While Christine and Meg tended to closing up the house, I carried the wasted shell of my beloved friend out of Christine’s room and into his own, where the coffin waited. With numb hands I clothed the body in his finest dress suit and cloak. No mask, though—there was no longer any need for it. I briefly considered taking the mask with me when I left, but I couldn’t bring myself to; I would rather have no token of him at all than the object which signified his benighted existence. Finally I lay him down in the casket, with the score for Don Juan Triumphant on his breast and his violin lying beside him. Then I put the lid in place quickly and decisively. No final glance at the withered corpse; the man I loved did not lie in this box. Once the lid was secure I fell to my knees, half whispering and half thinking a prayer:
"Father in Heaven, into your hands we commend the spirit of this man. I beg you to forgive him his sins and iniquities, and also to forgive us for burying his bones in unhallowed ground." I looked up thoughtfully. "But if you will forgive the presumption, Lord, I have never been able to believe that you are as rigid and implacable as some would make you out to be. And if two mortal women can find it in their hearts to forgive Erik then surely You, whose peace and love pass all understanding, will open your arms to him."
As I finished, Christine came into the room. She had donned a black dress and pulled her hair into a respectable bun, and except for her youth and gray-green eyes might have born a passing resemblance to myself. "It’s ready?" she asked quietly.
"Yes," I said, "it’s ready."
"Meg’s gone to get a cart to carry it to the site." She drew beside me, holding out a thick envelope in one hand; her other carried a similar package. "This is for you," she told me.
I took the envelope from her, taking note of the words For Mme. Adele Giry and daughter written in Erik’s somewhat careless hand. Upon opening it, I couldn’t help but gasp—the money within was easily equivalent to what Erik might pay me in a year. With what I had already saved during my years at the Opera, this would ensure neither Meg nor myself would have to work for our supper again. And if that weren’t enough, nestled among the bills were two gold bracelets of ornate Eastern design. "Christine, I can’t possibly—"
"Take it," Christine insisted, almost as if she had anticipated my protest. "He wanted you to have it…I think he knew there might be trouble for you because of him, and he didn’t want you to suffer." She took my hand, closing it firmly over the envelope as she did. "He said, ‘Tell her no king had wiser council, no man truer friend than I had in her.’"
Councilor, wise-woman, friend…they were all I could have been to him. Perhaps it was less than I had wished for, but somehow in the end it was enough. I withdrew the two bracelets for closer examination. One was jeweled with onyx and garnet, and this one I fastened around my wrist. The other was fashioned with topaz and lapis, and I smiled as I held it in my hand. Erik always did have a good eye for detail; this ornament would become Meg very well. "He was always very generous to us," I mentioned to Christine. "Sometimes I think he was so liberal with his money because he was unable to give anything else."
"No, it wasn’t that he was unable to give of himself," she replied, "he just didn’t know how." She twisted her hands a bit as she spoke; the onyx ring now rested on her right hand and there it would remain until we parted. I’ve no doubt she still wears it even now.
Meg returned with the cart and together the three of us sealed off the house, then loaded up the coffin and towed it to the burial site. Does that surprise you, that three women had the physical prowess to act as pallbearers? It shouldn’t. We all had been dancers, and dancers are strong women.
The gravediggers I’d hired were waiting for us at the site, as I knew they would be. They were both pragmatic men, the sort for whom money is an acceptable substitute for unanswered questions. All they knew—all they needed to know—was that I acted on behalf of a wealthy and somewhat eccentric music lover, who in the twilight of his life had expressed a wish to be interred beneath the Opera he had attended so often. They handled the burial with dispassionate efficiency, and left as soon as I paid them their dues. I never even learned their names.
Once they had left, the three of us remained standing around the patch of earth which enclosed Erik’s body. No markings had been made; there was nothing to indicate this place was any different from the rest of the Opera cellars. I knelt beside the grave, feeling angry tears come to my eyes. Was this how it ended for him, then—just an unmarked tomb known only to a few mortals, who would carry the knowledge of the location to their own graves? Why did the Lord grant him such unprecedented gifts, if they were destined to fade from the world without even a trace?
Christine’s voice was so soft at first that it was a moment before I realized she was singing. Her face was streaked with tears, but the song gained strength with each moment. The melody was foreign to me, but the fashion of the eerily beautiful notes was familiar and I could guess who had written it. And of course, the lyrics were words imprinted on my mind since the earliest days of my faith:
Agnus Dei, qui tollis peccata mundi, dona nobis pacem…
Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world, grant us peace. The tears still flowed from my eyes but now they were tears of hope, of triumph. Erik had not died in vain; his genius endured in the woman whose love had saved him. And someday others would hear her voice, and feel their spirits kindled with its beauty…and the Angel of Music would live on.
The hymn died away, leaving the halls to echo back that unparalleled soprano. Christine’s eyes still shone with grief but her face was peaceful; her duty had been fulfilled and she would be able to journey on. I smiled at her in gratitude as Meg helped me to my feet, and together we left the Opera for the last time.
* * * * * * * * * *
A few days later Meg, Christine, and myself boarded a southern-bound train and bid farewell to Paris. Ours was a grave and solemn party, but the atmosphere in our compartment was not entirely dominated by mourning. Occasionally we spoke of happier times in warm, wistful tones, basking in the glow of cherished memories. Christine was still thoughtfully sad, but she was not possessed with the sort of suffocating anguish which had marked her separation from her father and her courage consoled me. All the same, I was still quite anxious when the time came for us to part ways.
"Are you certain you want to go on alone?" I inquired as we stood in the small station a few miles from the town Meg and I had chosen as our new home. "You’re more than welcome to stay with us."
"I appreciate the offer," Christine replied, "but I shall be all right. Erik gave me a little money as well; it should be enough to start over with. Besides," she added, "I’ve depended upon the strength of others for so long now. I think I should try depending on my own for a change."
Meg stepped forward to embrace Christine. "You will write, won’t you?" she pleaded. "I want to know that you’re all right, and that you’re not lonely…"
"I promise I’ll keep in touch," Christine said, and unlike so many others who had spoken those words she meant them. Then she turned to me, this girl who had made such a deep impression on my soul: daughter, rival, sister, friend. "Farewell, Mme. Giry," she said, slipping her arms around me tenderly. "Thank you so much for taking care of him."
"It is I who should thank you," I said, touching her cheek with a familiar gesture. "You did something for Erik I could never manage, for all my devoted service. You were his deliverance, Christine. For that I shall always be grateful."
She reddened a little at my words, but smiled. "Take care of yourselves," she said quietly as she boarded the train. Meg and I waved to her from the platform, then watched as the train slid into the distance and out of sight.
Go on to the Epilogue
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