she is engaged, figure out a way to end it. bad rumour ? decide
is my smile convincing enough ?
other things that make people trust you.

27 nov 77

I have given up on the plan for Joséphine. I can’t stop thinking about Christine. She has embarrassed me too much ! I can’t even return to Paris in the open now because of those three pieces of shit. I have decided the only way to fix this situation is to go back and find her again. This time I will MAKE her come with me and I will kill the monster and the foreign bastard if I have to. I just have to think this through. This time it HAS to work.

18 déc 77

It’s hard to know really, what day it is, because the nights and days all run together up here… it’s so fucking cold, so fucking cold. I’m so fucking tired of it.

If it wasn’t for that Arabian bastard and that fucking monster, I would be in Italy with Christine right now. I was planning on taking her there and marrying her there and keeping her at the villa my family owns in Gênes. Philippe wouldn’t think to look for us there right away, he never leaves Paris except on rare occasions because of business…

God, I can’t believe this fucking happened! How could all my plans fail so miserably? How could she marry a man with a face like that ? There’s no way she loves him. There’s no way anyone ever could. Anyone with a face like that is SCUM and anyone who would like them is SCUM too.

I HAVE to figure out how to return to France. We are due to arrive in Oslo in two weeks to load up supplies. I have to find a way off the ship and find a way to get back to the mainland so I can get back to France and track them down without that foreign rat bastard knowing I’m there. If I use a false name there is no way he would know it was me. I have been trying to grow out my facial hair so I won’t be recognised but it’s so patchy and it looks bad… everyone here makes fun of me… I fucking hate them all… I’ll have to get a false beard. I will cut my hair short the night before we arrive at port. I will find a way to get false papers in Copenhagen or Amsterdam, I know it’s possible. Then I’ll return to France and find Christine.

20 déc 77

I have to kill them all. Find them and kill them all.
God how I hate her. I hate her, I hate her, I HATE HER !!! I HATE THEM ALL !!!

27 déc 77

Oslo - supplies. Lamartine on duty ?
1° papers, money, clothing, haircut.
2° moustache and beard
3° boots - footprints! find one size larger

travel on foot - Gothenburg
Heinrich Schlegel, Die Schnütz - sails without passenger declaration (50.000 kronor)
papers - have made in Copenhagen.
Lübeck, Hamburg, Bremen, Amsterdam
Antwerp, Brussels, Amiens, Paris or Amsterdam - Calais (steamer)

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Élément N°2 : trois coupures de presse

1°
02 janvier 1878 - Le Gaulois, page three, reports from abroad

A Navy vessel, L’Étoile du Nord, has reported one officer, Jean Lamartine, 2^e class, was found unconscious in a cargo hold and another officer, Raoul de Chagny, also 2^e class, missing after the ship made port in Oslo, Norway, to load supplies for an ongoing Arctic expedition. It is not clear whether foul play is suspected or whether the two men were ambushed by someone in wait upon the dock. Two barrels of gunpowder were found missing from the hold. The thief is being sought.

2°
03 janvier 1878 - Aftenposten, late edition, page two (Oslo, Norway)

French naval officials request Oslo citizens be on the lookout for a missing officer, Raoul de Chagny, who is 1m67 tall with shoulder-length blonde hair, blue eyes and an oval face with regular features. He is believed to have been kidnapped by a thief, or possibly to have left under his own power, when the French Naval ship L’Étoile du Nord landed yesterday to take on supplies for an arctic expedition. Please report any sighting of the officer in question directly to the Bureau des Maritimes de France, Akershusstranda, adjacent to the Artillery Museum.

3°
09 avril 1878 - Hallandsposten, second bi-weekly edition, page two (Halmstad, Sweden)

The body of an unidentified man was found washed up on the seashore between Halmstad and Eketånga on Wednesday, reports Jan-Olaf Gustafsson, the Halmstad police-officer, who was called in at about seven that morning. The body was seen by a fisherman after sunrise.

The man was frozen and waterlogged, and had been exposed for some time ; the body was badly deteriorated, such that it was not possible to arrive at any description except that he had been blond. However, Officer Gustafsson says it was possible the man fell off a boat and was fed on by shark or chimaerae, as the throat was badly lascerated from ear to ear. Gustafsson judged the man to have been dead for at least two months, if not longer.

Anyone missing family, workers or neighbours since late January is encouraged to pay a visit to Officer Gustafsson.

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Élément N°3 : correspondance officielle du Bureau de la Marine nationale

02 juin 1878

Dear Monsieur de Chagny,

Our office regretfully informs you that your brother, Raoul Legrand de Chagny, has been designated lost at sea near Oslo, Norway as of the 2^e janvier. We have made multiple official inquiries with the Royal Norwegian Authority as to his presence and the conclusion has been reached that he injured a fellow crewman in an attempt to disembark and then fell overboard during the altercation. There is no way to survive exposure in such frigid waters for longer than a few minutes without prompt aid.

If this situation changes, we will of course let you know. We are sorry for your loss and we send you our sincerest condolences.

Respectfully,
Armand Gossard Dufour,
Brigadier des armées navales, D^ion 7^e

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Élément N°4 : reproduction certifiée d’état civil

24 novembre 1878 - Paris, la Mairie du 8^e arrondissement, le bureau d’état civil

The year one-thousand eight hundred seventy-eight, the twenty-fourth of november, at nine hours of the morning ; act of death of Raoul Henri Lucien Legrand de Chagny, aged of twenty-five years ; profession of naval officer, 2^e classe des maritimes ; born in Paris, old 1^er arrondissement, seventeenth of june one-thousand eight hundred fifty-three ; died presumably lost at sea near Oslo, Norway, at least six months ago ; requested declaration of death by brother Philippe Augustin Marie Legrand de Chagny, granted and drawn up for us by Louis Alexis Armengaud, adjunct of the Mairie, officer of the civil status eighth arrondissement of Paris, under the declaration of Philippe Augustin Marie Legrand de Chagny, aged of thirty-seven years, businessman, and Jean Jerôme Candillon, aged of fifty-eight years, employee, both residing bd Malesherbes, N° 8, who have signed with us after reading…
(signed,)
de Chagny JJ Candillon L Armengaud

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