No, it was not the object of my affections that drove me to lie awake at night and weep onto my pillow like an enamored youth, but the sheer futility of my position. Mine was the fate of Tantalus, condemned to yearn for that which would always remain just out of my grasp, for I knew Erik would never return my love. Blinded by pride, by fear, but most of all by his all-consuming passion for Christine Daaé, he would remain ignorant of my desire, never guessing that I would give him the companionship he so desperately craved, if he wished it. A single word, a touch, a glance of his eyes, and I would have given him my body and soul…but in the silences of my heart, I knew that moment would never come.
And yet even that was not the worst of it. The most dreadful part, far worse than the hopelessness, was the jealousy. Yes, I envied Christine; how could I not, when she possessed the passionate love I yearned for myself, and yet remained unaware of the treasure? And still, I could not hate her. It would have been easier if I could—it is a simple thing to envy one whom you despise; the loathing of their character makes a fine excuse for one’s covetousness. Ah, but the agony of loving and cherishing one who is all but a daughter, all the while hungering for the endearments, the caresses she must have experienced! The conflict ravaged at my heart until it seemed the very thought of them together would drive me mad.
But for a while, it appeared as if none of that would matter. Six months, and nobody heard a word from him, not even myself. Those first weeks following Buquet’s death and the destruction of the chandelier were tense and apprehensive, filled with somber voices and shaken resolve. Through some miracle nobody lost their life that night apart from Buquet, but there were numerous injuries and an overall loss of confidence and security in the company members. The season was cut short while the damage was mended, and for a time we all went about rehearsals with the sense that death was walking just behind us.
The initial shock faded after a time, though, and gradually we settled back into that little routine which gives one a sense of stability in the ever-changing world. We rehearsed, talked, laughed, quarreled, and became accustomed to the total lack of peculiarity until at last even I believed that the Phantom of the Opera had left us behind.
I should have known my Erik better than that…
* * * * * * * * * *
Summer faded, autumn came and went, and once again the relentless march of time brought winter and the closing of the year. In early December, Firmin and André announced that the Opera would reopen on the first of the year, and to commemorate the event a bal masque, such that only the Palais Garnier could give, would be held on New Year’s Eve. The company clamored with excitement at the news, and within weeks all anyone could speak of was where the best costumes were to be found and which masks were most certain to conceal the wearer’s identity. I will confess, I was as eager as anyone else—I think within every person who treads the boards there remains a hint of the child who loved to don Papa’s coat and Mama’s jewelry and make-believe for a few hours. A masquerade was the perfect place to doff one’s identity and all its sorrows and pains…to forget, if only for a few hours.
A few days before Christmas, I was finishing the arrangements for Meg and mine’s costumes. We had decided to attend together as the goddesses Demeter and Persephone, and I was making a trip to the jeweler’s to collect the necessary adornments. The shop was quite crowded that day, people buying holiday gifts for loved ones intermingling with those hunting for appropriate guises for the masque. I finally struggled my way to the front of the line and obtained my packages, but as I attempted to forge my way back to the door I collided with another customer, sending her purchase tumbling to the ground. The box fell open, and a paste tiara bounced and rolled on the floor in a most inelegant manner.
"I’m terribly sorry," I apologized, placing the crown back in its box, "I didn’t see—" As I handed the package back to her, I realized who I was speaking to. "Christine?"
"Mme. Giry," she gasped, uncertain of how to react to the meeting. "Forgive me, I was…lost in thought." I had not seen much of Christine in the previous months; now that she was singing in the company, our paths did not cross so frequently, though Meg spoke to her when she could. Now I could see that her eyes were shadowed and haunted, and an inexpressible loneliness and confusion seemed to cry out from them. Heavy with pity, I helped her gather together her belongings and press out of the store into the sharply cold street.
"It has been some time since I’ve spoken with you," I mentioned as we walked down the lane in no particular direction. "Several months, if I’m not mistaken."
"Yes, not since…" her voice trailed off in silence, unwilling to bring up that terrible night.
I studied her for a moment, but I could not fathom the nature of her thoughts. "Have you been well?"
"Yes, thank you," she replied with hasty gratitude.
"I think you’re lying." She looked at me with shock. "It’s been a long time since I’ve seen you, but not so long as to make me forget your disposition. Something is troubling you." And if Erik isn’t involved, I’ll eat my hat.
Christine remained silent for a few steps before confessing. "Raoul asked me to marry him."
That caught me off guard. "And this is an appalling thing?"
"I don’t know if I mean to accept him." She kept her eyes fixed to the pavement below us. "I did mean what I said back in the café—about not intending to pursue an attachment with him. I certainly didn’t expect to….It was Buquet’s death that did it. I looked up, and I—I knew that…"
I fought back my tears. "That Erik had killed him."
She nodded. "I’ve never been so frightened as I was that day. And then…then Raoul was next to me, and he felt so safe and reassuring, so uncomplicated. I had to tell him…I led him up to the roof, where I was certain nobody could hear us…and I told him everything. Well, everything he could understand, anyway. He wanted to leave with me that very night, but I couldn’t bring myself to…loyalty to the company, that’s what I told myself. And then—" Tears burst over her cheeks in a crystal flood. "Oh, Madame, it was all my fault!"
"What was?"
"The chandelier…the chandelier fell because of me! No, it’s true!" she insisted as I tried to dismiss the idea. "When I was there on the roof, hiding in Raoul’s arms, I heard Erik’s voice calling my name. I thought I was dreaming…and then I looked up, and saw his shadow and…" She choked on her own grief. "Dear God, he must hate me!"
"No," I said firmly. "I don’t think he could ever hate you." And bitterly, my heart understood that was the truth.
"Then why has he abandoned me? I still hear him in my dreams, soothing me, tempting me…and when I wake up there’s nothing there, and I don’t know if I’m relieved or discontented…" She sighed with resignation. "Perhaps I should marry Raoul. I am fond of him, and he would give me a secure life…"
A burst of wind hit us, and I shivered. "Christine, let me tell you a story," I began quietly. "When I was a young dancer, perhaps about your age, I was…something of a light woman." I laughed shortly at her doubtful glance. "You find that hard to believe, a strict old widow like myself flirting with men? Well, it’s true. Meg was conceived out of wedlock. When I found out, I was terrified—I couldn’t bear the thought of raising a child alone and living with the shame of a bastard. So I married the father as quickly as I could—it seemed the done thing at the time, and I thought we liked each other well enough to be happy. I was wrong." The pain was too old and bitter to bring tears to my eyes, but I felt my throat tighten as I spoke of it. "He was a poor husband and a wretched father, and when he died left us with little to make our way on. To this day, I wonder what might have happened if I had the courage to face the consequences of my actions alone." We stopped walking, and I turned to face her. "I cannot guide you in this matter, child. But for your own sake, don’t make the mistake of thinking a safe life is a good enough reason to join yourself with another. Do anything rather than marry for security."
She was quiet for a moment, considering my advice, then she spoke hesitantly. "Mme. Giry, there’s talk in the Opera that the…that he’s left. Is it true?"
"Nobody knows all of Erik’s actions, not even myself," I replied carefully. "However…I have never known him to remain unheard from for such a long period."
"Then you believe he may have gone?"
"I think it is a possibility."
"I can’t believe that," she said, her expression unreadable. "I can’t explain it, but somehow…I know he’s still near. It’s like something inside me, resonating with his presence…knowing that he’s close by, waiting only for the right moment to reveal himself…"
I wanted to comfort her, to tell her that she was imagining things. But I couldn’t convince myself that her premonition was nothing more than fancy…
Go on to Chapter 22
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