We laughed often; does that surprise you? It shouldn’t. Mirth can be a potent healing agent, and I can think of nobody more in need of its balm than Erik. The sorrow of his existence sat like a heavy mantle on his shoulders, and the burden might have driven him completely mad if he hadn’t developed that cynical yet irreverent perspective. Then, of course, there were the other denizens of the Opera: it was quite impossible at times to take Lefèvre, Carlotta, and their ilk seriously.
That’s not to say Erik was always amiable, of course. Rather, I quickly became adept at gauging his temperament and responding accordingly. When he stood tense and strained like a bowstring and spoke in curt words I answered him quickly and succinctly, knowing he would not wish to linger in my presence for longer than necessary. After such black moods passed he became cordial and charming again, and willing to accept a cup of tea and a few words with a lady. Even then I had to take great care; a misplaced word or phrase might ignite his unpredictable anger and send him stalking out of my presence lest he feel inclined to do me harm. Or before I said something I’d regret.
"I must leave," I told him one afternoon, about three years into our association. "Rehearsals will begin shortly."
"Of course," he said, standing up with the unhurried grace of a stretching cat. "I shall need to see you again a week from Friday."
I paused hesitantly, almost anticipating the scene that would result. "Forgive me, but I cannot meet with you on that date."
"And why is that?" Erik never did accept even the slightest complication to his life with composure. I think it stemmed from his fear of helplessness.
"It’s the Passion of Our Lord; I’ll be attending mass."
"Do you really believe it makes a difference whether you go hear some overfed priest mouth pieties or not?" he scoffed.
"It matters to me," I replied shortly, hoping that would be the end of the matter.
"Indeed?" His lip twisted into a sneer. "And do you think it matters to God whether or not you sit in church on the appointed days, assuming he ever existed to begin with? Do you still believe God hears prayers, that God—" he drew his face near mine to emphasize the point "—is merciful?"
If such derision had come from any other mouth, I would have been angry enough. But the fact that I could never bear Erik’s ridicule made it cut twice as deep. "I will not have my faith mocked, Monsieur," I snarled, pulling away from him, "Not even by you." I whirled and might very well have left him for good had he not spoke up.
"Mme. Giry…Adele." That was the first time he addressed me by my given name, and as such it quite effectively caught my attention. "Forgive me," he continued, his voice filled with remorse. "I’m afraid I can be rather imperious…and I forget that there are parts of your life that do not involve me." He sighed. "I am surprised, however, that you continue in this devotion even when the Church rejects you." You see, I had told him about the censure I had received after Jules’ death.
"There are cruel priests and cruel men in the world," I admitted. "And I do not place my faith in them, but rather in one who when he came to this earth opened his arms to those the world rejected, and who spoke out against the proud and bigoted men who had brought them low."
He looked away from me sadly. "You say that with such conviction," he whispered. "Sometimes I wish…" But whatever he wished remained unsaid, and I would never have the courage to ask him.
* * * * * * * * * *
But generally matters were cordial between us, and I was content with my lot. That was one the happiest times of my life, those years at the Opera before everything went wrong, and I can’t recall them without smiling from the warmth of the memory.
Meg grew almost overnight from a rangy girl into an attractive young woman. Her rounded features and peaches-and-cream complexion stood in such contrast with my angular sharpness that sometimes I found it difficult to believe my womb had produced her. Men worshipped her with their eyes, and the younger dancers flocked adoringly behind her like the little sisters I never gave her. Words cannot express the pride I felt on that day two months before her seventeenth birthday, when she became the youngest principal dancer ever at the Opera. Oh, I know what you’re thinking, but Erik had nothing to do with it. I had made him promise to have no further influence on Meg’s or my career. "Whatever we are, and whatever we will become, I want it to be of our own efforts," I told him. Erik agreed readily, mentioning that we had no need of his assistance, as even Lefèvre could see our worth. So I was able to accept Meg’s success—and later, my appointment as acting director of the ballet company—without suspicion.
The troupe in which Meg and I had flourished had taken its toll on Philippe Avenaut. He maintained his good humor, but the constant stress of all those administrative details carved lines into his brow and thinned his once-rich hair. Eventually he decided to take an extended leave from the job, to study our art abroad and to replenish his strength. By that time I was perhaps the most prominent member of the staff after him, so it was natural he chose me to act in his stead.
It was early December of the year 1880 when he left the Opera. The company threw a fine fete in his honor, and both current and former members joined to wish him well. It was a marvelous affair, and yet I cannot help but think of it with regret, for that was the last time I ever saw Philippe. He would return two years later to find the Opera greatly changed, and I would not be there to welcome him…
But of course, such thoughts were the furthest thing from my mind as I sipped champagne and talked with my old friend. "I do envy you," I told him. "I’ve heard Petipa is doing wonders with the Russian ballet."
He smirked. "I’m anticipating the journey more than the destination, actually. I’m hoping to see some examples of the folk dancing in that region…now that would be fascinating." He smiled. "At any rate I’ll be able to enjoy myself, knowing that the company is in good hands."
"Thank you. Although I may curse you eventually for forcing me to deal with Lefèvre all the more," I jibed, finishing the last of my drink.
"It may be that you won’t have to for much longer."
I frowned inquisitively. "How do you mean?"
He took a swift gulp of champagne. "I probably shouldn’t repeat it, it’s only a rumor…but there’s talk that Lefèvre’s planning to retire."
"Is that so? Well, I can’t say I’d miss him all that much," I commented, all the while thinking, I wonder if Erik knows of this…
"Here-here," Philippe saluted, raising his flute in toast. His eyes scanned the room and fell on a small crowd of men and women, with Meg at its center. "Your daughter seems quite popular," he said by way of changing the subject.
"I wonder the attention doesn’t go to her head sometimes," I replied.
Philippe’s laugh had lost some of its energy to the pressure of his position, but it remained bright and infectious. "If it did, she wouldn’t have as much favor. I’ve never heard her say an unkind word to or of anyone; that’s why the other dancers love her. They know she won’t mistreat them. The men adore her too, I see—though I’d have expected her to have more admirers, beautiful and charming as she is."
"Most men don’t care to court a girl under the eyes of her mother." Or, if you believe the rumors, in the sight of a ghost who’s rumored to have taken both mother and child under his protection, I added silently. "The ones who do are always honorable, though."
"Yet another manifestation of your lucky star." Poor Philippe never really believed in the Phantom, except as a peculiar superstition, and so whenever Meg or I benefited from our association with him he attributed it to good fortune. "Sometimes, when I look at her, I wonder if I haven’t missed something in remaining a bachelor," he added wistfully.
"Don’t be so maudlin," I said with delicate humor, "You and I both know you’d be miserable as a husband."
"True," he admitted, "I’m not…the sort of man who marries. And yet I wonder how it must be, to bring a child into this world and watch her grow into a beautiful young woman…."
"It’s more trouble than anything else, especially when patience is scarce and money even more so," I said in depreciation.
"But you wouldn’t trade it for the riches of the world, would you? Don’t deny it, Adele, I’ve seen the way you glow whenever Meg takes the stage. Your pride in the girl is plain as day." He smiled gently. "You said a few minutes ago that you envy me, but I think you’re the one to be envied. You’re daughter’s likely to become the toast of the ballet world, the other dancers adore you—"
"You must be mistaken," I interrupted. "I have it on good authority at least half of them think I’m a witch, a slave driver, or both."
"Only those who don’t understand the necessity of hard work and focus. The ones who really care for the art think you’re wonderful—they may not say it to your face, but it’s true." He lay a friendly hand on my shoulder. "You’re a very fortunate woman, Adele Giry, and I hope you realize it."
"You always were a flatterer, Philippe." But later that evening, as I prepared for bed, I was forced to admit he was right.
I had a great deal to be thankful for: a secure life, an accomplished daughter, and an occupation that I took great joy in. And Erik—there were a lot of complications in being a part of his world, but they were far outweighed by the positives, and I’d never regretted taking up his offer. And I realized that, for perhaps the first time since I married Jules, I was truly happy.
It didn’t last, of course; happiness never does. But if it did, would we appreciate it as much as we do?
Continue to Chapter 10
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