M. Gerard and M. Alain, the two general managers of the world-famous couture house of Gaston Lejeux, circulated among their elite clientele, handing out small gold notebooks, to which were attached dainty pens, each with a tiny golden tassel perched on the tip. Beautifully produced programmes, outlining the history of Maison Lejeux, and monogrammed with the coveted ~GL~ logo, were also distributed. The patrons settled comfortably in their seats, waiting for the afternoon's events to commence. Rock music now alternated with an eclectic mix of popular musical show standards and classical, operatic and orchestral pieces.
The crumpled, rumpled figure of M. Gaston Lejeux stood directly behind the heavy velvet curtains, glasses slipping off the end of his nose, as he conversed in rapid undertones with Madame Guerry, the elegant, middle-aged directrice. M. Gaston's appearance and dress code were the very antithesis of what one would imagine of the world's foremost couturier; in truth, he looked more like an absent-minded professor. But he was greatly admired by his exclusive clientele, and his staff and all his models adored him. He was a very shrewd businessman, in spite of his vague manner, and was aware of every little detail concerning his Salon. He knew the names of each member of his staff, and never forgot to ask how they were and if their families were well. And although he was not a member of the aristocracy, he was not in the least intimidated by his pampered clients.
M. Gaston was discussing with Madame Guerry the sudden sickness of one of his top models, the sultry dark beauty Carmenita, who was well known for her tantrums and bad temper, but who nevertheless was a superb mannequin. She had telephoned Madame Guerry on the previous day, languidly informing her that she was unwell and could not possibly attend the Salon for at least two or three days.
The only trouble was, as Madame had informed M. Gaston, the two girls who would normally have stood in for an absentee model were both out of the country, and it would be practically impossible for either of them to get back in time for the show of the designer's Autumn collection on the following day. But perhaps all was not lost, for Madame Guerry's pretty daughter, Marguerite (popularly known as Meg), also a house model, had told her Maman about her new friend, Christienne, whom she had met whilst taking coffee at the Café de la Paix, opposite the Paris Opéra.
Christienne was a student of music and voice at the Académie, and had told Meg that she was looking for some way of supplementing her income while studying. Madame Guerry had listened with interest, but expressed doubts about the girl's lack of experience; however, Meg insisted on bringing Christienne for an interview with Maman and M. Gerard so that they could see how perfect she would be, and she would very quickly learn how to model M. Gaston's beautiful clothes. Madame had smilingly agreed to see Christienne, and Meg immediately dashed off to meet her friend at the Café.
Christienne had been offered a job at the Café as a waitress and was considering this, but Meg, who thought that Christienne was one of the most beautiful girls she had ever seen, told her that M. Gerard, her manager, had been requested to recruit, very quickly, a substitute for Carmenita. Meg excitedly told Christienne that she was exactly right for the position, and begged her to come and see Maman and M. Gerard immediately.
"Oh, but I couldn't possibly, Meg. I have no experience, and I would feel so silly to parade in front of people. I am too shy and probably too gauche," Christienne protested."Nonsense!" cried Meg gaily. "You are exactly what Maison Lejeux is looking for. Do come with me, Christienne, if only to chat to Maman. Besides, would you not like to see the Salon and all the celebrities? The film actors - they are so very handsome, you know!" Christienne laughed at her friend's enthusiasm, and allowed herself to be taken by the hand and led off by a jubilant Meg.
As they made their way to the Salon, admiring glances were thrown at them by several passers-by. They made a pretty picture, both being very slender and graceful, Meg so fair, with sparkling hazel eyes, and Christienne, long, dark curly hair floating around her shoulders, big grey-green eyes gazing out on the world with candid innocence, attracted the attention of scores of young men. The effervescent Meg smiled saucily at two or three personable fellows, whereas Christienne, being rather shy, kept her eyes downcast.
As they walked, Meg told her new friend as much as she could about the Salon and it's staff. She herself had been a model there for several months, but was continuing with her ballet classes. She had no great aspirations to be a famous ballerina, and was content to be in the chorus of whatever production involving ballet that she was offered. She had many friends among the models, of whom Roxy was a particular favourite.
"Roxy is a very tall American girl with long, long legs and the most gorgeous figure. Oh, but she is superb! Her papa is a big rancher in Texas, and she has invited us all to visit her when she returns to her home. We love to hear her speak - it is fascinating! When we try to imitate her accent, we all laugh very much. I love her because she is kind and funny and so good to work with. Carmenita, however, is a very different kettle of fish. She is always shouting and losing her temper. Once, she even screamed at M'sieur Beaumaris, but he squashed her utterly with one word!" Meg continued to entertain Christienne with talk of Maison Lejeux, and very soon, they arrived at the quiet elegance of the portals.
The House of Lejeux was situated, rather unusually, in the Avenue de l'Opera. M. Lejeux had chosen to do so because of his great love of opera. It was during the interval of a performance of Faust at the Paris Opéra some years ago that he had been introduced to Erik Beaumaris, an immensely talented designer of jewellery, sculptor of high repute, and a brilliant pianist and composer. He had written several pieces for piano and organ, and had lately been commissioned by the Paris Opéra to compose an organ concerto in celebration of the centenary of a famous composer's birth. M. Lejeux had also invited him to design jewellery for the exclusivity of Maison Lejeux, and the two men had become firm friends. M. Beaumaris had also given M'sieur Lejeux several of his fine sculptures for the Salon.
From his penthouse suite at the top of the tall house in the Avenue de l'Opéra, M. Lejeux could open the window and see the great green dome of Garnier's superb Opera House. He was quite often to be seen prowling around the Opéra, deep in thought, and the staff there were well-used to seeing the great man at various points around the building, scribbling and sketching in his notebook.
He maintained that the fascinating aura of alluring mystery to be found in the Opéra gave him inspiration for his work, and indeed, many of his fabulous designs were to be seen adorning the rich and famous beauties attending the grand gala nights held at the Opéra. Erik Beaumaris had his own box at the Opéra, Box 5, and put it at the disposal of M. Lejeux and his family, and also to Madame Guerry, a lover of the ballet, who took Meg with her on several occasions.
****
Christienne stood at the portals for a moment and gazed down the length
of the Avenue de l'Opéra, the hazy sunshine illuminating the green
dome atop the Opéra and the statue of Apollo. She too, spent
many hours wandering around the structure, and her fascination for the
building grew stronger with each visit.
Her musical studies meant essential visits to that great house, and she saved all her spare money to attend performances, not only to study the techniques of the great artistes who appeared on stage, but to revel in the sheer joy that music brought her, the colour and spectacle, tragedy and comedy, the light and shade of each production.
She loved the Opera House in its entirety, from the smallest, darkest corner to the incredible Grand Staircase, illuminated by hundreds of sparkling candles. Climbing the stairs always gave her a sense of the past, of la Belle Epoque when the great house was attended by royal princes, heads of state and the aristocracy. She could imagine the glittering occasions of the gala nights, and the fun and delight of the masked balls which had been held there for the enjoyment of all.
Of course, she knew the legend of the Opéra Ghost and had read many books on the subject. On several occasions, she had stared up at the great chandelier in the auditorium and tried to imagine it crashing down onto the audience, which sent shivers down her spine. She had found Box 5 one day, when a passing attendant had unlocked the door and let her stand inside the Phantom's Box. Her sensitive nature attuned to the atmosphere at the Opéra on her very first visit, an ambience of an extraordinarily strange and breathless excitement which was both exciting and eerie, but underneath all the mystery, she had been struck by a poignantly sweet sadness which often brought tears to her eyes.
A visit to London last year, where she had seen the wonderful musical based on the original novel of The Phantom of the Opera, and which had affected her deeply, gave added poignancy to her visits to Charles Garnier's magnificent building. It was as though something or someone was reaching out to her, calling to her with such emotion that it tore at her heart, and she was drawn back to the Opéra again and again by that silent voice which called to her and spoke her name.
She had never told any of her friends about this, fearing their ridicule at what they might think her wierd fancies, and it was something she wanted to keep to herself anyway, her strange and beautiful secret which haunted her dreams at night.
Her last visit to the Opéra had been only yesterday, and thinking about the silent voice pleading to her heart brought the tears rushing to her eyes. Meg, concerned, put her arm around Christienne and asked if she was feeling unwell, but Christienne could only shake her head, rapidly blinking away the tears.
"I'm fine, really Meg", she said, "Just feeling a bit nervous, that's all."Meg was reassured, and told her not to worry about meeting M. Gaston - he was such a lovely, kind man in spite of his worldwide fame. Entering the portals, Meg led Christine up the elegant staircase, and walked along a thickly-carpeted corridor, where she stopped at a door bearing the legend "Gaston Lejeux".
Upon knocking, a voice called to them to enter. Christienne was aware of three people gathered around the large oak desk, one of whom was a lady dressed in black, bearing a marked resemblance to Meg. A jovial looking gentleman was seated at the desk, pen in hand, and as he looked up from the sketchpad in front of him, his twinkling grey eyes lit up with pleasure as he looked at the two girls.
"Ah, welcome, petite", he addressed Meg with a beaming smile.
"Is this your belle amie who has come to rescue my collection? I
think that between us all, we can save the day!"
Rising from his seat, he came round the desk with his two hands outstretched,
taking Christienne's own hands into his warm clasp.
"My dear, you are sent from heaven! What is your name?"
"Monsieur, I am Christienne Dané, and I am truly honoured to
meet you", Christienne said shyly as she looked up at the great man.
M. Gaston then introduced Christienne to his directrice, saying "Madame Guerry will look after you and show you exactly what we need you to do. Madame knows my business better than I know it myself, and will be glad to answer any questions you have, so don't be frightened to ask anything at all. Madame is also the maman of this little one here", he indicated Meg, who was executing a few dance steps in her excitement, to the amusement of M. Gaston and his colleagues.
"Now child", M. Gaston continued, "I would like you to meet my good and dear friend, M. Erik Beaumaris, an artist and designer of the highest degree." The tall man who had been standing behind the desk was probably in his late thirties, dressed in a well-cut dark suit, his crisp white shirt offset by a club tie, and a red rose was tucked in his buttonhole. He stepped forward to take Christienne's hand in his, and as she looked up at him and met his brilliant dark eyes, she knew a moment of immediate recognition, of knowing this man, and lost her heart instantly and completely. Their gaze locked and the dream began ........
****
"You will perhaps have noted the superb sculptures in the foyer, mademoiselle?",
continued M. Gaston, glancing amusedly at Madame Guerry. "They
are the work of M. Beaumaris, and are priceless to me in terms of human
friendship."
With difficulty, Christienne dragged her gaze from those night-dark ovals of amber luminescence, which were in truth the most beautiful eyes she had ever seen in her life, and gave her attention to M. Gaston.
"Ah yes, M'sieur", she stammered, "I did see them, and thought they were exquisite. I especially liked the group of tiny white marble horses with a unicorn as their leader. It is so joyous and -- and free".
"You have an eye for beauty, I can see, petite", replied M. Gaston. "That is good, for you will be wearing some fine pieces of jewellery later, which again have been designed by M. Beaumaris. Now, Madame Guerry and Meg will take you round and show you where you will be working. Don't forget to have some lunch, will you? Then we can begin rehearsing. Don't worry about anything, my dear. I am positive that you are all we could wish for. After so many years in the world of haute couture, I have a sixth sense where the demonstration of my designs is concerned, and yes, I know that you are going to be perfect."
Christienne smiled and expressed her thanks. Meg took her hand and led her to the door. As they walked out of the office, Christienne turned her head to look once more upon the tall figure of M. Beaumaris, and as she met his eyes once again, a feeling of absolute joy engulfed her whole being, a wonderful assurance that destiny was walking alongside her that day.
With some difficulty, she concentrated her mind on what Meg was showing her, and soon, the ambience of quiet luxury calmed her heady spirits, and she was able to listen intently to Madame Guerry's instructions. After a full three hours of tuition, they stopped for lunch, and Meg took Christienne to the bistro situated a short walk from the Salon, where they each had a deliciously fresh baguette, filled with ham and salad, followed by lemon tea.
On returning to the Salon, rehearsals began in earnest after Christienne
had been introduced to the five other models. Roxy was just as Meg
had described her, a Texan beauty with an enormous sense of fun.
Millie was an English rose, fair hair cut in a shining bob surrounding
an elfin face. The others - Elisabeth, Gaby and Marie-Francine were
all coolly elegant Parisiennes, dark-haired and trés chic, but despite
their outward sophistication, they were friendly and considerate, giving
Christienne lots of tips and advice.
They all agreed it was a great relief not to have Carmenita flinging herself around in her disagreeable way, and warmly welcomed Christienne when Meg brought her into the models' dressing room.Roxy cried, "Hey, but you're absolutely gorgeous, honey! Gaston sure is lucky to have you help out."
Christienne shyly smiled her thanks, and said that she hoped she wouldn't disgrace them by doing something silly. "You couldn't possibly do anything sillier than me, chérie", grinned Marie-Francine. "I once fell flat on my back when my heel caught in the hem of my dress - every model's nightmare. Luckily, it was only in rehearsal, so it didn't happen before a whole audience. But you will be fine, so just relax and don't worry - enjoy yourself - we all do!"
Millie asked if she had met M. Beaumaris, and wasn't he absolutely and heartstoppingly handsome! Millie mentioned that she had written to tell her mother about M. Beaumaris, because he bore a very strong resemblance to their favourite actor, who had played the original role on the London stage of The Phantom of the Opera! Millie asked if any of the other girls had seen the wonderful musical, and they all agreed that it was truly romantic and beautiful.
Christienne's heart raced as she agreed that M. Beaumaris was charming. Meg told her that he designed the most beautiful jewellery she had ever seen, and that they would all be wearing some of his pieces during the show.
During this time, they had been applying their make-up, and M. Yves-Raoul was there to style their hair, with his assistant, Philippe. Yves-Raoul was a fussy little man whose own hair was tied back in a ponytail, but he was the good friend and sometime confidante of the models. He also expressed somewhat malicious delight on discovering that Carmenita was absent - she drove him mad so often with her demands for his attention whilst he was busy on someone else's hair.
The hands of the big clock seemed to fly round, and soon it was time for the models to take their places for the opening of the show. Christienne had butterflies in her stomach and was feeling quite nervous, but Meg squeezed her hand reassuringly, telling her that she looked wonderful, as indeed she did in her first outfit, which was an elegant sleeveless dress in pale mint green, worn with a little jacket trimmed on all four mock pockets with white braiding. The outfit was completed with a matching wide-brimmed hat trimmed with a band of green, blue and pink silk.
The velvet curtains swung open, and the music of Andrew Lloyd Webber commenced the seven models down the long catwalk.
****
Two hours later, Christienne stood before the huge mirror, which took
up the whole of one wall in the dressing room, and tucked in a few stray
curls which had escaped from her upswept hairstyle. She was quite
alone as most of the other models had gone to take their places backstage,
ready for the grand final parade of the catwalk.
She was glad of a few quiet moments to gather her thoughts. All had gone very well so far, and this was due in no small part to her awareness of the tall figure standing in the shadows at the back of the Salon. She was conscious of him with every fibre of her being and knowing he had been there had given her confidence. She had walked down the catwalk with her head held high, a smile on her lips and a delicate colour in her cheeks. The Beaumaris jewellery had warmed her skin, and she had touched each piece with reverent fingers.
Now, she was due to model a wonderful ballgown, the creamy-white colour setting off her porcelain skin and dark hair to perfection. The dress had a strapless bodice embroidered with small silver-ribbon rosettes, in the centre of which nestled a tiny pink rosebud, each trimmed with an iridiscent dewdrop of diamanté, sparkling as they caught the light with her every movement.
Her bare shoulders and arms, faintly tanned from the June sun, gleamed pale gold against the dress. Lustrous pink pearl and silver ear-rings hung from her ears, and a heavy silver bracelet adorned her wrist. As Christienne lifted her arm to adjust the bracelet, she suddenly stood very still, lifting her eyes to look into the mirror and gazing intently at her reflection. Was it her imagination, or had the mirror seemed to ... shimmer?
As she stared, the faint sound of a man singing seemed to issue directly from the mirror, and then slowly, very slowly, the outline of a cloudy figure took shape. Christienne stared, mesmerised, as the shape materialised into a tall man wearing a long, full black cloak. A black hat was pulled low over his eyes, affording her the merest glimpse of a white mask which covered half his face.
The apparition held out an elegant, beckoning hand to her, all the while singing softly, seductively. She remained very still, letting the beautiful voice wash over her, lost in absolute wonder. The voice whispered her name and then sang ,"Come to me, Angel of Music".
She swayed towards the mirror and placed her hand on the glass just as the apparation began to fade. She whispered , "Please, oh please don't leave me", and then, at a slight sound behind her, she whirled round from the mirror and gazed straight into a pair of golden-dark eyes. M'sieur Beaumaris was standing before her.
"Forgive me, child, for startling you so. I was informed that I would find Madame Guerry in here, but obviously that is not the case". His voice was charming, well-modulated and musical and as he smiled at her, she stared blindly at him, the most intense feeling of déja vu sweeping over her, and her senses began to swim.
Without knowing what she was doing, she flung out her arms to the tall figure, crying "but you are he, your voice is his", and then she was falling down, down into a swirling, bottomless pit of darkness.
****
She was being led down a long dark passageway, her hand in the grasp
of the shadowy figure of the man directly in front of her. Blackness
surrounded them save for the gleam of light from the lantern which
the figure held aloft. She stumbled as she tried to match his stride,
for he was as sure-footed as a cat in the deep gloom. The figure
turned briefly as she tripped and almost fell forward. His grasp
on her hand loosened and he caught her deftly against him, putting his
free arm around her waist, and he spoke for the first time.
"You are tired, petite, I know, but we have only a short way to go now, and then you may rest. César will carry you for the remainder of our journey."
She had no fear of this man, the strange, dreamlike quality of her situation enhanced further by his voice, a mellifluous instrument of serene masculine beauty which held her spellbound. For was he not her beloved Angel of Music, her guide to the wonders of her own talent, guardian of her precious gift, her friend and protector.
He half-carried her the rest of the way down the corridor, and in a few moments they emerged into a cavernous cellar, lit fitfully by flickering candles. She could just discern a pale shape to their left which, as they approached, became César, the white horse from the Opéra stables who had been spirited away by the Opéra Ghost, or so the story was told above ground.
Christine was placed gently up onto the horse's back, and the Angel led them further and further down into the deepest cellars below the Opéra. Christine shivered as the dank chill penetrated her dress. Now just ahead of them, she could see the still waters of the underground lake, covered in an ethereal white mist. It was very cold here and the walls dripped constantly from the eternal dampness.
The Angel of Music lifted Christine down from César and set her lightly on her feet, then removed his cloak and wrapped it around her, placing the hood over her moist curls. He tied César to a ring on the small jetty, and then reached into his pocket to give the horse a quantity of sugar lumps. Stroking César's proud head, the Angel told him that he would be back shortly to take him to his warm stable. César whickered, nudging his head against the Angel's chest, and contentedly munched on his sugary reward.
Turning towards Christine, the Angel took her hands to help her into the punt moored at the jetty, then stepping into the craft, swiftly and skilfully poled it across the water in the gloomy half-light. Mooring the craft once again, the Angel helped Christine to alight, swept her up in his arms, and carried her into his house on the lake.
Christine kept her arms around his neck as she gazed around, wide-eyed. The house was warm and welcoming after the cold and damp of the cellars. The room in which they now stood was furnished with many fine pieces, and carpeted with a thick Persian rug. Against one wall, a magnificent pipe organ reached up to the ceiling, and sheet music was laid in neat piles on a table alongside. Christine put up a hand to brush back a strand of hair, and then realised that she was still being held in the Angel's arms. She blushed as she turned to look at him, and it was then that she saw the mask for the first time.
****
The eyes that glowed through the mask into hers were twin ovals of
luminous darkness, the colour of rich amber, with pupils which seemed to
her to be like two tiny, fiery suns. She thought that she had never
seen such beautiful eyes, for they seemed to mirror his heart, his mind
and his very soul. Setting her gently on her feet, his gaze never
leaving her face, he led her to an armchair, where she sank gratefully
into the soft cushions.
Christine clung still to the Angel's hands, not wanting to sever the warm contact with him, and her heart turned in her breast at the expression in his eyes. She longed to tell him of her feelings, but the words would not come.
Sensing her confusion, he smiled and said, "My little one, you are chilled and weary. I am going to prepare a glass of mulled wine for you, which will warm you and help you to sleep." He went away, through another door, and was back very soon holding a tray, upon which was a jug of the promised wine, two glasses and a plate of small cakes.
She watched him, conscious of his cat-like stride. He brought to mind a panther in his black-clad, muscular frame, the feline grace of his every movement and those amazing eyes. She compared him to the powerful animal, swift and fleet, always ready to pounce on an alien force. And yet, he was so gentle, charming and courteous, so considerate of her comfort.
Sipping her wine, and nibbling a macaroon, Christine felt truly content.
She did not know why her Angel had brought her here to this fascinating
house so far under the ground, or even why he had kept his face covered,
but she did not care. She was with him, and that was all that mattered.
She spoke, saying shyly, "Sir, I am not sure how to address you now
that I know you are a real person and not just a hidden voice. Do
you have a name?"
He looked at her for a long moment, and then he said softly, "My name is Erik.""Oh", she breathed, "Then may I call you Erik?" Again, it was some little while before he spoke, and when he did, it was as though she could hear tears in his beautiful voice.
"Child, I would be honoured." On saying this, he rose from his chair, and took her empty glass, setting it down on a small table beside her. "And now, it is late, and you should go to bed. Everything is prepared for you".
He led her to another door, opened it and ushered her in. She gasped with pleasure as she looked around, taking in the little bed covered in pretty lace covers and piled with plump pillows. A filmy net curtain was draped around the polished brass bed head, and a robe of white silk trimmed with fine Brussels lace lay across the foot of the bed.
Erik showed her the small bathroom leading off her room, tiled in the colours of Spring, with a soft green rug for her bare toes. "But this is so lovely, Erik. Thank you." She opened a wardrobe and found it filled with everything she could possibly need, dresses, coats, hats and gloves, shoes and even some warm little boots. On the dressing table were hairbrushes and ribbons, creams and lotions, and a little box for her small pieces of jewellery.
She turned to him, eyes shining, and said joyfully, "Oh, this is wonderful. Thank you, thank you!". She caught his hand in hers and lifted it to her cheek.
His heart lurched at the touch of her skin under his hand, and his voice trembled slightly as he murmured, "I am glad that your room pleases you, petite. Now, I have to leave you for a short time, for I must return César to his stable for the night." Erik bowed gracefully over her hand.
"Be assured that no harm will come to you here in my house, but you may lock the door if you so choose. Sleep well, my child, and dream your dreams. I will be here when you awaken, and then we shall talk. Goodnight, Christine. Think well of your Angel, I beg of you." And with that, he turned and left the room, leaving her to prepare for bed.
A little later, Christine lay in the soft, comfortable bed, and looked through the books that Erik had left on the bedside table. There were some about music and the arts, two of Shakespeare's plays, and some fictional adventure stories. There was even a book about her homeland, Sweden, and as she looked through it, tears pricked her eyes because it made her think of Papa, and how very much she missed him.
Her Angel was so good, so kind and thoughtful to have given her this lovely book. Finally, she chose a book of poetry to read, but before very long, the comfort of the bed and the effects of the hot, spiced wine after her strange journey with her Angel, caused her eyelids to droop, and soon she fell into a deep sleep.
Sometime later, her bedroom door was opened quietly, and Erik came to stand by her bedside, holding aloft a lantern which gave a soft, rosy glow to the room, and looked down at his sleeping guest. Conflicting emotions chased around in his mind - the utter joy of having Christine here in his house upon the lake, and the shame and misery of the disclosure of his deceit, for he must surely tell her that there never was an Angel of Music sent by her father; there was only Erik. Only Erik - and his hideous secret. But for a few precious moments, she was with him in the night, and his heart was full.
****
Christine woke after a long refreshing sleep. Stretching luxuriously,
she glanced around her and for a puzzled moment, couldn't think where she
was. Then memory came rushing back to her and a feeling of joyous
anticipation flooded her being. Slipping out of bed, she went to
the little bathroom to bathe; drying herself on the softest of towels,
she donned the silky robe whilst choosing something to wear.
The dress she finally chose, of fine blue merino trimmed with heavy falls of lace at the elbows, fastened down to the waist with several paler blue buttons fashioned like pearls, fitted her perfectly, as did the little blue shoes which matched the colour of the dress.
Brushing out her thick dark curls and then fastening a pretty ornament into her hair, she looked at her reflection in the mirror and hoped that her Angel - Erik - would approve her choice. With fast-beating heart, she quickly glanced around the little room to make sure that everything was tidy, then opened the bedroom door and stepped through into the warm living room.
Erik was seated at the organ, leaning over to write on some sheet music. The table was set with delicate china, ready for breakfast, and the delicious smell of freshly-brewed coffee was in the air. It was then that Christine noticed a beautiful cat sitting on one of the chairs, delicately washing its face. With an exclamation of delight, Christine ran over to caress the cat's round little head. Erik turned from the organ and smiled with pleasure at the enchanting picture before him.
"Good morning, ma petite. I trust you slept well. I see you are making the acquaintance of Amadeus. He is a rogue and a rascal, but I love him dearly. He is also an excellent ratter!" Christine laughed, but looked around nervously when Erik mentioned rats. He saw her shudder at the prospect, and rose from the organ stool to lead her to the breakfast table. "Amadeus would never let a rat into his domain, have no fear of that! Now let me pour you some coffee, and I will fetch you some croissants, which should be warmed through by now."
Erik returned to the table with a plate wrapped around with a table napkin, and she took a flakily crisp warm croissant to eat with her coffee. Erik seated himself opposite her, and she blushed as he studied her.
"You look as fresh and beautiful as a new rose, child", he informed her gravely, "or perhaps, taking the colour of the dress into consideration, a bluebell." Christine stammered her thanks, hardly daring to meet his eyes. Those strangely beautiful eyes shining with such warmth from behind the mask.
"Will you not have one of these delicious croissants, Erik?" she asked shyly, offering the plate to him. He lifted a slender, elegant hand to take one onto his own plate, smiling his thanks. She saw then that his mouth was twisted and deformed, which made his smile somewhat awry, and she wondered briefly if the rest of his face under the white mask was equally deformed, but the thought did not upset her. What did it matter what his face looked like, when he was so kind, so gentle and thoughtful.
He had taught her so much about music, had helped to shape her voice into the exquisite instrument it now was, and had been her friend and guardian, guide and mentor. She owed him so very much, her precious Angel of Music, and she longed to tell him what he meant to her. But now that he was real - a real, living, breathing man, looking at her with such eyes, her breath caught in her throat and the words would not come.
Erik's heart filled with tenderness at her shy confusion, but to put her at her ease again, he talked of Amadeus, and told her some amusing tales of the little cat's escapades. This made her laugh, and soon she forgot her shyness and was talking to him quite naturally. Leaning forward, he gently touched her hand, and a shiver of delight ran up her spine. "Tell me of your childhood, Christine. Tell me about your parents, your homeland. Tell me about your life, and of your hopes and dreams."
"Gladly", she responded, and told him of Mama and Papa and their little house in a Swedish village, near a big blue lake, where the men and the boys used to fish, and go boating. The countryside was very beautiful, and the villagers were all dear friends of Mama and Papa. Papa would play his violin and Mama would sing; they were in great demand at village functions, and as Christine grew older, she would join them in their music. Mama's name was also Christine, and so Papa would call his small daughter his "little Christienne".
She had adored her parents, but knew great sadness when Mama had died while Christine was still a child. How she had missed her lovely Mother, her warmth and beauty. Mama had been very fair, with eyes as blue as the lake. Christine had inherited her father's dark hair and thickly lashed grey-green eyes.
Papa had decided that Christine's voice should be trained, and so they had travelled to Paris some years ago, when Papa had managed to obtain employment in an orchestra which played mainly in music halls. Papa had not enjoyed playing that sort of music, but at least it had provided a regular wage, and he had been able to send Christine to the Conservatoire.
Then, three years ago, Papa became gravely ill and had died. Christine had been left alone in the world, and although she had friends at the Opéra, and had also met an old childhood friend recently, there was no-one at home except for her little maid. No-one for her to talk over the day's events with, to share silly jokes with, to laugh with, and sometimes she did feel a little lonely.
Of course, she loved Paris and spent many hours exploring the beautiful city, but she did miss Papa, especially their music. He had been such a talented violinist, self-taught from a very young age, and could play anything from the most simple folk airs to a concerto by Beethoven.
Christine said, smiling mistily, "One of our favourite songs was the old English air - Greensleeves - which he and Mama used to play and sing."
And softly, she began to sing the centuries-old song. Erik was entranced, and then his voice joined hers and they sung together in perfect harmony. At the end of the song, Christine said that music was a perfect way to start the day, and didn't he agree?
"Certainly, petite, it is how I commence my days, and also end them. I play and compose. I am writing an opera - Don Juan Triumphant - and later, I shall play to you some arias from my opera. I hope also you will sing them for me. I have lived through my music. Indeed, it has been my salvation." He was quiet for a long moment, then looked up and said "Forgive me, little one. I interrupted you. Pray continue."
****
Christine sensed that Erik was very troubled and longed to comfort
him. She yearned to tell this dearest and most beloved of men that
she was here for him, and that her heart was irrevocably within his keeping.
She could only hope that he would confide in her some day, and let her
share his burden, but she knew it would have to be when he felt the time
was right to tell her.
Meanwhile, she continued to talk cheerfully of her life now at the Opéra, her hopes of fulfilling her father's dreams of a great singing career for her, and of the friends she had made, especially Meg and the other dancers.
"It must have been very pleasant for you to be reacquainted with a friend from your childhood, Christine," Erik said in a low voice. "Yes, indeed. Raoul and I used to play together when we were children. Papa and I were in Brittany for a time, and that is where Raoul dashed into the sea to rescue my new red scarf. His governess was very cross with him, and did not at all want Raoul to be my friend because he was a young gentleman, and Papa and I were not of his class. Raoul was very stubborn, though, and insisted on being my friend in spite of that stern lady!"
Christine's eyes sparkled at the memory, and Erik's spirits sank as he thought that perhaps Christine was still fond of this boy. However, Christine said that although Raoul, Vicomte de Chagny as he was properly titled, had surprised her by coming to see her in her dressing room after a performance at the Opéra and rekindled their friendship, she was content to be a friend, but nothing more.
"For I do not love him, you see. Although he is handsome and charming, I sense in him something which disturbs me. He has been very much indulged and spoiled by his brother and very used to having his own way in all things. Perhaps it is wrong of me to say, but I do not think he could love anyone except himself."
Christine looked troubled as she said this, but Erik's heart had lightened at her words. Still, he answered her in all seriousness as he said, "Christine, my child, you may be very young, and an ingenue in the ways of the world, but it seems to me that you know your own mind. Be strong against the young man's blandishments, and follow your own heart." Christine, her head down, said softly, so softly that he could hardly hear, "I have followed my heart."
Erik rose and came to stand beside her. As she looked up at him, he handed her a red rose, a rose so fresh and new that it still sparkled with iridiscent dewdrops. She took it from him with an exclamation of delight and inhaled the delicate perfume, then laid it against her cheek. Erik stood rooted to the spot, knowing that this image of Christine would remain with him until the day he died. She glanced up, and her face lit with such a radiant smile that his heart almost stopped beating at her beauty.
"Thank you for my rose, Erik. I will keep it forever and ever. It was a beautiful gesture and I love you so much." The words were out before she knew it, and she could not meet his eyes. Her head dropped and she stared at her plate, trembling with the enormity of what she had said. It seemed as though time stood still and there was no movement in the room whatsoever.
****
Then, after what seemed an eternity to her, she became aware that he
was still standing by her side. "Look at me, Christine", his voice
was low, but very commanding, and slowly, she raised her head to
obey him.
Her face was pale, and her eyes shimmering with tears as she stammered, "I am s--so sorry, Erik."He took her trembling hands in his and gently pulled her to her feet. "Could you, would you possibly repeat what you said to me?", he asked, as he looked deep into her eyes.
Reading the expression in his - a mixture of wonder, awe and adoration, she gazed into those wondrous eyes, and as she did so, a joyous well of delighted laughter bubbled up within her as she flung her arms around his neck and said, between tears and laughter, "Erik, my darling, my darling, I love you!"
And then she kissed him full on the lips, her arms locked around his neck as she deepened the kiss and felt his arms enfold her in a long embrace. Finally, they drew slightly apart to look at each other, and as Erik looked down into Christine's beautiful face, flushed and alight with happiness, he knew a moment of intense fear and remorse amidst his joy. She did not know what lay behind the mask. Oh God, give me courage to tell her the truth, the strength to show her the truth, the grim reality of his dreadful face.
****
His breath caught on a sob, and Christine's smile faded as she slowly
drew her arms from around his neck. Grasping his hands tightly in
hers, she asked "Erik, my Angel, what is wrong? What troubles you,
please tell me. Have I said something to hurt you? Please,
please tell me", she implored him.
He drew in a rasping breath as he said "You hurt me? No, no, never. You are all I ever dreamed of. I love you, Christine, I love you with every beat of my heart. But I have deceived you terribly. I am not an Angel - I am a wicked, inhuman fiend, guilty of monstrous crimes, as ugly as sin - and oh, oh, I love you so. Can you ever forgive me?"
He fell to his knees before her and began to weep. The harsh, painful tears rained down his face and trickled under the mask . He could not control them; it was as though the years of anguish and misery, of loneliness and rejection, had come together in these agonising moments of torment, and seemed to be tearing out his soul.
Her kiss had released in him such a torrent of pent-up grief that his usual facade of cool, calm detachment was completely overwhelmed by his emotional anguish.
Instinctively, Christine let him weep, knowing it would be a cleansing process. One day, he would her tell of his blighted life, and she would be there with him, for him, and her deep love for him would help to heal the wounds in his mind and the torment in his soul. Her love for him was absolute, no matter what his past concealed. The Phantom of the Opéra was her beloved Angel, always and forever. Nothing would ever change that.
And then, he felt two insistent little hands on his shoulders, trying to tug him upright; he was far too big and strong for her small hands, and so she dropped to her knees before him, taking his hands away from his masked features and holding them tightly in hers.
"Erik, my dearest love, I cannot bear to see you thus. I love you, and will always love you. You have given me so much. You have given me your soul through your music. You have entrusted your heart to me with your love. Now let me know the man, and show me your face without fear. Trust me, my darling, trust me."
As she whispered these loving words, she gently touched his chin. Wisely, she waited for his muffled assent before she touched the mask. He raised his head, golden-amber eyes soaked with tears which pleaded for her understanding as he let her untie the cords which held the mask in place.
Quietly setting the mask on the floor, she lifted his face in both her hands and looked into his tragically flawed features for the first time. His eyes were closed, as if he could not bear to see her horrified reaction to what was revealed to her.
For a long, long moment there was complete and utter silence in the room; then he felt her soft lips, delicate as a butterfly's wings, kiss each closed lid, and follow the path of his tears down each sunken cheek. Tenderly, her fingers caressed the scarred and twisted features, wiping away the tears. Those sweet lips then came to rest upon his own distorted mouth, and for him, all the stars in the heavens came tumbling down in rainbow colours at his feet, and the bright, pure light of the sun purged the dark shadows from his heart.
A soft whisper against his mouth bade him open his eyes, and as he did so, almost forgetting to breathe, the lovely young girl kneeling in front of him was smiling, a radiantly beautiful smile which lit her eyes like rainwater sparkling on crystals.
"Erik, Erik, I love and adore you", she cried. "I have been waiting for you all my life, and now you are here with me at long, long last. Your dear face has been in my dreams since time began. My own special Angel. Now, now, my dreams have come true. Oh, how much I love you!". And she kissed him again, warmly and lovingly, upon his lips.
Erik stumbled to his feet, pulling her to him and crushing her in his embrace. His breathing was still ragged with spasmodic weeping; he could not speak for his throat had closed as the most intense emotions flooded through him. The knowledge that this beautiful young girl loved him and wanted to be with him always was more than he could comprehend at this moment.
All he could do was hold her to him, closer and closer, as if he would never let her go, his face buried in her soft hair. She was content to let him do so, and they stood, lost to the world, two beings who had come together through a love of the most exquisite kind to make one perfect entity.And so, the dream began...............
****
Christienne slowly came back to consciousness to find herself lying
on the chaise longue in the dressing room. Her eyes fluttered open
and she looked directly into those of Erik Beaumaris. He was holding
her hands in his own warm clasp.
"Christienne, my little one, how do you feel?" he asked, concerned. "You have been in such a deep swoon that Madame Guerry and I were about to telephone for a doctor." A smile lit Christienne's beautiful long-lashed eyes as she whispered, "Oh no, no. I am not ill, thank you. I am so very happy. So happy.......," her lips trembled. "I have been back to my Phantom; he took me through the mirror, down, down and down, so far below the Opéra House, to his house on the lake. He loves me still - oh, how he loves me. And I - I love him so very much, my Angel of Music. Our love is so perfect."
Her voice faded as her eyes brimmed with happy tears, and then closed again as she fell into a deep, natural sleep.
Erik Beaumaris continued to sit beside her, pulling up the light covering which Madame had gently tucked over her, and watched his lovely, gentle girl as she slept. Yes, he would watch over her and guard her with his life, for was not this beautiful child the soul of his beloved Christine? He would guide her blossoming musical talents, would guard her through the hurly-burly of modern life, be her friend and protector. His Music of the Night would be reborn in her. He, Erik, the Phantom of the Opera, would devote his awakening as Eric Beaumaris to Christienne, and together their dream would begin again.
****
When Christienne woke some hours later, her eyes met those of Erik,
and she smiled shyly at him. Her smile was reflected in his melting
dark gaze, and his handsome face was alight with love as he asked if she
was feeling better.
"Oh, I have slept for years and years and years", she announced gaily, but with an underlying tone of poignant gravity in her sweet voice. Erik stroked back her curls, and the look in his eyes turned her heart over. It was the Phantom's gaze of adoration for his Christine. The strength of the love that flowed between them was almost tangible. It would never die. It was forever, eternal, unending.
Then Erik laughed softly as he teased her lovingly. "Ah, my Sleeping Beauty has awakened, has she?", he murmured, continuing in his low, velvety voice, "I believe her Prince awoke her with a kiss......" Taking her slender hands in his, he drew her gently to her feet.
Christienne was still wearing the beautiful ballgown; her hair was escaping from the pins, falling in curly tendrils around her serenely lovely face, her eyes huge and misty. Erik spread his long fingers and gently cupped her head in his hands as his lips came down to meet hers.
Their kiss was tender, yet passionate, and once more her heart passed into the Angel's keeping. Drawing apart after a long, long embrace, Christienne nestled into the broad, dark-suited shoulder beneath her cheek. She could hear the strong, steady beat of his heart. One protective arm was around her waist, the other rested lightly on her bare shoulders as his fingers caressed the slender nape of her neck. Ah, Dieu, how I love this man. My Erik. My darling, my life.
She turned her head and kissed his palm. "Take me home, my Angel",
she said simply."With all my heart", was his soft response. Reaching over
to the back of his chair, he removed the cloak that had been folded there,
and tenderly wrapped its warm folds around her.
They walked down the elegant staircase of the Salon with their arms
around each other, and then stepped out into the still night air.
Hailing a cab, Erik said to the driver, "To the Opera, s'il vous
plait".
****