It was a difficult time for me, of course; watching a loved one die is never a pleasant experience. Once I had made myself comfortable in my temporary quarters, Erik and I set about the unpleasant but unavoidable task euphemistically known as "putting one’s affairs in order." Having been long convinced of the fact that he would spend the rest of his days in the cellars, Erik had the particulars of his burial set well before I had been aware of his illness. Most of his belongings would be sealed up with the house, but I was allowed to look through his extensive library and various collections and take whatever I might fancy. The remaining books and small items I sold off; the money would pay for the men I would need to handle the task of interring the body. It was heavy, joyless work, and at times I thought my heart had turned to lead.
I don’t mean to imply that those last days of Erik’s life were entirely painful for me—quite the contrary, in fact. The affability between us renewed at a startling pace, and in nursing him I had a brief taste of a life I might have known, had fate been differently inclined. We spoke of many things, great and insignificant, and he eased enough in my presence to divulge some of the particulars of his rich and diverse history. It was then that I first learned of the mother who had in her ignorance taught him to expect only rejection and abuse, the curiously loyal bodyguard who had been instrumental in engineering his escape from the wrath of the Shah of Persia, and the sights and sorrows he had known in nearly half a century of wandering. He disclosed many other secrets of his life, both tender and agonizing, which I will never repeat to another living soul. Many things I had shared with Erik in my years of knowing him, but those quiet, intimate conversations are what I will treasure most of all.
When he was well enough to leave his bed, Erik would join me in the parlor, sipping tea as we read aloud to each other, or played at chess or cards. One night, when he felt particularly strong, he sat down at the piano and delighted me with the sweetest melodies in the world: Beethoven, Mozart, Chopin, and his own peerless compositions. As his fingers ceased their deft flight across the keys, I found I was weeping openly; I had witnesses an exhibition of genius few could match. "It’s a terrible shame," I said to him. "Such beauty should never have been buried without men knowing it. You deserved far better than this."
"Perhaps," he replied thoughtfully. "But I have long ceased to dwell on regrets over which I have had no control." His hand silently stroked the keyboard. "When I was much younger, I thought it would have been a fine thing to be able to perform my work before an audience and receive their accolades…but I have seen much to make me deter from such wishes. I might have gained wealth and fame for my work…but I would then have to endure not only the critique and ridicule of detractors, but also the empty praises and worship of idiots like Giles André, who see renown as a merit unto itself. I do not think I would have enjoyed being loved for what I appeared to be any more than I have enjoyed being despised for it." He rose up with some effort, examining my tear-streaked face. "Come, Madame, I forbid you to pity me. My life has not been an entirely pleasant one, but it was not altogether empty. I have been loved for myself—by one woman alone, but even one alone was worth all the rest."
I twisted the handkerchief in my hands. Over the past several days, I had wrestled with the dilemma of whether or not I should broach this subject with him. Now, I knew I had to speak for my own peace of mind, even if the confession made him uncomfortable. "She did love you, yes," I said quietly, "but not alone. There was another."
His eyes widened. "Adele?"
How rarely he called me by my Christian name; how sweet the syllables sounded in those dulcet tones! I looked down into my lap, unable to meet his eye. "Twenty years ago, I first heard your voice, and in that instant something awesome and powerful was engendered within me, something which I could hardly account for or even name. I now know what it is: it is that which the poets worship and the cynics deny, the pearl of greatest value against which all else becomes insignificant. Because of it I cast my lot with your own, for its sake did I dare your wrath in hopes of turning you from darkness and despair. And even though I speak now without any hope of the fulfillment of these sentiments, I want you to know I would not relinquish them for the world."
He studied me with surprise and wonder. "What an amazing thing," he murmured. "And I never knew…never even guessed." He wavered uncomfortably. "I only wish—"
"Please, you don’t need to say it," I interrupted. "I’ve long been resigned to the truth. But answer me one question: did you ever, even for a second, wish you had never known Christine? Do you wish it now, knowing how it has ended?"
He considered. "No," he said after a moment, shaking his head. "It was difficult at times, but I would endure it all again and more besides, just for the sake of those brief, sweet moments I shared with her."
I smiled bravely. "That’s all I need to know," I said, and left the room. Only when I was out of his hearing did I allow the tears to come. Yet they were not the bitter tears of unrequited love, but were wistful, almost joyful. Erik did not love me…but he had still loved deeply and truly, had known the rapture of burning for another soul. And though I could not have shared that with him, I found I could still rejoice in its existence.
* * * * * * * * * *
It was roughly three weeks after the premiere of Don Juan Triumphant, and a little over a year from the time Christine Daaé first heard her Angel of Music, when Erik looked up at me from the bed and whispered, "It won’t be long now."
I nodded solemnly, but I did not weep—I had come to that point in grieving when tears fail. When I helped him into the bed two days before, I had done so with the certain knowledge that he would never rise from it again. Now there was little left for me to do but reach across the coverlet to take his waxen hand. His fingers curled around mine with fading strength. "You are clear on my instructions?" he asked.
"Yes," I assured him, "everything is in place."
He gave a short, sharp sigh that might have been a laugh. "Then I won’t delay you for longer than necessary," he said wryly. He loosened his grip on my hand. "Leave me."
"It is no trouble to stay," I insisted.
"There’s no need…it’s enough that you have been here for the past several weeks, that I know you are here to watch over my affairs…the way you always have." He gave a wan smile. "But now I think I would like to be alone. Oh, I would have liked, one last time…but it is enough that I can reflect, and make my peace…it is enough." Wearily, he turned his dwindling gaze to me again. "By the end of the day, I think, you may return and carry out your duties."
"Then here we part ways." Uncertain of how to express my feelings without overstepping my bounds, I settled for kissing my fingertips with a modest gesture. "Farewell, Erik, at least for this world…it has been an honor, my friend."
"It is you who honor me when you address me so," he replied. "Farewell, Adele Giry."
I felt rather restless on leaving the bedroom; I decided to walk along the shore of the lake and collect my thoughts. I went into the wrecked outer hall with that thought in mind, but as I did I heard footsteps and froze. Dear God, had the gendarmes returned? What would they do if they found me here?
A delicate figure entered the room; the familiarity of the sight filled me with relief. "Meg, what on earth—" Another cloaked woman entered the room behind my daughter, and I gasped when the second lady drew back her hood. "Christine?"
While Erik’s strength had been leaving him over the past three weeks, Christine had apparently undergone the reverse transformation. Her ethereal air had ripened and matured giving her a regal aspect not unlike that in a statue of the Virgin. Her eyes were bright with noble sorrow and firm resolution, and I knew the frightened creature that had first timidly entered my office no longer existed. "Please, Madame," she said bravely, "Meg tells me that Erik is…that he’s dying. Is it true?"
"I’m afraid it is," I replied, still thrown by both her presence here in Erik’s realm and the change in her demeanor. "His health has apparently been indifferent for a long time…a fact which he concealed all too well from us. If he has not quit this sphere within the next twenty-four hours, I shall be very surprised."
"I need to see him." There was no room for debate in her words, but I still shook my head.
"Christine, why torture yourself? Why torture him? He is barely a shadow of the man you knew, and I’m not sure how much longer he will be aware of this world. Go back to your young man, live long and well as his wife…be happy, the way he wished you to be."
She cast down her eyes, but their strength never wavered. "I’m not going to marry Raoul."
"What?" I glanced at Meg, who nodded; apparently this revelation had already been disclosed to her. I studied Christine in bafflement. "Child, I thought you loved him."
"I do," she said quietly. "But that’s why I cannot marry him…I know I will never make him happy."
"Why not?"
"Because I love Erik." She examined my bafflement a moment before continuing. "I didn’t know I loved him until moments before I kissed him, when I realized how much I had hurt him—and how much that realization tormented me. When Erik told me to leave with Raoul, I thought my heart was being ripped from my breast—I had only begun to understand how deeply I felt for him, and he was pushing me away. But after a time, I knew that was how it had to be. There had been too much grief between us, too much mistrust and misunderstanding to allow us to be truly happy together. I could not have Erik, but I still had the hope of being happy with Raoul. Or so I thought.
"Raoul was…not exactly different, but his behavior in the weeks that followed began to gall me. He was always talking about how brave I had been, and how well I was making do after ‘the unpleasantness.’ That’s what he called it—as if I’d been caught in a slander or got into a feud with the management, instead of having my life changed by the most wonderful, terrible man to ever walk the earth. I tried to explain, I told him about the beautiful things Erik and I had shared, but he wouldn’t listen…" She sniffled a bit, dabbing her eyes in a valiant attempt to keep her grief from running away with her. "And then, a couple nights ago, I was doing some chores about the house, and I was singing as I worked. I don’t even remember the song, something popular and harmless. Raoul heard me and he…he suddenly rounded on me and said, ‘I don’t know how you can sing like that after that monster abused your art for his own ends." The sorrow overcame her, and she burst into sobs. "Erik did some horrible things, but he wasn’t a monster! His music was the most precious gift I had from him, and to have Raoul ridicule it like that…"
I took Christine into my arms, allowing her to cry out on my shoulder; behind her, I noticed Meg’s eyes had also become red and misty. "I understood two things that day," Christine continued when she could. "I knew that Erik, for good or for ill, would always be a part of my life…and I knew Raoul would never be able to accept that. Oh, I don’t blame him, really," she added, pulling away from me to dry her tears. "First impressions are rather difficult to get over, aren’t they? When I first encountered Erik he was my Angel of Music, and I think even after I came to know and love him as a man, part of me always thought of him as such. For Raoul, Erik was the Opera Ghost, a threat—so he wasn’t able to see the other side of him." Her anguish spent, she became calm and resolute once more. "I came back because…well, truth be told I wasn’t sure why when I first came, I only knew I had to be here. And when Meg found me and told me Erik was…near death, I knew I had come because I had to say goodbye…and to tell him I love him."
"He knows," I assured her.
"I have to tell him," she insisted.
I knew that she was right. She had to do this for her own peace of mind, to prevent her grief from consuming her existence the way it had when her father died. And then I remembered Erik’s last words to me, and understood their buried meaning.
I would have liked, one last time…to see her.
I couldn’t deny Erik his last request. "This way," I told the two of them, guiding them through the hall to the hidden door to the rest of the house. Once inside, I pointed to the doorway of her room, and told Christine that Meg and I would wait for her. Christine smiled at me with silent gratitude and went into the bedroom, shutting the door behind her.
Meg and I waited in the parlor, trying to ignore the relentless march of time. To fill the silence, Meg gave an account of the happenings in the Palais Garnier during the past few weeks. M. Firmin had suffered remarkably little damage from his gunshot wound, but still required a rather lengthy convalescence. In his absence M. André was overseeing the whole of the Opera, and the arrangement had worked out so well thus far that there was talk of him buying out his partner’s half of the lease. While André didn’t quite have Firmin’s business acumen he was still competent enough, and unlike his avaricious partner did not object to every franc spent. Most importantly, his irritating appetite for notoriety had apparently been quelled by the deplorable behavior of his prima donna.
The death of her leading man had been a great blow for Carlotta, but the genuine sympathy and condolences she had received soon cooled when it became clear that the diva preferred to wallow in her grief rather than endure it. She became even more intractable and petulant, if such a thing was really possible. If she showed up to the rehearsals at all it was late, and an increasing number of her colleagues had whiffed alcohol on her breath. Finally even M. André ceased to find excuses for her behavior, and more and more of Carlotta’s usual roles were being given to Annabelle duBois, the woman who had understudied Christine in Erik’s opera.
"And thus Erik’s desire to unseat the great Carlotta Guidicelli is fulfilled," I commented when Meg had explained this to me. "Ironic it should come now."
Meg tilted her head thoughtfully. "Do you think that’s why he killed Ubaldo Piangi—to ruin Carlotta?" she asked.
Over the past weeks Erik had told me many things, and this was one mystery I could finally answer. "Piangi was a victim of circumstances beyond him," I explained. "Erik always planned to usurp him in the final scene of Don Juan, but up until the night prior to the performance had only meant to incapacitate him. But after the confrontation with Raoul de Chagny—and, I’m certain, my own threat to break faith with him—he decided he couldn’t afford even that small liability." I shook my head sadly, remembering the torment of Erik’s eyes as he spoke of those dark hours. "He was quite far gone by then."
"But not entirely lost," Meg noted. She studied me for a moment. "Mama…what will you do now?"
I stroked the velvet armrest of my chair thoughtfully. "Well, I’m rather weary of Paris," I admitted. "I think I might find a place in the country, where people only gossip of their neighbors and ghosts are saved for fireside tales. Perhaps I shall set up a small business teaching waltzes and polkas to people who can afford to pay too much for the privilege," I added with a sly grin.
She mulled over this for a moment, then said decisively, "I’m going with you."
"You don’t have to."
"I want to."
"Why should you? You are quite old enough to shift for yourself. I have nothing here that can tempt me to stay…but you have a life and a wonderful career ahead of you; there’s no sense in giving that up."
"That’s just it, Mama. I don’t want this life," she explained.
I didn’t think it was possible to be shocked any further than I had been, but her words managed it. "I’m terribly sorry if I’ve unwittingly pressured you into something you did not desire," I said. "It was always my impression that you loved the ballet."
"Oh I did, and I do!" she assuaged me. "But I don’t think I can stay at the Opera now." She nodded toward the silent door to Christine’s room. "A man lies dying in that room. I didn’t really know him; I only caught a brief glimpse of his mystery. But in that glimpse I received an impression of a great and extraordinary soul, one filled with hope and despair and dreams and nightmares that I can’t even grasp. And I wonder…I wonder if there are others like that, people who I never see or notice but who possess histories that would rival any tale put to paper. But the other members of the company, they don’t wonder. They laugh and gossip and think of petty things, never thinking about what they don’t see, who they hurt."
"And you don’t want to associate with people like that?"
"It’s more than that," she said. "I’m afraid that if I stay, I’ll become like them."
I smiled fondly. "You never will."
"Perhaps not…but I think I’ll be better off if I go. Besides," she added in a half-hearted attempt at lightness, "the woman they replaced you with isn’t worthy to carry your staff. She’d rather reminisce about her bygone career rather than help us with our own!"
"Very well," I said with resignation. "If you’re determined to play Ruth to my Naomi, there’s really not much I can do to stop you. You’re a brave and noble girl, Meg."
She touched my hand. "I learned from the best."
The remaining hours passed more or less in silence. Finally, late in the afternoon, the door opened again and Christine emerged.
She didn’t say anything; she didn’t have to. I held out my arms to her and she came into them willingly, sobbing as she did. Poor Meg could only watch as Christine and I embraced, weeping on each other’s shoulders.
Go on to Chapter 30
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