Meg and I stayed with Christine until the last, standing guard over her in her dressing room with almost foolish resolve—if Erik had chosen to spirit her away again, there was little we could have done to stop him! But the time passed without incident and almost without word. Christine had fallen into that grave determination I’d seen her exhibit shortly before the aborted Il Muto performance, and her calm manner both encouraged and disturbed me. At last she rose and, after one brief wistful glance at the mirror, clasped Meg’s and my own hands in turn. Then she went out to meet her fate.
Meg and I remained in the room for a few moments after Christine left, our silence communicating more than words could. Then Meg left to take her place among the other girls, and I stationed myself in an out-of-the-way spot in the stage left wing. Wild horses could not pull me from this performance.
It went well at first, or at least as well as might be hoped for. The audience had come to tonight’s production not knowing what to expect, and the unorthodox sound of Erik’s music caused some uncomfortable stirrings in the house. But nobody left—they couldn’t, with the doors locked, barred and guarded they were very literally a captive audience. I groaned inwardly every time Piangi took the stage; he still had not mastered either the music or the character and I began to wonder what Erik had been thinking when he demanded the tenor be cast as Don Juan. But Christine was perfect. Her voice was as vibrant and exquisite as ever, and you would have never known the poor child was suffering at every instant.
The first act passed without incident, as did the second. But instead of relieving the fears of the company, each uneventful moment wound panic to a fever pitch. Of the "guest of honor" no trace had been seen, and everybody knew the absence could only be the calm before the storm. Christine exited from a brilliant aria muttering "Where is he?" but whether the words were frustrated or fearful I could not tell.
The third and final act approached its climax, with the libertine plotting to seduce the beautiful Aminta by disguising himself as his servant Passarino. The scene promised to be interesting; the staging for the upcoming duet between the two leads had been quite daring and I wondered how the audience would react to the intensely sensual display. As the men sang out their machinations some detached part of me was laughing at the situation: Carlos, our Passarino, was short and slight and nobody could have mistaken someone with Piangi’s build for him. But such is opera. Piangi slipped into an alcove to don the hooded cloak which would theoretically make him unidentifiable, and Christine swept past me to her entrance, singing a light, happy air. And then it happened.
"Passarino, allez-vous…" The timbre was altered, made deliberately thicker and heavier than normal, but I knew the voice; how could I not? It haunted my days and echoed in my dreams, it resonated in my body and soul. My pulse quickened and I panted with terror as I realized Erik had taken the leading role in his own opera.
He moved across the stage with that unmistakable feline grace, and I studied Christine as she watched him. Did she know? She must have somehow, in some corner of her mind, for she knew that voice at least as well as I did. And yet…nothing in her performance betrayed any recognition, no flicker of terror or anxiety flashed through her eyes. Perhaps she had entered into that state, not entirely uncommon among actors, where everything outside the role and the scene ceases to exist. Or perhaps…perhaps she had given in to those feelings which outside of the limelight she had buried so deep that even she denied they existed. Only she can say for certain what her thoughts were in that hour, and I never had the chance to ask her.
It was such painful sweetness, seeing the two of them together: fingers twining, hands tracing sensual lines across their own and the other’s bodies, culminating in an erotic embrace that filled me with such joy and jealousy that I had to close my eyes. But I could not shut out their voices; two brilliant, perfectly matched instruments raised in passionate song that struck my heart like an arrow…
Suddenly there was silence, exploding out from the stage like a mortar shell to fill the entire auditorium. I opened my eyes to see Erik’s hood had been thrown back, revealing his true nature. Christine’s breathing was heavy and her posture as tense and wary as a doe’s; by chance or by design, she had wound up blocking the line of fire of the marksman stationed in the orchestra pit. None of the other officers could reach the stage, for the cast and audience had been thrown into turmoil and the resulting throng was impenetrable. So it came to pass that Erik and Christine stood onstage alone and unimpeded, gazing at each other.
Erik took one tentative step towards his beloved, his eyes cast down and his posture curiously humble. He seemed so unassuming, so suddenly ordinary that it jolted me. In a flash of insight, I realized that the proud, autocratic air I had always associated with him was little more than another mask, one meant to conceal the frightened, wounded man who now stood before Christine, his eyes pleading for one glimmer of hope. With a gentle, timid gesture he removed a ring from the little finger of his hand, and extended it across the gulf to Christine. His words as she took it were soft, yet they seemed to echo throughout the entire house:
"Help me…save me…"
Christine took a step away from him, then a step towards, paralyzed with her own indecision. She clutched her hands to her temples as if to shut out the confusion, nearly doubling over. Erik approached her, but whether it was to console or to beguile was never revealed. As soon as he came near, Christine let out an angry, sorrowful moan and lashed out at him, ripping the mask from his face.
Cries of terror and surprise echoing around me, bodies running together in a sea of confusion while I remained still…it was like the first night I saw him all over again. And once again, I was caught by those stormcloud eyes. But this time it was not fascination that held me, but fear. For in that moment, in that last, terrible instant before Erik seized Christine and vanished with her, I saw the last traces of sanity leave his gaze.
Screams, gunfire, dozens crushed in the ensuing mob, Firmin wounded in the leg by a stray bullet, Ubaldo Piangi’s strangled corpse discovered…but my decision was set in stone the moment I saw his eyes. My path was clear, my purpose manifest. I had to save Erik from himself.
But I couldn’t go after him myself, not when my treacherous heart might cloud my judgment. Nor could I take my tale to the police; assuming they believed at all, they would barge in with a callous thoughtlessness that might tempt Erik to something even more desperate. There was only one person I could think of to trust with this mission, only one man who was bold enough to challenge him and who would not dare risk spurring him to further violence…
"Monsieur le Vicomte, come with me!" I gripped your arm and managed to pull you several steps through the chaos before you could react.
"You! What—"
"There’s no time to explain, but I think I can take you to her…" I said hastily, pushing through the crowd.
You planted your feet firmly, forcing a halt. "Why should I trust you now?"
"Because you’ve no other choice." I turned to face you, still clutching at your sleeve. "Would you save her, monsieur? Would you abandon the security of your armed men and your influence and do what is truly necessary for her sake?"
Your eyes burned fervently. "I love her, Mme. Giry…I will die if I must."
There was no false bravado in those words; the statement was as simple and unvarnished a truth as I could have wished for. He never knew it…but at that time, I began to truly respect that impetuous young man. "It need not come to that," I said, then lifted my arm. "See here, how I hold my hand at the level of my eyes…the Punjab lasso is a deadly weapon, as Buquet and Piangi have unfortunately learned. But keep your hand thus, and you may get close enough to do some good."
"I’ll go too," Meg intruded on the dialogue.
"No," I said firmly. "Go back home at once at wait for me there."
"But Mama—"
"Marguerite Giry, you will do as you are told!" She took a step back, shocked by the harshness in my voice.
I turned back to you, pulling you towards the corridor. "Come, monsieur, we must make haste. Even now, I fear we are too late…"
* * * * * * * * * *
"Your hand, monsieur!" I admonished. The pandemonium in the auditorium above had long been left behind, and my words sounded frightfully loud in the empty space.
Your sagging arm snapped back to the ready as you glanced behind you. "Do you think he is nearby?"
"I don’t know. I could never judge Erik’s actions with any precision in normal circumstances, but now…" I shook my head and cast my lantern’s light down the staircase before us.
A few more steps passed in silence, then: "Where are we?"
"Right now, on the stair between the fourth and fifth cellars. We are nearly there, but we must go carefully. No doubt he will expect an offensive to be made against him—in fact, I would wager he made plans for such a contingency years ago."
"Years?" Your voice raised in surprise, and I motioned for you to quiet your tones. "He has been here that long?" you continued softly.
"I think—think, mind you—that he must have gained access to this site during construction, enabling him to entrench himself in the building itself well before it opened. Be still! I must listen." I attuned my ears to the surrounding area: there was a steady drip of water nearby, and the shrill, sharp voices of some rats, but nothing else. "The way should be clear," I said, continuing down the stair.
You hesitated. "You are sure it’s safe?"
"I have been this way before, monsieur." It was true: granted, I had only taken that path only once and no farther than the lake, but I didn’t think it would help you to know that.
The cool, musty air of the cellar lake greeted me as we descended the last steps to stand on its shore. There was no moonlight, and so the waters had a truly Stygian quality, dark and foreboding. "There," I said, motioning towards the bank with the lantern. "Across the lake…that’s where he makes his home." I turned to you. "I can go no farther, monsieur. Take the lantern, and take care. I don’t think I need to tell you that you have made a powerful and dangerous enemy, but I must remind you that he is in a very unpredictable and unbalanced state, and if you are not careful it could prove very harmful to yourself…or Christine."
"I will do what I can." You took the lantern from my hands, but before I could ascend the stair you called, "Mme. Giry…why?"
I turned around sadly. "You have been mistaken in thinking I served him. In everything I have done, then and now, I have acted on no volition save my own." I inclined my head in farewell. "God go with you, M. de Chagny. I fear you shall need his aid before this night is ended."
"Thank you." You turned your eyes to the lake, and I turned my feet back to the surface.
I remained calm throughout my ascent, but the moment I stepped into my darkened office and shut the door behind me I was overcome by a wave of doubt. What had I hoped to accomplish? The boy might kill Erik if he had the chance, and if he didn’t…I might have led all three of them to their doom. But what else could I have done? I couldn’t have challenged Erik in my current state…could I? Had my love already clouded my discretion, impelling me to send an untested youth out to confront a man he couldn’t hope to defeat? Or worse yet…was I so jealous that I wanted to sabotage Erik’s already fading chance of happiness by throwing his rival into the fray?
Angry voices echoed through the door; their first words knifed me with fear. "There’s only so many places he could have gone to ground," a man said with harsh violence. "We can ferret him out if we work at it long enough…"
"But Buquet and Piangi—" another said nervously.
"Caught off guard, killed before they had the chance to defend themselves. And don’t you think we ought to make that creature pay for it?"
"He’s no spirit," another rough voice said. "He’s just a man, and not much of one from the looks of him. I don’t know about you, but I’m sick of living in fear. I mean to rid this place of that so-called Phantom even if I have to drag him to Hell personally!"
"All right," the second voice lost its terror. "But we’ll need help—"
"Oh we’ll have it," the first man said. "Maurice is rounding up the rest of the stagehands, a lot of the musicians want in on it, even a couple of young hotheads from the audience…" He laughed nastily. "We’ll have a proper welcome for the monster when we find him…"
No! I ran to the door but stopped with my hand on the knob, caught by hopelessness. These were enraged men, made irrational by bloodlust and vengeance. At best their ears would be deaf to my protests; at worst, they would remember my alliance with the Phantom and take their revenge on me as well. I collapsed against the door, choking down my sobs for fear they would hear me. I had failed…failed Erik, Christine, and myself. Now there was nothing I could do to help any of us…
There was nothing left for me here.
While the voices receded down the hall, I made my preparations. Strangely dispassionate, though my cheeks were still wet with tears, I drew a sheet of paper from my desk and penned a terse letter of resignation. It was an empty gesture, I knew—with Erik’s power over the Opera broken, there would be nothing to protect me from Firmin and André’s rancor. But I would not let them have the satisfaction of calling me out on the carpet to give me my walking papers; I would leave the Opera on my terms, not theirs. Once I finished writing, I gathered together my personal items into a satchel: a few old posters, a ballerina figurine Meg gave me for Christmas one year, and an old copy of Arbeau’s Orchesosographie that had been a gift from one of my first classes. Last of all I picked up my dancemaster’s staff, pausing to trace where the molding of the silver handle had been obscured by years of my touch. A scepter, Philippe had called it. Well, I was no queen…but it had been a fine thing to oversee the daily rehearsals, to take young girls under my wings for a while and hopefully point them in the right direction, to have men defer to me and even see the management of the Opera quake in their boots when I came near. But my path lay elsewhere now.
I set my resignation on my desk, where I knew it would be found, pulled on my wrap and drew near to the door, listening intently. No sound could be heard in the hall beyond, and so I slipped out, concealing my satchel and staff in the depths of my cloak. No soul crossed paths with me as I left the building; even the guard who must have been stationed at the outer door had left his post. Outside, the nightlife of Paris went about its business, never paying heed to the woman who huddled under her cloak like a beggar as she strode purposefully through the streets to her home.
The parlor was dark when I entered, and no sounds other than my own greeted me. "Meg?" I called out, but received no answer. "Meg, where are you?"
The stillness roared in my ears. I raced through the rooms but knew I would find nothing. My breath began to heave as I fell on my knees in the parlor, grasping my crucifix so tightly that the points bit into my hand. Dear Lord, haven’t I suffered enough? Must you take even my only child from me?
Hours passed without my heeding them; grief held me in a timeless limbo. I don’t know if I slept or not in that time. Mostly I cried.
The sound of the door closing brought me back to reality. I looked up to see Meg crossing into the parlor, still wearing her street urchin costume underneath her cloak. "Where have you been?" I demanded.
"I…" she sighed and met my gaze emphatically. "There was a search party going off after him. I went along."
"You did what?" I leapt to my feet, wanting to both embrace and upbraid her. "Meg, I distinctly told you—"
"I am not a child!" she said indignantly. "And I wasn’t about to sit at home when my friend was in danger!"
Her words made me ashamed. "You foolish girl," I sobbed, "you could have been killed! Don’t you realize what he might have been capable of if you forced his hand?"
"Mama—" she bit her lip, and pulled something thin and white from beneath the folds of her wrap.
Erik’s mask.
Icy hands were closing about my heart; I was seated in an armchair but had no idea how I had got there. Meg was kneeling beside me, speaking distinctly as if to a simpleton. "Mama, are you listening to me? They didn’t find him…there was a sort of chamber on the far side of the lake, but nobody was there, only a few traces. They couldn’t even find an escape route he might have taken…"
Gradually her words brought me back to myself. "Christine and the Vicomte—"
"No sign of them, alive or dead. It’s as if all three simply vanished." She took my hand. "The gendarmes…they’re talking about dredging the lake, they think he may have thrown himself in…"
Suicide…no, that was impossible! Or was it? Had Erik been so far gone as to take his own life—perhaps even to take Christine and de Chagny with him? And if not, what had become of them? How had the ultimate act of their opera resolved itself?
I was on my feet and reaching for my cloak when Meg lay her hand on mine. "Mama…"
"Please, Meg, don’t argue with me," I said wearily. "This still concerns me, don’t you understand? Erik, Christine, and even the Vicomte in some small way…they are as much a part of me as you are. I have to know…"
"Mama," she repeated gently, holding the mask out to me. "I think you should take this." As I took it from her hands, she continued, "Around the eastern side of the lake, there’s a way in. The traces of our passage should still be there."
I brought the mask to my breast, taking in the rough, strong scent of the leather. With my other hand I touched my daughter’s cheek fondly, grateful for her sympathy. "I will come back," I vowed, before going out and hailing a cab to take me back to the Opera.
Go on tp Chapter 28
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